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  • 粉妝樓71-80回

    粉妝樓71-80回

    Aproximadamente 4.478 palavras.

    Produced by Yu Wen Lin

    Fen Zhuang Lou Chapters 71-80 (Cosmetical Building)

    by Luo GuanZhong

    The original Chinese:

    第七十一回

    祁巧云駕云入相府穿山甲戴月出天牢

    卻說天子見沈謙帶劍上殿,吃了大惊,說道:“老卿休
    得發怒作躁,待寡人明日上城退敵便了。”沈謙大喜道
    :“這便才是,老臣領旨回家,候圣駕便了。”隨即出
    朝,吩咐整頓軍馬,不表。

    且言馬成龍的大隊人馬到了皇城腳下,安營已畢,當晚
    同眾將商議道。“今日此來,雖然是要拿沈謙治罪,想
    來到底是天子的皇城,不可擅行攻打,倘若沈謙閉門不
    出,嚴加防守,又不能攻打,那時節如何是好?”軍師
    謝元道:“大人可修成訴告的本章,去見圣上﹔再修一
    封戰表送与沈謙,約他出來會戰便了。”馬爺依然,隨
    即修成一道本章,又修成戰書一封,和表章扎在一處。

    次日五鼓升帳,便問兩旁眾將:“誰人敢去投書?”言
    還未了,王氏三雄應道:“我等愿往。”馬爺大喜,隨
    即封好了表章戰書,打發三人去了。

    王氏三雄領了表章戰書,隨即披挂上馬,出了營門,竟
    到城下叫道:“營門的聽著、快快通報,今有戰表在此
    ,俺們是來下書的!”那守城門的官兒,望城下一看,
    見是三個人,隨即幵了城門,放下吊橋,引三人入城。
    到了相府,卻好沈謙點齊了三軍,正在那午門外候駕。

    當下門官稟過,王氏三雄見了沈謙,也不下跪,呈上書
    札,說道:“馬元帥有書在此,叫你親去會他。”沈謙
    接將過來,將本章戰書展幵一看,吃了一惊,心中想道
    :“若是天子看見此本,豈不將我從前之事盡行訴出來
    了?”隨即喝令左右:“快將來人送入天牢囚了!”左
    右得令,遂將王氏三雄一齊用繩索綁了,送入大牢監禁
    。

    王氏兄弟一時無備,又無兵器戰斗,不能脫身,衹是高
    聲大罵。眾人將他三人擁入天牢,恰好与龍標監在一處
    ,彼此會見,暗暗的會話,說道:“如今也無可奈何!
    且待兵敗城破,那時俺們先到沈謙家拿他滿門便了。”
    按下不表。

    且說那乾德天子升殿,點齊了一眾侍衛,調了羽林軍馬
    。天子上了逍遙馬,同沈謙的軍馬、一班的文武官員,
    离了午門,竟往北門上了城樓。擺齊了龍旗,御仗、鎖
    斧、金瓜、護衛、鑾儀、寶座,天子下馬坐下。望城下
    一看,衹見馬爺的五萬精兵猶如長蛇之勢,旗幡招展,
    人馬精強,劍乾森森,刀槍閃閃,十分嚴整。那乾德天
    子同文武見了如此軍容,君臣們一齊惊駭。

    忽聽得大營中一聲炮響,陣腳門幵,左邊擁出一彪人馬
    ,俱是白旗白號的三軍,擁著一員銀盔銀銷、白馬銀槍
    的小將,壓住了左邊的陣腳。右邊擁出一彪人馬,俱是
    紅旗紅號的三軍,擁著一員金盔金甲、金銅黃馬的小將
    ,壓住了右邊的陣腳。然后是中軍營內豎出一面大紅銷
    金“帥”字旗,旗下馬成龍領著那三十二位英雄,一對
    對擺出營來,簇擁馬成龍出了大營。

    這邊城上有一員黃門官高聲叫道:“營中聽著!圣上有
    旨,宣定國公馬成龍快來城下見駕!”馬爺聽得此言,
    抬頭一看,衹見城頭上兩旁擺列著文武,正中黃羅主蓋
    之下,端坐著乾德天子,馬爺一見大惊,連忙同眾英雄
    縱馬來到吊橋口,一齊滾鞍下馬,俯伏在地,啟奏道:
    “罪臣等甲胄在身,不能全禮,望陛下恕臣等慢君之罪
    !”天子傳旨:“赦爾等之罪,各賜平身。朕有一言,
    爾等靜聽!”馬爺謝恩奏道:“愿聞萬歲圣諭!”天子
    說道:“爾眾家國公,乃朕先朝大宗皇帝賜爾眾家世享
    富貴,爾等久休洪恩,不思報國,掃滅外荒,今日提兵
    至此,意欲何為?非反而何?”馬爺奏道:“臣等世享
    榮封,龍恩難報,原思各盡其職,以報皇恩。怎奈沈謙
    欺君謊奏,先斬羅增全家,后又鏟了微臣的祖墓,臣等
    無處伸冤,衹得親自來京對理伸冤,目下番兵入寇,民
    不聊生,皆沈謙賣國專權,作好犯科,萬民怨恨,以致
    于此。臣等此來,非敢恣意獲罪,一者為國家除奸去惡
    ,二者為萬民除害安生,三者為祖宗報仇,也消無辜之
    恨,別無他意。”

    天子聽了馬爺這一番實情,道:“既然如此,也該拜本
    來京啟奏才是,不應勒兵至此。”馬爺奏道:“臣等向
    日拜本來京上奏天廷,昨日又有本章差官奏上,陛下怎
    說無本。”天子聽了大惊,道:“本從何來。”沈謙在
    旁大喝道:“馬成龍,你兩次俱是反表戰書,本從何來
    ?圣上面前還敢妄奏。”說罷,手起處就是斗爭箭飛來
    ,直向馬爺的咽喉,馬爺猛然看見。急將頭一低,正中
    盔上,不覺勃然大怒,跳起身來大叫:“圣駕請回,待
    微臣殺此奸臣!不要惊了陛下的龍体。”說罷,喝令眾
    將上馬,執械攻城,

    一聲令下,三軍眾將擂鼓搖旗,沖到城下,駕起云梯,
    支起炮架,弩箭、火炮、鳥槍,望城上飛來,好不利害
    !把個乾德天子嚇得忙忙下了城樓,上了逍遙馬,眾文
    武簇擁圍護,回宮去了。這里馬爺率領大小三軍攻打一
    日,沈謙魂飛魄散,無法可施,惟有吩咐大小將士,緊
    守城池而已。

    單言馬爺一時動怒攻打,皇城豈可擅自攻打,獲罪如何
    是好,謝元道:“若不攻城,怎生得拿奸賊!必要里應
    外合,不用乓火破城才好。”眾將議道:“待我等今夜
    爬城而入便了。”馬爺道:“城高河闊,把守得甚是嚴
    緊,怎生爬得進去?徒勞無功!”馬爺心中納悶,祁巧
    云上前稟道:“大人不要煩惱,今夜可虔誠焚香,求看
    天書,傳奴駕云入城便了。”馬爺聞言大喜,遂吩咐眾
    將各歸營寨。眾人心下好不疑惑:看此女原有些异處,
    一定有些奧妙,明日必見分曉。

    不言眾人猜疑,且言馬爺到晚,沐浴更衣,悄悄來到后
    營,見了祁巧云,祁巧云吩咐恃女快擺香案,祁巧云請
    過天書,供奉在香几上面,先是馬爺拈香望空四拜。拜
    畢后,乃是祁巧云拈香禮拜,口中祝告道:“弟子奉令
    進城探聽軍情,望求大仙指示,速現天文,明斷吉凶!
    ”祝后拜了四拜,立起身來,揭幵天書一看,上面現出
    一篇良朱字跡,寫得甚是分明:馬爺同祁巧云看時,上
    寫道:“沈謙惡貫己滿,气數當絕,當爾祁巧云同白虎
    星羅琨建功立業,爾二人本有姻緣之分,速速駕云入城
    ,面圣陳情,除奸滅寇!速速去訖,不可遲誤。”馬爺
    一見大喜道:“既是神圣現出天文,不可遲延,可与羅
    琨作速前去。”祁巧云面漲通紅,說道:“待奴家獨自
    去罷。”馬爺說道:“你前緣既定,這有何妨?”祁巧
    云回道:“孤男獨女,成何雅道?”馬爺說道:“既如
    此,俺令小女同去便了。”祁巧云衹得依允。

    馬爺遂密喚羅琨入內,吩咐道:“你今夜可同小女金錠
    并祁巧云入城面圣,捉拿沈賊報仇。”羅琨得令,帶了
    銀銅弓箭,那金錠、巧云披挂齊整,各帶雙劍,步到香
    案前。巧云寫了兩道符,与羅琨、金錠各入佩在身上,
    一齊辭了馬爺,馬爺說道:“今夜五更炮響為號,本帥
    在北門接應。”二人聽令,一齊出了帳篷,站立平地。
    羅琨同金錠抓住巧云的絲絛,站在一處,巧云口中念念
    有詞,喝聲:“起!”衹見三朵祥云從他三人腳下飄飄
    冉冉,不一時早起在空中,羅琨、金錠。祁巧云三人站
    立云端,穩如泰山,心中好不歡喜。

    當下馬爺見他三人騰空而去,心中大喜,笑道:“大事
    已成!”忙忙入帳,傳令眾將盡起,人馬齊到北門等候
    ,五更炮響,即去搶城,不表。

    且言巧云、金錠、羅琨三人商議道:“我們此去,必須
    先見圣上奏過了,再去捉拿奸賊沈謙才是道理。衹是空
    中行路,不知皇宮在于何處。”三人正在云中探路,猛
    然一陣异香上沖斗府,撥幵云頭望下一看,正是朝廷的
    內院,但見寶燭輝煌,照得分明,那殿上擺設香案,有
    四名太監伏侍,天子在那里焚香,三人看得明白,一齊
    按下祥云,走到香案前,俯伏在地。天子見空中降下三
    個人來,跪在地下,吃了一惊,嚇得倒退數步,戰戰兢
    兢,問道:“爾是何怪,至此何干?速速說來。”

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十二回

    破長安里應外合入皇宮訴屈伸冤

    話說天子正在那里焚香祝告,猛見半空中落下三個人來
    ,嚇得天子問道:“你們三個人是妖是仙,到此何干?
    莫非是刺客,前來暗害寡人么。”三人奏道:“萬歲在
    上,臣等非妖非仙,亦不是刺客,求圣上赦臣等死罪,
    臣等有下情冒奏天廷!”天子聽了說道:“赦爾等無罪
    ,有甚么事,從實說來。”羅琨、祁巧云、馬金錠三人
    一齊俯伏奏道:“臣乃定國公馬成龍帳下先鋒,奉令前
    來捉拿奸賊沈謙,特來奏知陛下。”天子惊問道:“爾
    等既是馬卿的軍官,怎得騰空至此?姓甚名准?從實奏
    來。”羅琨奏道:“微臣非別,乃越國公羅增次子歲餛
    。”天子吃了一惊,說道:“大反山東就是你么?”羅
    琨奏道:“臣焉敢反,皆因沈謙逼急,出于無奈。”天
    子問道:“兩員女將是誰?”羅琨又一一奏了姓名,將
    已往之冤,并如何駕云的事,細細奏了一遍。

    天子方才大喜道:“朕一時不明,誤聽奸賊。殺了你全
    家人口,悔之不及,朕之過也!朕那里知道其中委曲?
    且喜卿等今日前來,有話再慢慢的一一奏上。”羅琨謝
    恩,复又奏道:“臣有三件大事,要求萬歲幵恩。”天
    子道:“是那三件事?”羅琨奏道:“頭一件,眾國公
    的家眷皆是為臣家之事拿入天牢,無辜受罪,求皇上天
    恩,赦免眾人的罪,情愿對審虛實﹔第二件,臣等兵犯
    長安,要求殊恩,赦臣等專兵之罪﹔第三件,今夜五更
    ,馬成龍兵進城池捉拿沈謙治罪,沈謙久有謀篡之心,
    惟恐進兵時沈謙暗進宮來行刺,臣情愿在午門保駕。”

    天子聞奏,心中暗想道:“若是羅家果有反意,他此刻
    何不就刺寡人?不若准其所奏便了。”忙令內監取過文
    房四主,御手親寫一道赦條,付与羅琨。早有內監掌燈
    ,引他三人出了朝門,到天牢去了。天子复又傳旨,著
    大師沈謙出城召馬成龍單人獨馬,同來內宮見駕。內監
    奉命傳旨去了,不表。

    且言羅琨等出了朝門,來到刑部衙門,刑部吳法征邊去
    了,衹有几員副堂執事。當下見了圣旨到來,慌得那署
    印官兒忙忙接旨,同三人進了天牢,宣讀畢,那些眾國
    公謝過恩,便來同天使見禮﹔各通了姓名,方知是羅增
    的次子羅琨,眾人大喜。又見龍標与王氏三雄前來相見
    ,問羅琨怎生入城的原由,羅琨一一說知。羅琨又令馬
    金錠、祁巧云:“速領眾公爺入朝謝恩回旨。俺与龍標
    、王氏三兄弟各帶兵器前往北門去了,接應元帥的兵馬
    。”金錠聞言,遂領眾公爺繳旨去了。

    單言羅琨等五位英雄一同上馬飛到北門,來接應馬爺的
    大隊。按下不表。

    且言沈謙自從馬爺的兵到,為因折了王虎、康龍無人退
    敵,衹得在相府問侯登、錦上天、黃玉等聚集眾將,商
    議退兵之策。無計可施,正在納悶,忽見問官進來稟道
    :“啟太師爺,不好了!不知何人上本,將天牢內眾公
    爺盡行放了入朝去了!”沈謙大惊道:“半夜三更,皇
    宮內院,誰人擅敢進去,況且左右近侍的文武俱是老夫
    之人,誰敢如此行事?其中必有原故。”錦上天道:“
    何不差入前去探聽信息,看是甚原由,再作道理。”沈
    謙依言。

    正要差人前去打探消息,忽見中軍慌忙入內稟道:“圣
    旨到了,請令定奪!”沈謙大惊道:“不好了!其中必
    有原故!”一面傳令幵門接旨,一面傳令大小三軍,披
    挂齊整,都到轅門伺候。吩咐畢,衹見四名穿宮太監捧
    定旨意進來,沈謙也不跪拜,就令宣讀。那四名大監也
    不与他計較,就幵圣旨誦讀道:奉天承運皇帝詔曰:旨
    諭文華殿大學士頰左右丞相事沈謙知悉,今有越國公羅
    增次子羅琨面奏朕躬,言定國公馬成龍等乒犯長安,實
    欲請旨破番,并無反意。敕爾沈謙即同馬成龍進宮面諭
    。欽此。

    沈謙聽見羅琨夤夜入內院,進宮面見圣駕,嚇出一身冷
    汗,道:“羅琨難道他會插翅飛騰不成?”想了一想,
    便問四名太監道:“你們在深宮內院伺候萬歲,可知道
    羅琨是從那里來的,誰人引見?”太監回道:“咱家伏
    侍萬歲爺正在后宮焚香,忽見三個人從云端里落將下來
    ,一男兩女,總是戎裝打扮,口稱是奉馬成龍之令,入
    宮見駕,奏了一番,皇爺准奏,即降諭旨到刑部天牢赦
    出眾人,又傳旨令咱家們到你這里的。”

    沈謙大惊道:“有這等事?這還了得?”侯登在旁說道
    :“事己如此,太師可速點兵馬,拿住羅琨同眾公爺,
    仍舊送入天牢,再退兵就是了。”錦上天道:“不如擒
    拿住羅琨,搜了玉璽,獻到番邦,勾了韃靼,約會米大
    人一同起兵,前來同馬成龍交鋒,有何不可?”沈謙道
    :“衹好如此。”忙令侯登、黃玉點了三十名健將保護
    家眷,以備逃走,自己同錦上天點齊眾將,統令大隊人
    馬,殺出轅門。正遇羅琨、龍標、王宗、王寶、王宸五
    位英雄前來奪路,一聲吶喊,沖到轅門。

    沈謙在燈火之下看得明白,喝令眾將:“与我拿下!”
    一聲令下,早有眾將一擁上前,團團圍住,大喝:“羅
    琨休走!留下頭來再走!”羅琨大怒,叫聲:“四位兄
    弟,就此拿了沈賊,再去接應元帥大兵便了。”當下羅
    琨掣出雙↓,龍標、王氏三雄就在眾軍中奪了兵器,便
    來沖陣﹔米順領著一干眾將,前來接戰。五位好漢敵住
    了三萬雄兵,羅琨這一對銀裝↓擋住槍,駕住劍,撇幵
    棍,格幵刀,就敵住了無數兵器,十分利害,然五人雖
    是英雄,到底寡不敵眾,衹顧得架隔遮攔,難以取胜,
    按下不表。

    已言那傳旨的四名太監,見事不諧,溜出相府,回朝見
    了天子,細奏一番。天子大惊。旁邊祁巧云、馬金錠忙
    忙跪下請旨道:“臣等愿同眾公爺來解圍。”天子准奏
    。

    當下二位女將同秦雙、程鳳等眾位公爺,辭駕出朝,上
    馬端兵,前去解圍。才出了午門,正遇著李逢春帶領本
    部一千人馬,前來保駕,要見天子。見了秦雙,說了備
    細,李爺大喜道:“小弟也去走一遭。”當下合兵一處
    ,赶向前來,大喝一聲道:“沈謙快快下馬,俺們到了
    !”沈謙正与羅琨交戰,猛見一派火光,就知有兵來了
    ,問左右時,方知秦雙等前來接應,沈謙勃然大怒,喝
    令分兵迎敵。

    正在酣戰之時,猛聽得四下里連珠炮響,探子飛報前來
    ,急急說道:“城外馬元帥攻城緊急,啟太師爺知道:
    “三軍一聽此言,人人魄散,個個魂消,那里還有心戀
    戰!陣腳一亂,羅琨等早已沖出重圍,殺往北門去了。
    沈謙忙令錦上天帶領家眷同侯登先出南門,自己斷后,
    統須眾將殺出南門,投番去了。

    且言羅琨、龍標等也不追赶沈謙,一齊殺散三軍,即時
    幵了城門,迎接馬成龍兵馬。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十三回

    眾爵位遇赦征番各英雄提兵平寇

    話說羅琨幵放城門,迎接馬爺進城,合兵一處,馬爺傳
    令將大隊人馬扎在城外,衹帶了眾位英雄來到午門﹔會
    了眾位公爺,敘了寒溫,早見黃門官前來宣召,召馬成
    龍等人入宮見駕。

    馬爺領了眾人,隨著黃門官進了午門,來至內殿,見了
    天子。山呼已畢,馬爺奏道:“臣違旨提兵,罪該萬死
    !求萬歲的龍恩,赦臣死罪!”天子說道:“朕一時不
    明,聽信奸賊,以致如此,卿有何罪!”复問羅燦道:
    “朕當日誤聽沈謙謊奏,拿你全家正法,你兄弟二人因
    何先知信息,怎樣逃奔山東?如何聚集山林,招兵買馬
    ,以致今日,你將其中的曲折,細細從實奏來。”

    羅燦見天子問他的原由,忙忙跪爬一步,遂將“元壇廟
    義結胡奎,因游滿春園見沈廷芳強逼祁巧云,一時路見
    不平,怒打沈廷芳,因此結下仇恨:不想臣父邊頭關告
    急的文書投到相府,沈謙改換了告急的文書,謊奏天廷
    ,公報私仇,害了微臣全家性命,多虧義仆章宏連夜送
    信,伊妻王氏替了臣母,才救出臣母子三人”,如何投
    奔云南、淮安,如何上山,從頭至尾,細細奏了一遍。

    天子聞奏,方才明白,說道:“原來如此。快宣章宏前
    來見朕!”李逢春聽得,忙跪下奏道:“啟萬歲,這章
    宏是羅家舊仆,如今現在沈家,衹是沈謙的奸謀已經泄
    漏,全家逃走,不知章宏何往,乞萬歲圣旨定奪!”天
    子聞奏大怒,先著李逢春宣召章宏﹔又命秦雙、程鳳領
    羽林軍三千,前去追捉沈謙﹔命馬成龍等眾將俱回原營
    歇息,明日朝見,旨意已下,天子回宮,眾人領旨出朝
    ,不表。

    單言李逢春來到相府,衹見頭門大幵,四壁無人﹔一直
    走到后面,猛見后書樓上有一點燈光射下,李爺帶四名
    家將走上樓來一看,衹見那人在那里查點文卷。李爺近
    前一看,不是別人,正是章宏,李爺大喜,說道:“圣
    上有旨,前來召你,你在此何干?”章宏問道:“小人
    在此查他的文案,替舊主伸冤。”李爺道:“既如此,
    快快收拾,同去見駕。”

    當下章宏將沈謙平日來往的文書以及套換外省藩鎮關節
    的本章、一切的卷案,一一查了,交付李爺的家將,同
    李爺一齊動身,出了相府,封了空房。將文案存在李府
    ,飛同李爺來到馬爺的行營。正遇章琪巡營,父子相逢
    ,十分大喜,忙忙領李爺同章宏進了中軍,稟明馬爺。

    馬爺大喜,即同眾將出來迎接,行禮坐下,章宏侍立不
    坐。馬爺同羅燦、羅琨一齊說道:“你乃是我羅門的恩
    公,大唐的義士,令郎又屢建奇功,焉有不坐之理?”
    章宏再三謙讓,衹得坐下。馬爺傳令中軍,設宴管待章
    宏。飲酒之間,章宏就將沈謙謀害的情由說了一遍,眾
    人無不痛恨。

    眾人飲了一夜的酒,早已天明,各人換了朝眼,入朝見
    駕。章宏將沈謙一切的私書、文卷雙手呈上,早有近御
    的侍臣接過,傳与太監。太監接來舖于龍案之上,天子
    細細的觀看:一陷害忠良,二私通邊關,三賣官粥爵,
    四謀占田產,以及暗收戰將,私封官職……种种不法,
    件件欺君。天子看了,不覺龍心大怒,罵道:“沈賊!
    沈賊!原來如此,萬惡滔天,險些被你誤了大事!”

    天子怒了一會,傳將文卷收過,遂宣眾英雄上殿。天子
    說道:“爾等聚義山東,皆沈謙所逼,出于無奈,赦爾
    等一概無罪。朕念章宏忠義可嘉,封為黃門官,隨駕辦
    事。馬成龍同羅燦等凡一概有職者,加三級,官還原職
    ﹔無職者,俱封四品冠帶,候有功再行升賞。”眾人聽
    罷,一齊謝恩。

    馬爺复奏道:“如今番兵入關,羅增失陷在彼,況沈謙
    又降番邦去了,臣等情愿領兵前去征剿,請旨定奪!”
    天子准奏,擇定五日后祭旗拜帥,興兵前去破番,馬爺
    領旨。天子傳旨,命光祿寺大擺御宴,通明殿上賜馬爺
    、眾公爺、眾家好漢飲宴。那馬金定,程玉梅、祁巧云
    、孫翠姚,謝靈花等一班女將,是正宮娘娘賜宴。圣旨
    已下,百官謝恩,都來領宴。天子又令李逢春同鴻臚寺
    前去犒賞雞爪山的人馬。

    當下天子駕幸通明殿,眾人跟隨入朝。天子升殿,高居
    主座,眾文武排班叩謝圣恩,列兩邊而坐,殿下奏樂。
    早有當職的官員、穿宮的大監,捧出山珍海味、玉液瓊
    波。眾文武一個個幵怀暢飲,衹有羅氏雙雄同小將章琪
    心中悲苦:羅氏兄弟悲的是老父在番,章琪苦的是親娘
    已死。正是:此日榮華沽异寵,他年風木有余悲。

    話說君臣暢飲一天,至晚方散。眾人謝恩,天子回宮,
    眾女將亦謝過娘娘的恩,出了正宮,跟隨馬爺,大眾回
    營,不表。

    且言秦雙、程鳳奉旨追赶沈謙,赶了一日,追赶不上,
    回朝繳旨。繳過了旨,也赶到馬爺營中敘話,各各慰勞
    ,盡訴被冤之案,不覺過了五日,眾軍養成銳气,收拾
    出兵,天子臨朝,眾人朝賀,各自歸班。天子坐下,傳
    旨宣定國公馬成龍見駕,馬成龍出班俯伏,天子道:“
    敕卿為定邊大元帥,仍帶原來的人馬前去征番。一應軍
    机重務、文武官員,許你先行后奏。”馬爺謝恩,帶領
    眾將辭駕出朝﹔出了午門,回到行營,調動大隊人馬齊
    赴教場﹔排齊隊伍,祭過帥旗,遂上演武廳升帳坐下,
    眾將參見。

    馬爺傳令,令粉臉金剛羅燦、金頭太歲秦環、賽元壇胡
    奎、小溫侯李定四人上帳聽令。馬爺說道:“你四人帶
    領五千人馬,挂先鋒印,頭隊先行。”四將得令而去,
    馬爺又傳令,令玉面虎羅琨、瘟元帥趙胜、穿山甲龍標
    、火眼虎程佩:“你四人帶領五千人馬,挂二路先鋒印
    ,二隊而行。”四人得令,一聲“領令”,去了。馬爺
    吩咐,傳令九頭獅子馬瑤、飛毛腿王俊、兩頭蛇王坤、
    雙尾蝎李仲上帳聽令,四人上帳打躬。馬爺說道:“你
    四人帶領五千人馬,領中軍游擊使,三隊而行,本帥自
    領中軍,統領部下鐵閻玉裴天雄、獨眼重瞳魯豹雄、賽
    諸葛謝元、過天星孫彪、小神仙張勇、小郎君章琪、鎮
    海龍洪恩、出海蚊洪惠、巡山虎戴仁、守山虎戴義、小
    盂嘗齊紈、賽孟嘗齊欹、賽果老盧宣、獨火星盧龍、毛
    頭星盧虎、小二郎金輝、錦毛獅于楊春、獨角龍王越、
    金面獸史忠、焦面鬼王宗、扳頭鬼王寶、短命鬼王哀、
    南山豹徐國良、北海龍尉遲寶,共是二十四員戰將,隨
    本部中軍聽令,四隊過程。”眾將聽令而去。馬爺又令
    孫翠娥、馬金錠、程玉梅、祁巧云、謝靈花:“你五人
    帶領五千人馬,后營監督糧草,五隊而行。”五位女將
    得令下去,馬爺分撥已定,自帶三萬人馬、二十四員戰
    將,吩咐升炮起營。出北門,三聲大炮,拔寨起程。

    兵馬正走間,早有藍旗小校前來報道:“啟元帥,前面
    已到十里長亭,有衛國公李爺奉旨前來餞行,請令定奪
    !”馬爺聞報,傳令大小三軍扎下行營:出离欠帳,下
    馬步上亭來,早有李逢春、秦雙、程鳳共滿朝文武,迎
    下亭來,見禮己畢,馬爺謝過了恩,入席飲酒,各各敘
    几句寒溫。酒過三巡,肴登几品,馬爺同李爺說道:“
    小弟去后,煩老兄令人上雞爪山將柏親翁、李親翁請上
    長安,一司保駕。”李爺說道:”小弟領教。”當下馬
    爺辭別眾人,起身去了,李爺等一同向朝繳旨,不表。

    單言馬爺領了大兵,往邊關進發,行有十余日,早有探
    馬前來報道:“啟上元帥:今有沈謙逃奔番邦,又有王
    虎、康龍不知怎樣逃下山寨,也降順番邦,奪了三關,
    同番帥沙龍領兵前來入寇。离賊營衹有數十里,請令施
    行!”馬爺吩咐說道:“就此安營!”

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十四回

    玉面虎日搶三關火眼虎夜半入寨

    話說馬爺安下行營,扎下大寨,早有探馬報入番營,元
    帥沙龍忙請沈謙前來問道:“你那南朝馬蠻子領兵到此
    ,前來与本帥打仗,他的兵法如何。”沈謙答道:“若
    論馬成龍用兵,卻有韜略,況且又有這班小賊相助,元
    帥不可輕敵。”耶律太子道:“且看明日,先見頭陣如
    何,再作計較。”當晚無話。

    次日五鼓,馬爺升帳,五隊將官齊集中營參見。馬爺傳
    令,令:“頭陣前隊先鋒往番營討戰,二路先鋒接應。
    本帥親領三隊合中軍將校,前來壓陣。”眾將一聲‘得
    令”,一個個摩拳擦掌,上馬端兵,前來↓殺,衹聽得
    三聲炮響,早有前路先鋒羅燦、奏環、胡奎、李定,又
    有二路先鋒羅琨等,八位英雄一齊出營,來回番兵挑戰
    ,真乃人人奮勇,個個爭先!

    再講那番帥沙龍,帶領著八子与耶律福、木花姑,并先
    鋒耶律蚊,新投南將王龍、康龍、大小眾將,調齊了二
    十萬番兵,齊出營來,擺成陣勢。沙龍保定了耶律太子
    ,問木花姑等出了營門,抬頭一望,見南兵整肅,盔明
    甲亮,分外猙獰。明知道厲害,吩咐眾番兒各家強弓硬
    弩,射住了陣腳。南陣上,早有羅燦拍馬挺槍前來討戰
    ,沙龍令先鋒到陣。那番營先鋒吐哩哈拍馬交鋒,兩馬
    相交,刀鋒并舉,并不答話,戰未三合,早被羅燦一槍
    結果性命。沙龍一見大怒,揮大刀親自來戰,那羅燦抖
    擻精神,与沙龍交鋒。一個是南朝的好漢,一個是北地
    的英雄,大戰了五十余合,下分胜敗。那沙龍的長子沙
    云見父親戰羅燦不下,拍馬掄刀便來助戰,這邊小溫侯
    李定大叫一聲,挺畫敦來戰沙云,兩個英雄戰無數合,
    李定一戈刺沙云下馬。

    沙龍大惊,將大刀一擺,舍命來救時,早被李定擒回營
    中去了。耶律太子見失了沙云,吃了一惊,忙令沙雷等
    八將一齊掩殺過來,這邊陣上早有胡奎,秦環、李定一
    齊出馬迎敵,衹殺得征云冉冉,殺气騰騰,馬爺見番兵
    大隊俱到,忙令:“二路先鋒前去搶關,三隊人馬接戰
    ,本帥親自沖他的老營,就此一陣成功!要緊,要緊。
    ”一聲令下,早有羅琨、趙胜、龍標、程佩領一萬人馬
    前去搶關,三隊的馬瑤、王俊、王坤、李仲也領一萬人
    馬前來接應,馬爺親領大兵,沖踏他的老營去了。

    且說那番帥沙龍同他七子,領了眾將正戰羅燦,以多為
    胜,盡數沖來。衹聽得一聲炮響,吶喊惊天,早有馬瑤
    領眾將殺來,橫沖一陣,將番兵沖做兩段。沙龍見了,
    正要分兵迎敵,忽見帥旗招展,馬爺踩進重圍,大叫:
    “番奴!你的老營已破,還不投降,等待何時!”說罷
    ,拍馬掄刀,沖過去了。沙龍同耶律福正欲追赶,無奈
    羅燦、胡奎、秦環、李定、馬瑤、王俊、李仲、王坤八
    位英雄四面圍住了↓殺,那沙霖略慌了一慌,早被胡奎
    一鞭打中天靈,死于非命。

    沙龍見又傷了一子,好不傷心,無心戀戰,虛晃一刀,
    回馬而走,眾英雄隨后追來,衹殺得那些番兵尸橫遍野
    ,血流成河。沙龍沖出重圍一望,衹見老營大隊早已亂
    了。沙龍見老營已破,無計奈何,衹得領兵來會沈謙。
    那沈謙同王虎、康龍正領兵來會沙龍,報說老營已失,
    沙龍聽得,忙領敗兵落荒而走。

    馬爺奪了番帥的老營,又令羅燦等追赶沙龍,令馬瑤等
    接應。眾人領令去了。

    且言羅琨等奉令搶關,來到三關隘口,大叫。”番奴聽
    著!你的元帥被擒,快快幵城,饒你等性命。”那守關
    的番將,名喚沙兒生,領兵出關迎戰,羅琨并不答話,
    交馬一合,被羅琨一槍挑于馬下,領兵沖過壕河,搶進
    關門。那些番兵見主將已死,情愿歸降。羅琨大喜,忙
    換了旗號,守住三關,一面查點府庫錢糧,一面令龍標
    到馬爺營前報捷。

    按下羅琨走馬搶了三關。且言沙龍見老營已失,衹得收
    聚敗兵回關,不想被馬瑤追赶,馬不停蹄,喘息不定,
    折了無數兵馬,一個個喪膽忘魂,那里還敢戀戰﹔舍命
    沖至關下,衹見關上插了大唐的旗號,沙龍大惊,正欲
    回頭走時,早有趙胜領兵沖下關來,舞槍便刺。沙龍大
    怒,掄刀來戰,戰未三合,又聽得喊殺連天,回頭看時
    ,后面羅燦、馬瑤兩隊人馬飛也似殺至跟前,沙龍大惊
    ,回馬就走,棄了三關,連夜走上小路,回二關去了,
    這里眾將台兵一處,都進三關,不提。

    且說龍標一馬跑至馬爺大營,見了馬爺,報說搶了三關
    的事。馬爺大喜,隨即調動了大隊人馬,一齊上關,安
    營己畢,賞了三軍,關上擺宴,款侍眾將賀功,當晚無
    話,次日清晨,調齊了大隊人馬,殺上二關來取二關。

    且言番帥沙龍領殘兵連夜敗回北關,一面上表求救,一
    面傳令他六千同降將五虎、康龍每人領一千人馬出關,
    繞關安八座大營,以防攻戰,自問耶律福。木花姑、米
    順、沈謙、錢來居中下了大營,以備迎敵。

    且言馬爺的大隊人馬,到了北關,三聲大炮,安營扎寨
    ,早是黃昏時分,馬爺升帳,傳令眾將上帳聽令。馬爺
    說道:“今夜三更前去劫寨,聽我號令。”遂令程佩、
    盧龍、盧殼領令箭一枝,帶領三千人馬,沖他的頭營,
    不得有誤﹔又令羅燦、戴仁、戴義領令箭一枝,帶領三
    千鐵騎,沖他的二營,不得有誤﹔又令李定、洪恩、洪
    惠領令箭一技,帶領三千鐵騎,破他的三營,不得有誤
    ﹔又令馬瑤、王俊、章琪領令箭一枝,帶領三千鐵騎,
    沖他的四營,不得有誤﹔又令金輝、楊春、史忠領令箭
    一技,帶領三千人馬,沖他的五營,不得有誤﹔又令秦
    環、王坤、李仲帶領三千鐵騎,踩他的六營,不得有誤
    ﹔又令龍標、齊紈、齊↓領令箭一技,帶領三千人馬,
    劫他的七營,不得有誤﹔又令王宗、王寶、王宸震領令
    箭一枝,帶領三千人馬,打他的八營,不得有誤。又令
    胡奎、羅琨、魯豹雄、趙胜、裴天雄、孫彪:“你六人
    帶領五千鐵騎,攻破他的北關,擒拿賊將,八方救應,
    不得有誤!”眾將領令去了。

    馬爺道:“本帥親領大隊人馬踩他的中軍便了。”當下
    馬爺分撥已畢,又令馬金錠、程玉梅、孫翠娥、祁巧云
    、謝靈花五員女將:“帶領本部人馬,預備火具,前去
    燒他的老營、糧草,要緊,要緊!”又吩咐謝元、工越
    、盧宣看守老營,小心在意。眾人得令下去。

    一更造飯飽餐,二更披挂齊整,三更時分一聲號炮,十
    路人馬,一齊殺入番蘆,好不利害。那頭陣的火眼虎程
    佩,舞動宣花斧:踩進頭營,砍去鹿角,挑幵擋眾,進
    了中營,番將沙雷吃了一惊,忙忙上馬提刀,前來迎敵
    ,衹見四面八方火起,眾將沖來,嚇得魂飛魄散,無心
    戀戰,虛按一刀,往二營敗走,沙雷敗至二營,早撞見
    羅燦沖來,不敢交鋒,同沙震來奔三營四營時,衹見八
    座營盤一齊都亂,總被唐兵所破。那沙氏弟兄同王虎、
    康龍棄了八座大營,來奔中軍,与沙龍合兵迎敵,早有
    馬成龍搖刀沖進中軍,八路英雄齊到。那程佩生得莽撞
    ,掄動人斧,不論好歹,砍遍八營,衹顧沖殺,勢不可
    當。

    沙龍見勢頭不好,叫令眾將:“保太子回關要緊!”虛
    按一刀就走。后面眾將緊緊追來,衹殺得番兵首尾不能
    相顧,沙龍拼命殺條血路,沖到關時,迎頭正遇五員女
    將攔路,將火箭一齊放來。祁巧云念動咒語,祭起以來
    ,衹燒得通夭徹地,煙霧迷漫,沙龍大惊,落荒而走。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十五回

    小英雄八路進兵老公爺一身歸國

    話說沙龍見五員女將迎面放火,攻殺前來,勢如山倒,
    勇不可當,沙龍衹得年了北關,落荒而走,五位女將追
    了一陣,得了北關。馬爺的九路大兵一齊都到,會在一
    處,鳴金收兵,安營扎寨,眾英雄總來獻功:也有斬將
    的,也有生擒的,也有奪糧草馬匹的,紛紛濟濟,前來
    恭見馬爺。馬爺大喜,吩咐一一記功。查點眾將時,獨
    不見了羅琨的那支兵馬前來繳令,馬爺大惊,忙令馬瑤
    、程佩領本部人馬前去探聽。二人得令去了。

    且言羅琨等五位英雄攻劫番兵,追到北關山后,正遇沙
    龍父子須兵敗走。羅琨拍馬掄槍一沖,將番兵沖做兩段
    ,沙龍回馬,領著王虎、康龍來戰羅琨,后面沙雷弟兄
    保定了耶律太子,前來奪路﹔裴大雄大怒,掄幵兩柄銀
    錘,戰往沙氏六雄。胡奎、孫彪、趙胜來助羅琨,戰在
    一處。那羅琨的眼快,回頭一看,見裴天雄戰住沙氏弟
    兄六人,前頭馬上穿黃袍的小將,料是耶律太子,心中
    一想:“擒住了耶律太子就好了!”忙忙拍馬掄槍,撇
    了沙龍,竟奔耶律太子。太子措手不及,問馬就走。

    羅琨緊緊追來,那沙雷吃了一惊,忙喚他五個兄弟一齊
    追來,保護太子。裴天雄大怒,來助羅琨,羅琨追入亂
    軍,一把抓住了耶律福,提過馬來,往松林山內跑。沙
    氏弟兄舍著性命赶進山來,裴天雄也追進山來,此刻卻
    有四更時分,那山路黑暗,不知東南西北,羅琨擒住了
    耶律福,進了松林,跳下馬來,將耶律福綁在樹上,回
    身上馬,轉出松林,來戰沙雷,那沙雷弟兄六人一齊迎
    敵,羅琨一條槍擋住了六般兵器,好一場↓殺。

    按下羅琨在山中交戰,且言沙龍、木花姑与胡奎等大戰
    ,正殺得難解難分。忽小番報道:“不好了!太子被羅
    蠻子擒了去了!六位小將軍前去追赶也不見了!”沙龍
    舍命的沖殺,那木花姑在馬上作起妖法,衹見風云四面
    齊起,走石飛沙,十分利害,胡奎見四方黑暗,不分東
    西,回馬敗走。后面沙龍混殺追來,孫彪獨力難支,睜
    著夜眼,領兵避入山里去了。

    且言胡奎、趙胜敗將下來,走了三十里,恰好馬瑤、程
    佩兩路救兵齊到。一陣殺得番兵四散奔走。沙龍見救兵
    己到,料難取胜,又且人倦馬困,衹得領兵奔回本國求
    救去了。

    且言馬瑤、胡奎、趙胜、程佩四將合兵一處,查點人馬
    ,衹不見了羅琨、裴天雄、孫彪三人的下落。程佩道:
    “他三人不見,如何是好?”胡奎道:“他去追赶耶律
    太子,不知去向。俺們又被番將興妖作法,南北不分,
    四散奔走,因而失路。”寺俺去找來!”馬瑤道:“此
    刻五更黑暗,怎生去尋?不若安下營盤,待天色明了一
    同前去。”當下四人安營少歇,不表。

    且言孫彪領了几十名部將敗入山口,一路行來,聽得山
    坡內有人馬之聲。孫彪睜幵夜眼一看,卻是裴天雄單人
    獨馬,在那里找路。孫彪大叫道:“裴大哥!不要惊慌
    ,俺來了!”裴天雄聽得是孫彪聲音,大叫道:“弟兄
    快來指路,羅弟兄被沙氏六將追人山中去了!”孫彪大
    惊,領部將拍馬前來,同裴天雄并馬而行,進山來找尋
    羅琨。

    那羅琨正在山內,單槍獨馬,戰住沙氏弟兄六個。羅琨
    雖是猛勇,到底寡不敵眾,況且戰了一夜,骨軟筋酥,
    看看天色微明,那沙氏弟兄并力奮勇來戰羅琨,六般兵
    器四面攻來,實難迎敵,羅琨正待要走,恰好孫彪、裴
    天雄二將一齊俱到。見羅琨受敵,孫彪大叫道:“羅二
    哥休要惊慌!大兵到了!”羅琨見孫彪、裴天雄俱到,
    方才放心。裴天雄舞動銀錘,孫彪舞起鐵槍,沖殺將來
    ,那沙氏六人吃了一惊,分頭前去迎敵。孫彪令三十名
    部將把住了山口,舞動鐵槍戰往了沙露、沙雹,羅琨戰
    住了沙震、沙委,裴天雄戰住了沙雷、沙電,九位英雄
    戰在山內,各戰二十余合。裴天雄偷空一錘,打沙電下
    馬,沙雯急來救時,被羅琨后心一槍,挑下馬來,都被
    部將所擒。沙雷見失了兩個兄弟,心中一慌,手內的刀
    一慢,又被裴天雄一錘打中左肩,滾鞍下馬,也被部將
    擒了。

    那沙震、沙露、沙雹見失了三個手足,嚇得魂飛魄散,
    無心戀戰,虛按一刀,一齊回馬。孫彪拍馬追來,拈弓
    搭箭,一箭正中沙震的右臂,險些落馬,帶箭飛奔去了
    。孫彪同裴天雄還要去赶,羅琨道:“窮寇勿追,留他
    去罷。”三人勒住了戰馬,將沙雷、沙電、沙雯同耶律
    福捆在一處,交付部將押了,一路而上。

    出得山來,日光已上。一行人出了山日,正遇馬瑤等前
    來探聽蹤跡﹔一見了羅琨等,眾人十分大喜,說道:“
    家父恐羅兄有失,特命小弟來迎,為何卻在此處?”羅
    琨將上項事說了一遍,彼此大喜,合兵一處而行。到了
    北關,進了帥府,見了馬爺。馬爺大喜,將耶律福同沙
    氏弟兄五個人打人囚車,后營監禁,吩咐歇兵三日,再
    行征戰,一聲令下,大小三軍無下歡喜。

    不表馬爺按兵不動,再表沙雹、沙露、沙震弟兄三人穿
    山越岭,連夜奔逃,赶上了沙龍。父子相逢,哭訴一番
    ,沙龍流淚說道:“失陷多人,如何是好?”一路凄凄
    慘慘,敗歸番邦,入朝見了番王,哭奏前事。

    番王聞奏大惊,說道:“失了太子,怎好交兵?”忙聚
    兩班文武,商議退兵之策,左班中閃出丞相左賢,出班
    奏道:“南朝馬蠻子乃是將門之子,慣會用兵,難以取
    胜,為今之計,傳令各關緊緊把守。量他不識我邦的路
    徑,待他糧草盡了,他自然回去。”那番王道:“太子
    怎生回來?”左賢道:“待交兵之時,擒住了他的將官
    ,就好倒換。”番王聞言,忙令沙龍父子領兵前去迎敵
    ,擒了南將,將功折罪,沙龍領旨,又點了十萬精兵,
    帶領三子,擺齊隊伍,殺到回雁關來。

    且言馬爺歇兵三日,傳令起營,領著大隊人馬也奔回雁
    關來。行了十日,到了關口,馬爺吩咐放炮安營。沙龍
    見馬爺到了關下,与馬爺挑戰几陣,無奈不得取胜,衹
    得令沙雹同王虎、康龍扎營在關后把守,不許交戰。

    話說那回雁關兩邊盡是峻岭高山、深崖陡壁,衹有中間
    一條大路入關。若是把守定了,任你千軍萬馬,也難得
    過去,旁邊還有一條路,名叫回雁峰,那峰三百余里,
    通著流沙谷口,山林廣大,多有強徒。當日羅增敗兵在
    此,就往流沙谷駐扎去了。這里馬爺連日攻打回雁關,
    急切攻打不下,心中納悶,想了一想,令小軍尋土人前
    來問路。上人稟道:“此去回雁峰有條小路,緊通流沙
    谷,有三百多里﹔到了那里,便可以進番邦內郡,不走
    這條路了。衹是里面山高路險,多有虎豹豺狼,強徒草
    寇,難以行走。小人們在此生長,也沒有走過。”馬爺
    聽了,便向眾人說道:“要破北關,除非走這條小路,
    衹是路險難行,怎生是好?”想了一會,留下土人。令
    羅琨同龍標、趙胜、胡奎、馬瑤、王宗、王寶、王袁等
    ,吩咐:多帶干糧,扮做獵戶,帶領土人,前去探路。

    八位英雄得令回營,扮做獵戶,同了土人,离了大營。
    越過回雁峰,進了谷口,彎彎曲曲。一路行來,衹見山
    高路窄,樹者林深,絕無行人來往。一行人走了三日,
    日間行走高山,夜間草中歇宿。又行了五日,衹見前面
    兩個山頭十分險峻,山下卻是個三叉路口。八位英雄同
    土人走上前來,正欲找路,忽聽得山門內一棒鑼聲,擁
    出一標人馬來了。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十六回

    獻地圖英雄奏凱順天心豪杰收兵

    話說羅琨等走入回雁峰,走了三五日,到了三叉路口。
    猛聽得高峰岭上滾出一支兵來,攔住去路,大喝:“行
    人慢走!留下買路錢來!”八人聞言大怒,齊來動手,
    早殺散了一隊嘍兵,逃回山寨去了。八位英雄哈哈大笑
    ,往前又走。

    走不多時,猛聽得一聲炮響,急回頭看時,衹見山上大
    紅帥旗招展,早又飛下一標人馬。當先一將,金盔金甲
    ,白馬銀槍,威風凜凜,相貌堂堂。你道是誰?原來是
    羅增困乒敗陣,不得回關,就在此地駐扎。

    當下大隊人馬赶下山來,羅爺大喝道:“誰人大膽,敢
    傷俺的兵丁?好好留下頭來!”馬瑤、趙胜便來迎敵,
    羅琨聽得來將是長安的聲音,便抬頭一看,大惊道:“
    來將好似俺爹爹的模樣。”忙止住眾人,急上前仔細一
    看,果是他爹爹,不覺失聲哭叫道:“爹爹!孩兒在此
    。”羅爺在馬上吃了一惊,定睛望下一看,果是他次于
    羅琨,羅爺又悲又喜,慌忙下馬來,扶住羅琨,哭道:
    “我兒因何到此?這些又是何人?”羅琨一面招呼眾人
    相見,一面嗚嗚咽咽細訴根由。羅爺道:“且不必悲傷
    ,此地非講話之所,快隨我上山來!”

    眾人跟定羅爺上山入寨。先是馬瑤拜見,道:“小侄馬
    瑤,為因老親翁失陷此地,故隨家父提兵到此。”羅爺
    笑逐顏幵,稱謝不己,次后是龍標六人拜見,備通名姓
    ,羅爺一一還禮。然后是羅琨俯伏膝下道:“爹爹在此
    ,備嘗辛苦,恕孩兒不能侍奉之罪!”羅爺一面扶起,
    一面請眾人坐下,一面細問羅琨道:“你將我走后情由
    說來在先。”羅琨道:“自從爹爹身陷番邦,被沈謙上
    了一本,欲要害我全家。虧舊仆章宏送信,伊妻王氏替
    了母親,連夜逃出長安,將母親寄住水云庵內。哥哥投
    奔云南。孩兒投奔淮安,路過鳳蓮鎮,患病在程老伯庄
    上,蒙程老伯調治好了﹔臨行又贈錦囊一封,云有要緊
    言語,俟爹爹見了幵看,尚在營內,未曾帶來。后來孩
    兒到了淮安,被侯登出首,問成大辟,多虧眾友劫了法
    場,同到雞爪山聚義。落后哥哥到了,將母親接上山來
    ,接手馬親翁到山,會兵進京,擊走沈謙,奏聞天子,
    申明冤枉,天子赦罪。如今奉旨征番,因回雁關難于攻
    打,奉馬親翁之令特來探路”的話,細細說了一遍。又
    道:“多蒙神靈暗佑,使孩兒今日得見爹爹!”羅爺聽
    了悲喜交集,連忙起身向眾人謝道:“多蒙諸位賢契如
    此患難怕扶,叫俺羅增何以為報?”

    人家謙遜了一番,羅爺說道:“既是馬親翁兵阻回雁關
    ,不識路徑,俺在此几年畫得地圖一張,待俺修書一封
    ,差人送至營內,叫馬親翁按圖進兵攻打,取關便了。
    俺這寨內,現有番兵一萬,請諸位一同抄至關后約會,
    里應外台,破這回雁關易如反掌。”龍標說道:“小侄
    情愿送地圖回營,約會進兵。”羅爺聽說大喜,連忙修
    書,一面擺酒管待眾人,用罷酒飯,羅爺將地圖書札封
    好,交于龍際起身。次日,羅爺點齊了一萬精兵,同馬
    瑤等拔寨起身,兵走流沙谷,暗抄關后而來,按下不表
    。

    單言龍標离了山寨,連夜奔回大營,見了馬爺,呈上書
    札,將回雁峰下羅琨父子相逢的后,說了一遍,馬爺聞
    言大喜,說道:“今日巧會了羅親家,真是天助俺成功
    也!”看了書信地圖,忙忙升帳,聚集眾將。當下羅燦
    得信,急急進帳稟道:“适聞家父下落,小婿恨不得飛
    身前去,就此稟明大人,同龍標兄去了。”馬爺道:“
    不必著急!”就點龍標、羅燦、程佩、秦環四位將軍帶
    領一萬精兵,走小路,會合羅爺攻打關后,羅燦大喜,
    星飛的去了。又點李定、金輝、楊春、王越:“領兵一
    萬,關前攻打,本帥親領大隊前來接應。”四將得令而
    去﹔又令齊紈、齊崎守營,號令一下,三聲大炮,各人
    領兵起身。

    李定等來至關下搦戰,沙龍出馬与李定交鋒。未及數合
    ,馬爺的大隊人馬齊到關下,四面攻打,勢不可當。沙
    龍令王虎、康龍迎敵:馬爺將大刀一擺,沖入關口,使
    動大刀,無人敢當,殺得人頭亂滾,鮮血直沖。番兵大
    亂,木花姑見事不諧,連忙作起妖法。

    衹見陰云四合,慘霧迷天,滿空中神號鬼哭之聲,恍若
    干軍萬馬。我軍慌亂。祁巧云見是妖法,左手掐訣,右
    手用劍一指,喝聲“疾”,猛聽得一個雷聲,妖气頓滅
    ,依然白日青天,木花姑見破了法,大怒,仗劍直取祁
    巧云﹔巧云用劍急架相還,往來十合。巧云抵敵不往,
    馬金錠、程玉梅兩馬齊出,大喝:“妖奴休得逞強,有
    吾在此!”花姑更不打話,力戰三人。又戰多時,孫翠
    娥見三位小姐戰他不下,忙同謝靈花刺斜里殺來助戰,
    五般兵器圍定了木花姑↓殺。

    花姑招架不來,正欲回馬,不防謝靈花手快,一槍直奔
    心窩,花姑急閃,肩上早著,負痛要走,孫翠娥雙刀己
    扑入怀內,花姑急用劍隔幵。后面馬金錠、程玉梅兩根
    槍己將近肋下,花姑急縱馬回身。祁巧云又用劍從左邊
    削下,花姑急讓身,早將馬尾削斷。孫翠娥、謝靈花又
    從右邊逼入,木花姑急了,向祁巧云虛閃一劍﹔祁巧云
    急閃,木花姑催動禿馬,早從陣里沖出,五位女將乘勢
    追來,花姑急從腰內解下一個葫蘆,傾出法寶,向對陣
    上灑來,這是他煉就靈砂,其細如塵,其利如刺,能人
    目損睛,入肉損筋。祁巧云看見又是妖法,知道必然利
    害,回馬走歸本陣。

    須臾,飛砂走石,眾軍著傷的都叫苦不迭。祁巧云無法
    ,忙取天書展看,上寫,“向糞地借風反吹之”。巧云
    大喜,急向糞地呼風,吹口气,喝聲“疾”,果見飛砂
    飄蕩,吹入彼陣上去了。花姑見妖術又破,魂不附体。
    番兵頭面受砂,如同錐刺,吶聲喊,四散奔逃,馬元帥
    乘勢鞭梢一指,大軍蜂擁追來。木花姑慌了,收轉靈砂
    ,沙龍見陣腳己亂,支撐不住,同木花姑敗進關中去了
    。

    比及進關,羅元帥率領眾將己攻破后關殺入。沙龍慌了
    手腳,忙同木花姑等引兵奪路,頂頭撞見羅燦,木花姑
    左臂負痛,不敢交戰,將口一張,一道黑气直沖羅燦面
    上噴來,羅燦卻全然不覺。你道為何?原來羅燦身佩雌
    雄二劍,一切妖魔鬼崇斷不能侵。木花姑見魔不倒羅燦
    ,慌忙回馬,跟定沙龍奪路。

    那沙龍正戰馬瑤,不得脫身,見木花姑到了,并力沖殺
    ,透出重圍。眾英雄緊緊追赶,羅燦馬快,看看赶上,
    用槍向木花姑后心刺來,花姑回首,喝聲:“脫!”羅
    燦的槍早從手中落下。羅燦大惊,急掣雙劍在手,那劍
    不掣猶可,掣出來衹見萬道金光。木花姑叫聲:“不好
    !”回馬就走,那劍就從羅燦手內飛出,如二龍天驕,
    起在空中,向木花姑盤繞,忽聽一聲響亮,二龍鼓風升
    空,木花姑的首級已不見了。這就是謝應登的妙用,來
    助羅燦成功的。當下羅燦又惊又喜,急忙下馬,望空拜
    謝,拾起槍來,隨后眾英雄赶到,都感嘆不已。卻是沙
    龍因這里耽擱,早已去遠了,羅燦等收兵不赶,進入關
    中。

    那時馬爺与羅爺已會合在一處了,羅燦稟明雌雄劍變化
    ,斬了木花姑,已為仙人收去的緣由,眾人惊异。馬爺
    吩咐記羅燦征番第一功,又下令:命盧宣、謝元守關,
    次日起兵,向前進發,營內大排筵宴,同羅爺細訴离情
    ,當晚羅爺父子回營,羅琨取出程鳳錦囊,羅爺看了,
    書中大意是:“有女愿結絲蘿,因令郎在患中,不便提
    起,故‘走‘字代面,与親翁商之。”羅爺看罷,對羅
    琨道:“你受程府大恩,此事怎可推卻?且等我回朝見
    柏親翁商之。”羅琨暗喜,又稟明祁巧云大緣作合之故
    ,羅爺道:“都等入朝商議。”當夜無話。

    次日,馬爺与羅爺分兵兩路,左右征進,勢如破竹,守
    關的酋長聞風而逃。不上半月,已得了十几處關隘。

    話分兩頭,且說沙龍收回本國,哭奏前事。番王大惊道
    :“關隘已失,木花姑又死,如何迎敵?”忙問兩班文
    武退兵之策。丞相左賢出班奏道:“馬、羅二帥兵法精
    通,更兼有异人相助,此誠難与爭鋒,据臣愚見,莫若
    上表求和,以免此禍。”番王道:“太子同沙門諸將怎
    得回國?”左賢奏道:“待微臣將這條性命付于度外,
    親到唐營,憑三寸不爛之舌,替吾主分辯便了。”番王
    聞言,放下优愁,說道:“全仗丞相此去。”遂寫了降
    書降表。備了千兩黃金、珍珠寶玩、美酒羊羔,令番官
    挑了,跟隨左賢出了番國,盡奔馬爺營中來了。

    早有細作報進中軍,羅爺怒道:“他如今勢敗求和,俺
    偏要洗盡番奴,以情邊界!”馬爺道:“且看他來意如
    何?衹要他將沈、米二賊一齊獻來,得報舊恨,就罷了
    。況且番邦沙漠之地,俺們中原要他無益,何必多殺?
    ”當下傳令,眾將披挂齊整,分列兩班。吩咐中軍,俟
    左賢到了,令他進帳。不一時,左賢已到,中軍稟過。

    左賢到了,整冠束帶,步行進了大營,偷眼望兩旁一看
    ,見馬爺營中人強馬壯,甲亮盔明,暗暗吃惊﹔同了中
    軍,參見二位公爺已畢,又与眾將見禮。羅爺吩咐看坐
    ,左賢道:“二位公爺在上,下邦小臣焉敢就坐。”馬
    爺道:“既到吾營,那有不坐之禮?”左賢向上告了坐
    ,呈上了降表,稟道:“寡君多多拜上二位公爺!衹因
    一時不明,聽信匪臣之言,興兵冒犯天朝的邊界,有勞
    公爺兵到下邦,罪該萬死!寡君情愿春秋獻貢,求公爺
    上表,下邦休恩不盡!外有貢獻,求公爺笑納!”說罷
    ,又呈上禮單。

    二位公爺看過了表章,羅爺故意怒道:“昔日興兵犯境
    ,今日勢敗求和,你可知道爾國右三罪!光敵興賓,罪
    之一也﹔收我國逃丘,罪之二也﹔奪我城池,罪之三也
    。今日之事,衹叫你主親自出來快戰便了,俺候他三日
    ,如不出來,俺這里架炮攻城,洗盡番邦人數,那時休
    怪!”

    這一番言語,嚇得左賢戰戰兢兢,走向前來,雙膝跪下
    道:“還求二位公爺寬恩恕罪。”馬爺勸道:“羅公請
    息怒。既是左賢先生親來,怎好不准情面,衹要依俺們
    兩件事便罷。”左賢起身,忙打一躬說道:“衹求公爺
    吩咐,敢不依從!”馬爺道:“第一件,要你主親修誓
    書,年年進貢,永不犯邊﹔第二件,要將沈謙等一干逃
    臣總要送出。”左賢道:“頭一件容易,第二件,沈謙
    雖在城中,他的手下兵多將廣,難于下手,必須公爺這
    里多著几員大將前去相幫,方不誤事。”

    馬爺依允,忙點史忠,王宗、王寶、王宸、金輝、楊春
    、王越、章琪八將同左賢回城,前去捉拿沈謙。八將得
    令,同左賢告辭進番。左賢將八人藏了,見過番王,說
    了備細,會過了沙家父子,番王假意傳旨聚兩班文武商
    議,說道:“既是南兵不准求和,卿等可召降臣沈謙、
    米順前往大營問左賢、沙龍等商議退兵之策,与他交戰
    便了。”眾臣領旨出朝,番王回宮,不表。

    單言左賢領了旨,前來召沈謙。那沈謙聽得交戰,暗暗
    的歡喜,帶了米順、王虎、康龍、錦上天、侯登、吳法
    、錢來、宗信等來到沙龍的大營:左賢見了,遠遠迎接
    上帳,見禮坐下。左賢說道:“請大師到了,非為別事
    ,可奈羅增不准講和,要求太師施展大才,在下愿聽軍
    令。”沈謙道:“豈敢,豈敢。若是丞相見委,破羅增
    易如反掌。”沙龍大喜,吩咐擺酒管待,沈謙等眾人入
    席。才飲了几盃,衹見沙龍將金盃拋地,一聲響亮,早
    跳出八位英雄同沙龍父子,一齊動手,來拿沈謙。沈謙
    等也動起手來。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十七回

    明忠奸朝廷執法報恩仇眾士娛怀

    話說沙龍擲盃為號,王越、史忠、金輝、楊春等一齊跳
    出,竟奔沈謙,大喝:“奸賊休走!”沈謙大惊,情知
    中計,忙要起身逃走,早被沙龍抓住。王虎、康龍一齊
    來救,早被史忠、楊春等一齊擁上,將康龍、王虎、米
    順等一起拿下。喝令捆綁了,打上囚車,复請八位英雄
    ,重新換席飲酒。席終,一齊起身。八位好漢擁住囚車
    ,左賢捧了降表,沙龍押著進貢的珊瑚瑪瑙、寶貝珍珠
    ,一同來到馬爺的大營。

    早有小校前來迎接,左賢等進了中軍,拜見了兩位公爺
    ,又与大小眾將見過了禮,呈上表章以及貢獻禮物,隨
    后是八位英雄押著囚車前來繳令,羅爺吩咐推人后營監
    禁,中軍帳上擺酒管待左賢、沙龍,沙龍同左賢一齊跪
    下,說道:“求二位公爺幵恩,放了小主,吾主感謝二
    位公爺的洪恩不盡了!”羅爺說道:“既是如此,令人
    將耶律福問沙氏弟兄一齊放了,請入中軍。”當下耶律
    福同沙氏四人出了囚車,換了服色,到了中軍﹔君臣們
    一齊跪下拜謝了二位公爺,又与眾人見禮,禮畢坐下,
    馬爺勸解一番,羅爺傳令中軍擺宴,管待番邦君臣飲酒
    ,三軍都有賞賜。當晚盡歡而散。

    左賢同耶律福等拜謝回朝,見了番王,細細說了二公爺
    的仁德,次日番王又備了十車金銀珠玉、千口肥羊、千
    樽美酒,親到營中送行,見了二位公爺,再三致謝。二
    位公爺收了禮物,別了番王,吩咐放炮,拔寨起營。大
    小三軍,一路趲行而回。正是:鞭敲金鐙響,人唱凱歌
    回。

    話說三軍日夜趲行,那日回到邊頭關,盧宣、謝元接進
    關內,大隊人馬關內住下。二位公爺進了帥府,合郡的
    文武都來參見。當下寫了本章,差官連夜進京報捷,一
    面點將守關,立了碑記,以勸后人。眾文武送了筵席,
    又送禮物下程﹔二位公爺止留下筵席,下程禮物一概不
    收。歇馬一日,次日傳令拔寨起營,路途之間,衹見關
    內的百姓焚香點燭,扶老攜幼,跪滿街旁,都來瞻仰叩
    送。二位公爺策馬慢慢而行,眾英雄臉上風光,人人得
    意。后人有贊馬爺的忠勇,道之:忠勇人無敵,鮑親義
    气高。一朝施戰馬,千載仰風標。又有詩贊羅增的苦節
    道:越國功勞大,幽州世業高。若非甘苦節,焉得姓名
    標!

    話說二位公爺一路行來,已离長安不遠,早有地方官飛
    奔長安報信去了。

    且言乾德天子自從接了邊報,龍心大悅,遍示諸臣道:
    “可喜番國平定,羅卿現在還朝,此馬成龍之功也!”
    又過數日,黃門官啟奏說:“馬、羅二位國公,离長安
    不遠,請旨定奪!”天子大喜,傳旨著李逢春、秦雙、
    李全、柏文連,領合朝文武,同去迎接,李逢春領旨,
    不表。

    且說二位公爺的大隊人馬正行之間,早有軍政官稟道:
    “啟上二位公爺,今有合朝文武奉旨在十里長亭迎接。
    ”二位公爺聽得,傳令三軍就此安營。二位公爺率領諸
    將,到了長亭,下馬步行,上亭同眾文武行禮,各相安
    慰。擺上了皇封御酒,眾人謝恩入席,飲了數盃,李爺
    說道:“請二位仁兄領眾女將到舍下改裝見駕。”馬爺
    道:“領教。”隨即出了席,回到營中,先令王俊解了
    囚車前走﹔然后同男女英雄,押著番邦進貢的珍寶,一
    齊進城,問到李府。卸甲改裝。到了午門,黃門官啟奏
    天子,傳宣召見。

    二位公爺領旨入朝,山呼己畢,呈上番王的降表并進貢
    的禮物:天子大喜,說道:“卿等汗馬功勞,真不愧勛
    臣之后!”馬成龍道:“微臣無功可錄,此皆羅增之力
    、眾將之能也。”說罷,將功勞簿,并一切交兵的日期
    ,同得胜的眾將,一同呈上。天子展幵,一一觀看,說
    道:“卿有大功,不須謙讓。衹可恨沈謙奸賊無理,險
    些害了羅賢卿的性命。今喜羅賢卿有功回朝,方見得你
    赤心為國!”羅增道:“臣失陷番隅,有辜帝命,罪當
    萬死,豈敢言功!”天子道:“不必過謙,卿等鞍馬勞
    頓。速往光祿寺赴宴。”眾人謝恩而去。

    天子傳旨:“令柏文連、李逢春將沈謙一干人犯帶至便
    殿,朕親自一一審問!”李逢春等將一千人犯帶入便殿
    ,見了圣駕,天子喝問沈謙道:“你与羅增何仇,平白
    的奏他降番,他如今得胜回朝,你今倒降番邦,更有何
    說:“沈謙無言可答,衹是叩頭求生。

    天子大怒,令將沈謙、米順、米中砂、錢來、吳法、錦
    上天、侯登、宗信等,一同斬首示眾,其余家眷人等都
    發到邊外充軍。李逢春等領旨,押了一千人犯出朝,一
    面飛報羅、馬二府,一面點了羽林軍、劊子手,將一千
    人犯押赴法場。

    此時羅爺正在馬爺營內談心。忽見家將將李爺的來信呈
    上,羅爺道:“知道了。”遂令章琪:“將你母親同眾
    人的亡靈立起牌位,到法場去祭奠祭奠!”章琪得令,
    前去備了祭禮。

    羅爺同二位公子換了紊服,令家人抬了祭禮,擺了執事
    ,笙蕭鼓樂,迎奔法場,供下靈位,擺下祭筵,羅爺領
    著二位公子同章宏、章琪等哭祭一番。

    祭畢,李爺喝聲:“幵刀!”這些百姓朝幵一閃,早聽
    得一聲炮響,劊于手提刀先從沈謙殺起,將一干奸賊一
    齊斬首。那長安的百姓有的暢快,有的唾罵,都說道:
    “他當日害人,今日是天網恢恢,疏而不漏,殺得才好
    !”有几個說道:“他不知害了多少好人,今日衹得一
    死,倒便宜了他了!”后人有詩嘆沈謙道:無故害忠良
    ,欺心謀帝王。一朝身首碎,萬載臭名揚。又有詩罵米
    順道:司馬官非小,緣何意不良?冰山難卒倚,笑罵滿
    云陽。

    話說法場上斬完了眾犯,一面令人收拾法場,將眾人尸
    首掩埋﹔一面將首級拿大木盒盛了,回朝繳旨,羅爺令
    人收過祭禮,燒化紙錢,毀了眾魂牌位,領著公子、章
    宏等來謝柏、李二位大人。

    李爺道:“眾奸已斬,尊府大冤己伸,靜候天子恩封便
    了。”羅爺道:“全仗二位大人之福。”說罷,正欲回
    朝繳旨,衹見一騎馬飛也似的沖來,大叫道:“圣旨下
    !”李、柏二位大人吃了一惊,不知何旨,忙忙前來迎
    接。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十八回

    滿春園英雄歇馬飛云殿天子封官

    話說那一騎馬飛奔法場,口稱圣旨下,李、柏二位爺慌
    忙前來迎接。天使幵讀,原來是著李逢春傳令馬成龍,
    將人馬扎入沈謙的滿春園,權且安歇,靜候紂贈﹔后著
    李逢春起造各家的府第﹔又令柏文連發放眾犯家眷,前
    去充軍﹔二位老爺接過圣旨,送過天使,李爺即同羅爺
    等一同往大營去了。柏爺捧了首級進朝回旨,即將各犯
    的老小議定邊關各處充軍,起解發配,不提。

    且表羅爺同李爺來到營中,馬爺接進中軍,行禮己畢,
    家將獻茶,茶罷,李爺將圣旨說了一遍,眾人聽了大喜
    ,道:“俺們在此營中不便,旦到滿春園去了,安歇安
    歇!”馬爺同三軍拔寨起營,都到滿春園內扎駐。正是
    :玉堂金屋難存己,畫棟雕梁總屬人。

    話說二位公爺同眾英雄進了滿春園,吩咐備宴,留李爺
    一同飲酒談心。次日天明,李爺領了眾人入朝見駕。天
    子傳旨,令合朝文武陪眾功臣到飛云殿飲宴,候旨加封
    ,眾人領旨,到飛云殿,團團坐下。自有司禮監伺候,
    擺上御宴,奏起鼓樂,衹候駕來。

    不一時,掌扇分幵,金燈引路,天子駕臨。眾人跪接。
    天子人座,令禮部侍郎展幵一幅黃絞封官的丹詔,挂于
    正中,令禮部宣讀旨意。眾文武靜聽上諭,禮部向前宣
    讀道:詔曰:古昔帝王賞功罰罪,約法昭明,咨爾眾臣
    ,忠義可嘉,合宜封功錫爵,以彰朕体恤功臣之意。今
    將封號書名于左:越國公羅增,被害流沙,忠心不改,
    義節可嘉,封為義節武安王﹔定國公馬成龍,平定沙漠
    ,忠勇可嘉,封為忠勇成平王﹔衛國公李逢春,靖共爾
    位,燮和國家,有古大臣之風,封為智略安平王﹔褒國
    公秦雙,見難不避,義節可嘉,封為褒城郡王﹔鄂國公
    尉遲慶,見難不避,義節可嘉,封為鄂州郡王﹔鄲國公
    段式,見難不避,義節可嘉,封為鄲城郡王﹔郴國公徐
    銳,見難不避,義節可嘉,封為瓚邑郡王﹔英國公李全
    ,教子義方,一心贊國,封為英城郡王﹔都院柏文連,
    歷任封疆,忠心不貳,封為淮東郡王﹔魯國公程鳳,元
    辜受害,甘守臣節,封為東平郡王﹔義使章宏,為主忘
    身,為國忘家,封為宣城亭候﹔裴天雄首倡義師,征寇
    有功,封為安定亭侯﹔羅燦忠孝雙全,邊功第一,封為
    寶城亭候﹔羅琨孝勇可嘉,邊功最多,封為昌平亭侯﹔
    胡奎征寇有功,封為山陽亭侯﹔魯豹雄征寇有功,封為
    靈寶亭侯﹔秦環征寇有功,封為永定亭侯﹔馬瑤征寇有
    功,封為綿竹亭侯﹔程瑰征寇有功,封為宁海亭侯﹔謝
    元征寇有功,封為周知亭候﹔李定征寇有功,封為深水
    亭侯﹔龍標征寇有功,封為銅山亭候﹔孫彪征寇有功,
    封為邵武亭候﹔趙胜征寇有功,封為歷城亭候﹔王坤証
    寇有功,封為思恩亭侯﹔革仲征寇有功,封為武進亭候
    :盧宣征寇有功,封為海門亭侯﹔洪恩征寇有功,封為
    瓜州亭侯﹔洪惠征寇有功,封為鎮海亭候﹔戴仁征寇有
    功,封為靖江亭侯﹔戴義征寇有功,封為六合亭侯﹔齊
    紈征寇有功,封為真州亭侯﹔齊欹征寇有功,封為青山
    亭侯﹔盧龍征寇有功,封為廣陵亭侯﹔盧虎征寇有功,
    封為蕪城亭侯﹔徐國良征寇有功,封為宛平亭侯﹔尉遲
    寶征寇有功,封為大興亭侯﹔史忠征寇有功,封為彰德
    亭侯﹔王越征寇有功,封為永亭侯﹔章琪征寇有功,封
    為孝感亭侯﹔張勇征寇有功,封為清浦亭侯﹔場春征寇
    有功,封為金壇亭侯﹔金輝征寇有功,封為平山亭侯﹔
    王俊征寇有功,封為南安亭侯﹔王宗征寇有功,封為揚
    子亭侯﹔王寶征寇有功,封為蜀岡亭侯﹔王宸征寇有功
    ,封為狼山亭侯﹔柏玉霜、祁巧云、謝靈花、馬金錠、
    程玉梅,其受婚者俱襲夫爵,晉夫人,其未婚者俟擇配
    另贈﹔其秦、羅諸家命婦,俱加封一品大夫人﹔其余俱
    榮封三代,各贈夫人。

    禮部讀完了圣諭,眾人一齊俯伏謝恩。天子又傳旨新封
    眾將諸大臣,俱留殿內飲宴﹔又令各命婦、夫人,俱在
    內宮飲宴。

    眾人領旨,忽見羅增出班奏道:“臣有下情,求陛下俯
    察!”天子道:“賢卿有何奏章?”羅增道:“臣次子
    羅琨,昔年曾訂柏文連之女玉霜為妻﹔后因避難山東,
    蒙程鳳恩養,愿以女玉梅妻之。臣子不敢自專,稟之于
    臣,臣思次子既受程府大恩,此事豈容拒卻,衹得向柏
    文連商之,蒙柏文連許可,愿同伊女雁序班行。昨云南
    總督馬成龍云,臣子羅琨昔日進宮護駕,系祁子富之女
    祁巧云挈領入內﹔据馬成龍云,此女亦与臣子有姻緣之
    分,曾于謝應登遺書見之,事雖荒渺,亦系大緣,況臣
    子嘗施恩于彼,彼亦有恩于臣子,此事不為無因,望陛
    下定奪。”

    天子道:“以德報德,理所當然,未知柏卿意下如何?
    ”柏文連奏道:“臣婿若非程鳳撫救,焉有今日?程氏
    之婚,臣斷無不允之理。又臣女昔日擊死沈廷芳,祁子
    富之女曾奪身替死,此誠千古義烈之裙釵!若得与臣女
    一門相聚,臣之幸也,又何不可之有?”天子大喜,因
    問道:“祁子富何人也?”柏文連道:“河南府祁鳳山
    之子也,其父為沈謙所害,彼因流落長安。其人正直不
    阿,古道自許,乃當世之君子也。”天子又問道:“謝
    應登何人也?”馬成龍奏道:“此謝元之高祖,謝靈花
    之高高祖也,生在隋朝,因功名不遂,退而修道,遂得
    升仙,今太行山仍有遺跡。曾暗贈羅燦寶劍,贈祁巧云
    天書,前破番降妖,皆賴其暗佑之力。”天子欣然,遂
    宣柏玉霜、程玉梅、祁巧云上殿,面諭道:“柏玉霜奔
    走江湖,終能完節,當世之烈女也,与羅琨為首妻﹔程
    玉梅次之,祁巧云又次之。”

    三人謝恩畢,柏玉霜又奏道:“臣妾奔走江湖,全賴義
    婢秋紅周旋患難,乞陛下硅獎!”天子道:“婢女能仗
    義如此,亦屬難得,不可令其失所,即与羅琨為側室可
    也。”眾人歡喜,備謝恩畢。天子又降恩旨道:“祁子
    富古道可風,著為東宮教授,其隨行張氏。賜黃金千斤
    ,以施義節,謝應登默佑皇圖,著于太行山重塑廟字,
    春秋二祭,其謝靈花之父,恩賜三品職銜,奉祀香火。
    又章宏妻王氏,替主盡節,情殊可憫,著將沈謙府第改
    為義烈祠奉把。”眾人從新謝恩。

    天子又賞從征兵卒,每人白銀十兩、糧米三擔、美酒三
    壇、肥羊一口﹔外將番鄧所得金銀彩緞,照人數月分給
    ,著今回家養息一月,免其差役,圣旨一下,歡聲如雷
    ,然后眾人領宴。

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第七十九回

    結絲蘿共成花燭乘鸞鳳同遂姻緣

    話說天子傳旨幵宴,衹見兩邊鼓樂齊鳴,笙蕭細奏。天
    子居中坐下,文武大臣分兩班序坐,早有執事官員捧上
    金壺玉盞、山珍海錯。端的是帝王富貴,怎見得:孔雀
    屏幵,天子設瓊林之宴﹔玉璃扇展,群臣赴金殿之筵。
    海錯山珍錦盤中,捧著龍肝鳳膽﹔金波玉液銀壺內,泛
    出青黃碧綠。歌傳金石,譜成蕭管星簧﹔響徹云霄,按
    定宮商角徽。燭尤吐彩,珠光与寶炬齊輝﹔象鼎焚香,
    异獸与珍禽并舞。但衹見,烏紗象簡,妙合著罩帔金綃
    ﹔朱履緋袍,簇擁著云羅霧觚,真是洗盞稱觥,曲盡今
    宵之樂﹔君歌臣贊,務伸此日之歡。這才是:欲求真富
    貴,惟有帝王家。

    按下君臣在飛云殿飲宴作樂。且言眾位夫人小姐,早有
    宮女掌燈,引入正宮,參拜娘娘。娘娘傳旨平身,各人
    錦墩賜坐,妃女獻茶。茶罷,娘娘傳旨內侍擺宴伺候,
    先領各眾家夫人小姐,到各宮游玩,回來飲宴。內恃領
    旨。娘娘起身,向眾位夫人小姐說道:“眾卿難得到此
    ,且先到各宮游覽一番,然后飲宴。”眾夫人小姐謝恩
    。

    當下四名宮女,掌了兩對金燈引路,君臣們前后相隨而
    行。那時星月初明,映著那玉殿瓊樓、奇花瑤草,十分
    幽雅,眾夫人小姐隨著娘娘,游遍了三十六宮、七十二
    院,真正娛目騁怀。忽見司禮監跪下說道:“啟娘娘,
    宴己幵備,請駕回宮。”娘娘聞奏,傳旨擺駕回宮,內
    侍領旨,引入朝陽正殿。須臾,宴已擺齊,但見金碧輝
    煌,香煙芙郁,光浮五薈,色映金樽。娘娘賜坐,眾夫
    人小姐一一謝恩,依次坐下。

    眾宮女樂奏云敖,更番勸酒,眾夫人小姐不敢夫儀,酒
    過三巡,食供九獻,便起身謝宴,娘娘義備了多少珠翠
    花粉、海外名香、綾羅緞匹,令穿宮太監捧了。那宮女
    們掌著金燈在前引路,送眾位夭人小姐出宮,眾位夫人
    小姐謝了恩,出了宮門,早有長班衙役前來迎接,打道
    問滿春園,不表。

    且言外殿上眾文武大臣,也謝宴回滿春園去了。次日清
    晨,上朝謝恩,天子傳旨,令工部尚書監督工程,將沈
    謙府第重新起造,改為義烈詞,春秋二時賜祭。又令起
    造各位王侯府第,按品級施行。工部尚書領旨回轉衙門
    ,點了三十名效力的官兒,先擇了地基,然后分頭去辦
    工料,派定規矩,營工的營工,營料的營料,各人派定
    ,一齊幵工。起造了四十多日,早已齊備。

    當下工部大人見工程已完,又親到各府驗看一遍﹔然后
    將各家府第幵成一本清冊,上朝繳旨。天子聞奏大喜,
    將冊子展幵一看,上寫道:遵旨起造各位王侯殲第,清
    冊注名于左,計三十三所。第一府第,義烈公堂﹔第二
    府第,義節武安王羅府﹔第三府第,忠勇成平王馬府﹔
    第四府第,淮東郡王柏府﹔第五府第,智略安平王李府
    ﹔第六府第,東平郡王程府﹔第七府第,褒城郡王秦府
    ﹔第八府第,鄂州郡王尉遲府﹔第九府第,鄯城郡王段
    府﹔第十府第,瓚邑郡王徐府﹔第十一府第,英城郡王
    李府﹔第十二府第,宣城亭侯童府﹔第十三府第,安定
    亭侯裴府﹔第十四府第,山陽亭侯胡府﹔第十五府第,
    靈寶亭侯魯府﹔第十六府第,益屋亭侯謝府﹔第十七府
    第,銅山亭侯龍府﹔第十八府第,邵武亭侯孫府﹔第十
    九府第,歷城亭候趙府﹔第二十府第,思恩亭侯王府﹔
    第二十一府第,武進亭侯李府﹔第二十二府第,海門亭
    侯、廣陵亭候、蕪城亭侯盧府﹔第二十三府第,瓜州亭
    侯、鎮海亭侯洪府﹔第二十四府第,靖江亭侯、六合亭
    侯戴府﹔第二十五府第,真州亭侯、青山亭侯齊府﹔第
    二十六府第,彰德亭侯史府﹔第二十七府第,永安亭侯
    王府﹔第二十八府第,清浦亭侯張府﹔第二十九府第,
    金壇亭侯場府﹔第三十府第,平山亭侯金府﹔第三十一
    府第,南安亭侯王府﹔第三十二府第,揚子亭侯、蜀岡
    亭侯、狼山亭侯王府﹔第三十三府第,東宮教授祁府。

    天子看完清冊,又命禮部尚書擇定明日吉期,迎送各位
    功臣進府。圣旨一下,次日五鼓,眾功臣人朝謝恩,隨
    即擺齊執事,笙蕭細樂,各位進府。合朝九卿四相六部
    官員及合城的文武大小職事,紛紛送禮,各府道喜,長
    安城中好不熱鬧!正是:此日衣冠榮畫錦,他年姓字表
    凌煙。

    話說眾位王侯進了新府,彼此請酒恭賀,忙了二十多日
    。那日羅爺在府無事,堂候官稟道:“圣旨到了!”羅
    爺忙忙起身接旨,太監宣讀。旨意是:朕念卿父子功高
    ,賜馬金錠同爾長子完婚,賜柏玉霜、程玉梅、祁巧云
    、秋紅同爾次子完姻,賜黃金千兩、彩緞百端。明日乃
    是黃道良辰,著李逢春代朕為媒,迎娶完姻,欽此。

    羅爺謝恩,請過圣旨,太監覆旨而去,羅爺入內,与夫
    人商議,准備二位公子的花燭,一一面張燈結彩,一面
    安排筵席,令旗牌各投名帖,去請御媒李王爺同保親秦
    王爺,那三十几位侯爺并合朝文武官員前來飲宴。衹見
    滿城中車馬紛紛,一齊都到羅門道喜,真是門前車馬,
    堂上空歌,好不光彩!正是:堂前珠履三千客,房內金
    釵十二行。

    按下羅府的事,且言柏府也接了圣旨,早有英城郡工夫
    婦同侯氏夫人治備妝奩,打發玉霜、秋紅出嫁。那程府
    、祁府總是如此,不必細細交代。

    再講馬府接了圣旨,也都收拾預備,挂彩張燈。等到次
    日,馬爺親喚小姐上轎,三聲大炮,出了府門。一路上
    吹吹打打,到了羅府門首,衹聽得一派樂音,卻好柏府
    、程府,祁府三家的四乘花轎一齊到門,羅爺吩咐升炮
    幵門,先是馬小姐的花轎到門,后是柏玉霜、程玉梅、
    祁巧云、秋紅女四乘花轎依次進問。自有儐相贊禮請出
    五位新人,各歸洞房﹔然后二位公子各去合巹交盃,羅
    爺上廳待客,方才入席,忽聽得一聲吆喝,說道:“東
    宮太子的駕到了!”

    不知后事如何,且聽下回分解。

    第八十回

    凌煙閣上千秋標義粉妝樓前百世流芳

    話說羅爺正在前廳陪客飲宴,忽聽得一聲吆喝。堂官稟
    道:“啟王爺,東宮太子奉旨前來恭賀,駕已到了轅門
    ,請王爺接駕!”羅爺慌忙吩咐大幵中門,穿了朝服,
    同眾王侯齊出門來迎接。衹見太子坐在逍遙馬上,頭戴
    紫金冠,身穿滾龍袍,擺列著半朝鑾駕,金瓜鉞斧分于
    左右。

    羅爺父子同眾王侯一齊跪下道:“臣等不知千歲駕到,
    迎駕來遲,望千歲赦罪!”太子連忙下馬,親手來扶,
    說道:“請起!孤恭賀來遲,休得見怪。”當下眾人起
    身,請太子登堂,行禮﹔太子中間正坐,各王侯次序兩
    旁。太子道:“孤備了些許菲禮,來与二位小王兄賀喜
    。”說罷,早有太監捧上兩盤金銀珠寶、古董玉器,當
    廳擺下,羅爺父子向前謝恩收過,然后兩邊奏樂,請太
    子入席飲宴。正中是太子獨席,兩旁是眾王侯相陪。席
    面上玉斗金厄,山珍海饈,十分富麗。有詩為証:孔雀
    屏幵代瑁筵,霞光藹藹裊香煙。風云龍虎今宵會,畫錦
    敷榮億萬年。

    話說東宮太子飲過宴,傳旨擺駕回宮而去。眾王侯送太
    子回宮之后,也告別各回府去了。羅公退入后堂,吩咐
    掌燈送二位公子進房,二位公子請過安,各自歸房,不
    表。

    且言大公子進房与馬小姐合巹,真是女貌郎才,一雙兩
    好,有詩為証:琴瑟初調韻,關雎此夜歌。春風花弄色
    ﹔楚岫會仙娥。

    再言二公子進柏小姐房中合巹,他夫婦二人与眾人不同
    ,都是遭過患難的,今日席上綢繆,枕邊恩愛,自有無
    數衷情,兩相慰藉,做書的不能臆說。到了次日,自然
    依著天子的次序,各房中合巹交歡,后人有詩羡羅琨的
    奇遇道:春風錦帳美春光,揉碎笑蓉玉有香。云鎖巫山
    仙夢永,四尊神女一襄王。

    說說羅府到了次日,二位公子起身,一齊參拜天地,又
    拜了父母。然后入朝謝恩,又到各岳父家謝親,不必細
    表。

    且言馬爺自從金錠小姐出閣后,又擇了日期与公子馬瑤
    完姻,謝靈花這邊都是謝元主持其事。恰好那一日平山
    亭侯金府也迎娶胡孌姑。各位王侯又往來道喜,絡繹不
    絕,都不必細表。

    這三家完姻,足足鬧了個月方才無事。眾王侯自從封贈
    之后,安享了一月有余。眾人稟知羅爺,要回家祭祖,
    羅爺遂同眾人上本。天子准奏,各賜了御祭。眾人謝恩
    出朝,擇日動身。

    羅爺祖塋是在長安,擇日興工重新修造。馬爺的祖全也
    在長安,向日被沈謙削平的,久已修整如新,不須再造
    ,其余王爺在京的墳墓,不必細說。那祁子富就在長安
    將他父母的墳同他妻子的墳,別自擇日,創立設祭,他
    也不回淮安了,余者,柏文連回淮安,程鳳回登州,李
    全回鎮江,趙胜回丹徒,胡奎回淮安,楊春、金輝、戴
    仁、戴義、齊紈、齊績回儀征,盧宣、盧龍、盧虎回揚
    州,洪恩、洪惠回鎮江,王大公、王宗、王寶、王宸回
    瓜州,龍標回淮安,裴天雄、謝元、孫彪等回山東,不
    必交代。

    單言趙胜回家祭祖,正從鵝頭鎮經過,巧遇冤家黃金印
    騎馬而來,趙胜見了,喝令家將:“与我把馬上這賊拿
    下!”家將得令,上前將黃金印抓下馬來,拖翻在地,
    黃金印大叫無罪,趙胜冷笑了一聲,說道:“你抬起頭
    來認俺一認,可該你的房飯錢了。”那黃金印抬頭一看
    ,認得趙胜,衹嚇得膽裂魂消,衹求饒命,趙胜大怒,
    喝令扯下去打。打了四十大棍,即喚地方官取一面重枷
    枷了,喝道:“你若再不改過,本爵取你的狗命便了!
    ”正是:善惡到頭終有報,衹爭來早与來遲。

    按下趙胜的事。且說各位王侯回家祭祖,有兩個月的限
    期,一齊回京繳旨。各人到了長安,進朝見了天子,覆
    了旨,各歸府第,那張二娘的飯店房子,己改做尼姑庵
    了。胡奎、羅燦、羅琨三人想起舊事,令家人備了香燭
    ,帶了各行的匠人,到城外梅花岭還愿,興工建廟,塑
    元壇像,立碑招了曾人,永奉香火,羅大人又令公子到
    水云庵,重新修造佛像,裝金。

    眾位王侯諸事已畢,每日上朝輔政,真乃是:君明臣良
    ,文修武備﹔國家有道,百姓安康。

    乾德天子心中欣喜。文武百官早朝朝見,分班侍立,天
    子說道:“賴眾卿建功立業,欲效太宗的故事,于凌煙
    閣上圖畫眾卿容貌,使萬古千年,永垂不朽!不知眾卿
    意下如何?”眾人一齊跪下謝恩,說道:“這是萬歲的
    龍恩,臣等銘感五內。”大于大喜,傳旨選四十名巧筆
    丹青,上凌煙閣圖畫眾人之像,這些眾功臣跟隨天子上
    了凌煙閣,令左右內臣取文房四寶,展幵十數丈白綾,
    令丹青落筆,不消半日,就畫全了:正當中是天子的龍
    顏,左右兩邊即是羅增、馬成龍等一眾王侯的容像。天
    子一看,衹見須眉畢露,笑貌如生,十分精巧。天子大
    多,賞了匠人。遂傳旨令光祿寺擺宴,就在凌煙閣君臣
    共樂,慶賀功勛,光祿寺領旨,不一時備齊了御宴,天
    子居中,眾功臣兩旁序坐,正是:光祿池台幵錦繡,將
    軍樓閣畫神仙。

    話說君臣們飲宴,盡歡而散,次日五鼓,眾功臣入朝謝
    恩,羅爺回府,心中想道:“俺昔日身在流沙,妻离子
    散,窮困已极,那想還有今日!全虧了兩個孩兒,糾合
    義師,使我成功歸國,此乃上蒼所助也!不可不上謝神
    靈,下酬戚友!”當下遂令旗牌各府投帖,請宴謝神。
    諸事備辦齊整,不多一時,人馬紛紛,眾位俱到。羅爺
    忙忙出廳迎接,次序坐下,羅爺吩咐內外擺席,兩旁鼓
    樂齊鳴,笙歌宣奏。

    羅爺敬神奠酒,安席入坐,馬成龍首席,領著一班王侯
    飲宴,羅爺父子相陪﹔內席是馬太太領著眾家的太太飲
    宴:羅老太太同了五位夫人相陪。兩邊奏樂,幵場做戲
    ,內外官客、堂客衹飲至三更方才散席。真正:合家歡
    樂,稱心滿意﹔百世榮華,千秋佳話。

    可見忠佞兩途,關乎國運。前半部就如冥府幽司,后半
    部何等光天化日,這豈非親賢遠佞之明效大驗哉!

    余故細細譜出,以為勸善之上鑑二:
    詩曰:
    一折翻成酒一盃,粉妝舊譜換新裁。
    鑄成忠骨承恩露,褫去奸魂代怒雷。
    化日無私真令辟,凌煙有后盡英材。
    稗官提筆談遺享,慷慨悲歌八十回。

    End of Project Gutenberg's Fen Zhuang Lou–Chapters 71-80, by Guanzhong Luo

  • Zen and the Art of the Internet

    Zen and the Art of the Internet

    Aproximadamente 26.124 palavras.

    Part A

    Zen and the Art of the Internet

    Copyright (c) 1992 Brendan P. Kehoe

    Permission is granted to make and distribute verbatim copies of this
    guide provided the copyright notice and this permission notice are
    preserved on all copies.

    Permission is granted to copy and distribute modified versions of
    this booklet under the conditions for verbatim copying, provided that
    the entire resulting derived work is distributed under the terms of a
    permission notice identical to this one.

    Permission is granted to copy and distribute translations of this
    booklet into another language, under the above conditions for
    modified versions, except that this permission notice may be stated
    in a translation approved by the author.

    Zen and the Art of the Internet
    A Beginner's Guide to the Internet
    First Edition
    January 1992

    by Brendan P. Kehoe

    This is revision 1.0 of February 2, 1992.
    Copyright (c) 1992 Brendan P. Kehoe

    The composition of this booklet was originally started because the
    Computer Science department at Widener University was in desperate
    need of documentation describing the capabilities of this "great new
    Internet link" we obtained.

    It's since grown into an effort to acquaint the reader with much of
    what's currently available over the Internet. Aimed at the novice
    user, it attempts to remain operating system "neutral"—little
    information herein is specific to Unix, VMS, or any other
    environment. This booklet will, hopefully, be usable by nearly
    anyone.

    A user's session is usually offset from the rest of the paragraph, as
    such:

    prompt> command
    The results are usually displayed here.

    The purpose of this booklet is two-fold: first, it's intended to
    serve as a reference piece, which someone can easily grab on the fly
    and look something up. Also, it forms a foundation from which people
    can explore the vast expanse of the Internet. Zen and the Art of the
    Internet doesn't spend a significant amount of time on any one point;
    rather, it provides enough for people to learn the specifics of what
    his or her local system offers.

    One warning is perhaps in order—this territory we are entering can
    become a fantastic time-sink. Hours can slip by, people can come and
    go, and you'll be locked into Cyberspace. Remember to do your work!

    With that, I welcome you, the new user, to The Net.

    brendan@cs.widener.edu
    Chester, PA

    Acknowledgements

    Certain sections in this booklet are not my original work—rather,
    they are derived from documents that were available on the Internet
    and already aptly stated their areas of concentration. The chapter
    on Usenet is, in large part, made up of what's posted monthly to
    news.announce.newusers, with some editing and rewriting. Also, the
    main section on archie was derived from whatis.archie by Peter
    Deutsch of the McGill University Computing Centre. It's available
    via anonymous FTP from archie.mcgill.ca. Much of what's in the
    telnet section came from an impressive introductory document put
    together by SuraNet. Some definitions in the one are from an
    excellent glossary put together by Colorado State University.

    This guide would not be the same without the aid of many people on The
    Net, and the providers of resources that are already out there. I'd
    like to thank the folks who gave this a read-through and returned some
    excellent comments, suggestions, and criticisms, and those who
    provided much-needed information on the fly. Glee Willis deserves
    particular mention for all of his work; this guide would have been
    considerably less polished without his help.

    Andy Blankenbiller <rablanke@crdec7.apgea.army.mil>
    Andy Blankenbiller, Army at Aberdeen

    bajan@cs.mcgill.ca
    Alan Emtage, McGill University Computer Science Department

    Brian Fitzgerald <fitz@mml0.meche.rpi.edu>
    Brian Fitzgerald, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute

    John Goetsch <ccjg@hippo.ru.ac.za>
    John Goetsch, Rhodes University, South Africa

    composer@chem.bu.edu
    Jeff Kellem, Boston University's Chemistry Department

    kraussW@moravian.edu
    Bill Krauss, Moravian College

    Steve Lodin <deaes!swlodin@iuvax.cs.indiana.edu>
    Steve Lodin, Delco Electronics

    Mike Nesel <nesel@elxsi.dfrf.nasa.gov>
    Mike Nesel, NASA

    Bob <neveln@cs.widener.edu>
    Bob Neveln, Widener University Computer Science Department

    wamapi@dunkin.cc.mcgill.ca (Wanda Pierce)
    Wanda Pierce, McGill University Computing Centre

    Joshua.R.Poulson@cyber.widener.edu
    Joshua Poulson, Widener University Computing Services

    de5@ornl.gov
    Dave Sill, Oak Ridge National Laboratory

    bsmart@bsmart.tti.com
    Bob Smart, CitiCorp/TTI

    emv@msen.com
    Ed Vielmetti, Vice President of MSEN

    Craig E. Ward <cew@venera.isi.edu>
    Craig Ward, USC/Information Sciences Institute (ISI)

    Glee Willis <willis@unssun.nevada.edu>
    Glee Willis, University of Nevada, Reno

    Charles Yamasaki <chip@oshcomm.osha.gov>
    Chip Yamasaki, OSHA

    Network Basics

    We are truly in an information society. Now more than ever, moving
    vast amounts of information quickly across great distances is one of
    our most pressing needs. From small one-person entrepreneurial
    efforts, to the largest of corporations, more and more professional
    people are discovering that the only way to be successful in the '90s
    and beyond is to realize that technology is advancing at a break-neck
    pace—and they must somehow keep up. Likewise, researchers from all
    corners of the earth are finding that their work thrives in a
    networked environment. Immediate access to the work of colleagues
    and a "virtual" library of millions of volumes and thousands of
    papers affords them the ability to encorporate a body of knowledge
    heretofore unthinkable. Work groups can now conduct interactive
    conferences with each other, paying no heed to physical
    location—the possibilities are endless.

    You have at your fingertips the ability to talk in "real-time" with
    someone in Japan, send a 2,000-word short story to a group of people
    who will critique it for the sheer pleasure of doing so, see if a
    Macintosh sitting in a lab in Canada is turned on, and find out if
    someone happens to be sitting in front of their computer (logged on)
    in Australia, all inside of thirty minutes. No airline (or tardis,
    for that matter) could ever match that travel itinerary.

    The largest problem people face when first using a network is
    grasping all that's available. Even seasoned users find themselves
    surprised when they discover a new service or feature that they'd
    never known even existed. Once acquainted with the terminology and
    sufficiently comfortable with making occasional mistakes, the
    learning process will drastically speed up.

    Domains

    Getting where you want to go can often be one of the more difficult
    aspects of using networks. The variety of ways that places are named
    will probably leave a blank stare on your face at first. Don't fret;
    there is a method to this apparent madness.

    If someone were to ask for a home address, they would probably expect
    a street, apartment, city, state, and zip code. That's all the
    information the post office needs to deliver mail in a reasonably
    speedy fashion. Likewise, computer addresses have a structure to
    them. The general form is:

    a person's email address on a computer: user@somewhere.domain
    a computer's name: somewhere.domain

    The user portion is usually the person's account name on the
    system, though it doesn't have to be. somewhere.domain tells
    you the name of a system or location, and what kind of organization it
    is. The trailing domain is often one of the following:

    com
    Usually a company or other commercial institution or organization,
    like Convex Computers (convex.com).

    edu
    An educational institution, e.g. New York University, named nyu.edu.

    gov
    A government site; for example, NASA is nasa.gov.

    mil
    A military site, like the Air Force (af.mil).

    net
    Gateways and other administrative hosts for a network (it does not
    mean all of the hosts in a network). {The Matrix, 111. One such
    gateway is near.net.}

    org
    This is a domain reserved for private organizations, who don't
    comfortably fit in the other classes of domains. One example is the
    Electronic Frontier Foundation named eff.org.

    Each country also has its own top-level domain. For example, the
    us domain includes each of the fifty states. Other countries
    represented with domains include:

    au Australia
    ca Canada
    fr France
    uk The United Kingdom. These also have sub-domains of things like
    ac.uk for academic sites and co.uk for commercial ones.

    FQDN (Fully Qualified Domain Name)

    The proper terminology for a site's domain name (somewhere.domain
    above) is its Fully Qualified Domain Name (FQDN). It is usually
    selected to give a clear indication of the site's organization or
    sponsoring agent. For example, the Massachusetts Institute of
    Technology's FQDN is mit.edu; similarly, Apple Computer's domain name
    is apple.com. While such obvious names are usually the norm, there
    are the occasional exceptions that are ambiguous enough to
    mislead—like vt.edu, which on first impulse one might surmise is an
    educational institution of some sort in Vermont; not so. It's
    actually the domain name for Virginia Tech. In most cases it's
    relatively easy to glean the meaning of a domain name—such
    confusion is far from the norm.

    Internet Numbers

    Every single machine on the Internet has a unique address, {At least
    one address, possibly two or even three—but we won't go into
    that.} called its Internet number or IP Address. It's actually a
    32-bit number, but is most commonly represented as four numbers
    joined by periods (.), like 147.31.254.130. This is sometimes also
    called a dotted quad; there are literally thousands of different
    possible dotted quads. The ARPAnet (the mother to today's Internet)
    originally only had the capacity to have up to 256 systems on it
    because of the way each system was addressed. In the early eighties,
    it became clear that things would fast outgrow such a small limit;
    the 32-bit addressing method was born, freeing thousands of host
    numbers.

    Each piece of an Internet address (like 192) is called an "octet,"
    representing one of four sets of eight bits. The first two or three
    pieces (e.g. 192.55.239) represent the network that a system is on,
    called its subnet. For example, all of the computers for Wesleyan
    University are in the subnet 129.133. They can have numbers like
    129.133.10.10, 129.133.230.19, up to 65 thousand possible
    combinations (possible computers).

    IP addresses and domain names aren't assigned arbitrarily—that
    would lead to unbelievable confusion. An application must be filed
    with the Network Information Center (NIC), either electronically (to
    hostmaster@nic.ddn.mil) or via regular mail.

    Resolving Names and Numbers

    Ok, computers can be referred to by either their FQDN or their
    Internet address. How can one user be expected to remember them all?

    They aren't. The Internet is designed so that one can use either
    method. Since humans find it much more natural to deal with words
    than numbers in most cases, the FQDN for each host is mapped to its
    Internet number. Each domain is served by a computer within that
    domain, which provides all of the necessary information to go from a
    domain name to an IP address, and vice-versa. For example, when
    someone refers to foosun.bar.com, the resolver knows that it should
    ask the system foovax.bar.com about systems in bar.com. It asks what
    Internet address foosun.bar.com has; if the name foosun.bar.com
    really exists, foovax will send back its number. All of this
    "magic" happens behind the scenes.

    Rarely will a user have to remember the Internet number of a site
    (although often you'll catch yourself remembering an apparently
    obscure number, simply because you've accessed the system
    frequently). However, you will remember a substantial number of
    FQDNs. It will eventually reach a point when you are able to make a
    reasonably accurate guess at what domain name a certain college,
    university, or company might have, given just their name.

    The Networks

    Internet
    The Internet is a large "network of networks." There is no
    one network known as The Internet; rather, regional nets like SuraNet,
    PrepNet, NearNet, et al., are all inter-connected
    (nay, "inter-networked") together into one great living thing,
    communicating at amazing speeds with the TCP/IP protocol. All
    activity takes place in "real-time."

    UUCP
    The UUCP network is a loose association of systems all communicating
    with the UUCP protocol. (UUCP stands for `Unix-to-Unix Copy
    Program'.) It's based on two systems connecting to each other at
    specified intervals, called polling, and executing any work
    scheduled for either of them. Historically most UUCP was done with
    Unix equipment, although the software's since been implemented on
    other platforms (e.g. VMS). For example, the system oregano
    polls the system basil once every two hours. If there's any
    mail waiting for oregano, basil will send it at that time;
    likewise, oregano will at that time send any jobs waiting for
    basil.

    BITNET
    BITNET (the "Because It's Time Network") is comprised of systems
    connected by point-to-point links, all running the NJE protocol.
    It's continued to grow, but has found itself suffering at the hands of
    the falling costs of Internet connections. Also, a number of mail
    gateways are in place to reach users on other networks.

    The Physical Connection

    The actual connections between the various networks take a variety of
    forms. The most prevalent for Internet links are 56k leased lines
    (dedicated telephone lines carrying 56kilobit-per-second connections)
    and T1 links (special phone lines with 1Mbps connections). Also
    installed are T3 links, acting as backbones between major locations
    to carry a massive 45Mbps load of traffic.

    These links are paid for by each institution to a local carrier (for
    example, Bell Atlantic owns PrepNet, the main provider in
    Pennsylvania). Also available are SLIP connections, which carry
    Internet traffic (packets) over high-speed modems.

    UUCP links are made with modems (for the most part), that run from
    1200 baud all the way up to as high as 38.4Kbps. As was mentioned in
    The Networks, the connections are of the store-and-forward
    variety. Also in use are Internet-based UUCP links (as if things
    weren't already confusing enough!). The systems do their UUCP traffic
    over TCP/IP connections, which give the UUCP-based network some
    blindingly fast "hops," resulting in better connectivity for the
    network as a whole. UUCP connections first became popular in the
    1970's, and have remained in wide-spread use ever since. Only with
    UUCP can Joe Smith correspond with someone across the country or
    around the world, for the price of a local telephone call.

    BITNET links mostly take the form of 9600bps modems connected from site
    to site. Often places have three or more links going; the majority,
    however, look to "upstream" sites for their sole link to the network.

    "The Glory and the Nothing of a Name"
    Byron, {Churchill's Grave}

    ———–
    Electronic Mail

    The desire to communicate is the essence of networking. People have
    always wanted to correspond with each other in the fastest way
    possible, short of normal conversation. Electronic mail (or
    email) is the most prevalent application of this in computer
    networking. It allows people to write back and forth without having
    to spend much time worrying about how the message actually gets
    delivered. As technology grows closer and closer to being a common
    part of daily life, the need to understand the many ways it can be
    utilized and how it works, at least to some level, is vital.
    part of daily life (as has been evidenced by the ISDN effort, the need
    to understand the many ways it can be utilized and how it works, at
    least to some level, is vital.

    Email Addresses

    Electronic mail is hinged around the concept of an address; the
    section on Networking Basics made some reference to it while
    introducing domains. Your email address provides all of the
    information required to get a message to you from anywhere in the
    world. An address doesn't necessarily have to go to a human being.
    It could be an archive server, {See Archive Servers, for a
    description.} a list of people, or even someone's pocket pager.
    These cases are the exception to the norm—mail to most addresses is
    read by human beings.

    %@!.: Symbolic Cacophony

    Email addresses usually appear in one of two forms—using the
    Internet format which contains @, an "at"-sign, or using the
    UUCP format which contains !, an exclamation point, also called
    a "bang." The latter of the two, UUCP "bang" paths, is more
    restrictive, yet more clearly dictates how the mail will travel.

    To reach Jim Morrison on the system south.america.org, one would
    address the mail as jm@south.america.org. But if Jim's account was
    on a UUCP site named brazil, then his address would be brazil!jm. If
    it's possible (and one exists), try to use the Internet form of an
    address; bang paths can fail if an intermediate site in the path
    happens to be down. There is a growing trend for UUCP sites to
    register Internet domain names, to help alleviate the problem of path
    failures.

    Another symbol that enters the fray is %—it acts as an extra
    "routing" method. For example, if the UUCP site dream is connected
    to south.america.org, but doesn't have an Internet domain name of its
    own, a user debbie on dream can be reached by writing to the address
    not smallexample!

    debbie%dream@south.america.org

    The form is significant. This address says that the local system
    should first send the mail to south.america.org. There the address
    debbie%dream will turn into debbie@dream, which will hopefully be a
    valid address. Then south.america.org will handle getting the mail
    to the host dream, where it will be delivered locally to debbie.

    All of the intricacies of email addressing methods are fully covered
    in the book "!%@@:: A Directory of Electronic Mail Addressing and
    Networks" published by O'Reilly and Associates, as part of their
    Nutshell Handbook series. It is a must for any active email user.
    Write to nuts@ora.com for ordering information.

    Sending and Receiving Mail

    We'll make one quick diversion from being OS-neuter here, to show you
    what it will look like to send and receive a mail message on a Unix
    system. Check with your system administrator for specific
    instructions related to mail at your site.

    A person sending the author mail would probably do something like this:

    % mail brendan@cs.widener.edu
    Subject: print job's stuck

    I typed `print babe.gif' and it didn't work! Why??

    The next time the author checked his mail, he would see it listed in
    his mailbox as:

    % mail
    "/usr/spool/mail/brendan": 1 messages 1 new 1 unread
    U 1 joeuser@foo.widene Tue May 5 20:36 29/956 print job's stuck
    ?

    which gives information on the sender of the email, when it was sent,
    and the subject of the message. He would probably use the
    reply command of Unix mail to send this response:

    ? r
    To: joeuser@@foo.widener.edu
    Subject: Re: print job's stuck

    You shouldn't print binary files like GIFs to a printer!

    Brendan

    Try sending yourself mail a few times, to get used to your system's
    mailer. It'll save a lot of wasted aspirin for both you and your
    system administrator.

    Anatomy of a Mail Header

    An electronic mail message has a specific structure to it that's
    common across every type of computer system. {The standard is written
    down in RFC-822. See also RFCs for more info on how to get copies of
    the various RFCs.} A sample would be:

    >From bush@hq.mil Sat May 25 17:06:01 1991
    Received: from hq.mil by house.gov with SMTP id AA21901
    (4.1/SMI for dan@house.gov); Sat, 25 May 91 17:05:56 -0400
    Date: Sat, 25 May 91 17:05:56 -0400
    From: The President <bush@hq.mil>
    Message-Id: <9105252105.AA06631@hq.mil>
    To: dan@senate.gov
    Subject: Meeting

    Hi Dan .. we have a meeting at 9:30 a.m. with the Joint Chiefs. Please
    don't oversleep this time.

    The first line, with From and the two lines for Received: are usually
    not very interesting. They give the "real" address that the mail
    is coming from (as opposed to the address you should reply to, which
    may look much different), and what places the mail went through to
    get to you. Over the Internet, there is always at least one
    Received: header and usually no more than four or five. When a
    message is sent using UUCP, one Received: header is added for each
    system that the mail passes through. This can often result in more
    than a dozen Received: headers. While they help with dissecting
    problems in mail delivery, odds are the average user will never want
    to see them. Most mail programs will filter out this kind of
    "cruft" in a header.

    The Date: header contains the date and time the message was
    sent. Likewise, the "good" address (as opposed to "real" address)
    is laid out in the From: header. Sometimes it won't include
    the full name of the person (in this case The President), and
    may look different, but it should always contain an email address of
    some form.

    The Message-ID: of a message is intended mainly for tracing
    mail routing, and is rarely of interest to normal users. Every
    Message-ID: is guaranteed to be unique.

    To: lists the email address (or addresses) of the recipients of
    the message. There may be a Cc: header, listing additional
    addresses. Finally, a brief subject for the message goes in the
    Subject: header.

    The exact order of a message's headers may vary from system to system,
    but it will always include these fundamental headers that are vital to
    proper delivery.

    Bounced Mail

    When an email address is incorrect in some way (the system's name is
    wrong, the domain doesn't exist, whatever), the mail system will
    bounce the message back to the sender, much the same way that the
    Postal Service does when you send a letter to a bad street address.
    The message will include the reason for the bounce; a common error is
    addressing mail to an account name that doesn't exist. For example,
    writing to Lisa Simpson at Widener University's Computer Science
    department will fail, because she doesn't have an account. {Though if
    she asked, we'd certainly give her one.}

    From: Mail Delivery Subsystem <MAILER-DAEMON>
    Date: Sat, 25 May 91 16:45:14 -0400
    To: mg@gracie.com
    Cc: Postmaster@cs.widener.edu
    Subject: Returned mail: User unknown

    —– Transcript of session follows —–
    While talking to cs.widener.edu:
    >>> RCPT To:<lsimpson@cs.widener.edu>
    <<< 550 <lsimpson@cs.widener.edu>… User unknown
    550 lsimpson… User unknown

    As you can see, a carbon copy of the message (the Cc: header
    entry) was sent to the postmaster of Widener's CS department. The
    Postmaster is responsible for maintaining a reliable mail system
    on his system. Usually postmasters at sites will attempt to aid you
    in getting your mail where it's supposed to go. If a typing error was
    made, then try re-sending the message. If you're sure that the
    address is correct, contact the postmaster of the site directly and
    ask him how to properly address it.

    The message also includes the text of the mail, so you don't have to
    retype everything you wrote.

    —– Unsent message follows —–
    Received: by cs.widener.edu id AA06528; Sat, 25 May 91 16:45:14 -0400
    Date: Sat, 25 May 91 16:45:14 -0400
    From: Matt Groening <mg@gracie.com>
    Message-Id: <9105252045.AA06528@gracie.com>
    To: lsimpson@cs.widener.edu
    Subject: Scripting your future episodes
    Reply-To: writing-group@gracie.com

    …. verbiage …

    The full text of the message is returned intact, including any headers
    that were added. This can be cut out with an editor and fed right
    back into the mail system with a proper address, making redelivery a
    relatively painless process.

    Mailing Lists

    People that share common interests are inclined to discuss their
    hobby or interest at every available opportunity. One modern way to
    aid in this exchange of information is by using a mailing
    list—usually an email address that redistributes all mail sent to
    it back out to a list of addresses. For example, the Sun Managers
    mailing list (of interest to people that administer computers
    manufactured by Sun) has the address sun-managers@eecs.nwu.edu. Any
    mail sent to that address will "explode" out to each person named
    in a file maintained on a computer at Northwestern University.

    Administrative tasks (sometimes referred to as administrivia) are
    often handled through other addresses, typically with the suffix
    -request. To continue the above, a request to be added to or deleted
    from the Sun Managers list should be sent to
    sun-managers-request@eecs.nwu.edu.

    When in doubt, try to write to the -request version of a mailing list
    address first; the other people on the list aren't interested in your
    desire to be added or deleted, and can certainly do nothing to
    expedite your request. Often if the administrator of a list is busy
    (remember, this is all peripheral to real jobs and real work), many
    users find it necessary to ask again and again, often with harsher
    and harsher language, to be removed from a list. This does nothing
    more than waste traffic and bother everyone else receiving the
    messages. If, after a reasonable amount of time, you still haven't
    succeeded to be removed from a mailing list, write to the postmaster
    at that site and see if they can help.

    Exercise caution when replying to a message sent by a mailing list. If
    you wish to respond to the author only, make sure that the only
    address you're replying to is that person, and not the entire list.
    Often messages of the sort "Yes, I agree with you completely!" will
    appear on a list, boring the daylights out of the other readers. Likewise,
    if you explicitly do want to send the message to the whole list,
    you'll save yourself some time by checking to make sure it's indeed
    headed to the whole list and not a single person.

    A list of the currently available mailing lists is available in at
    least two places; the first is in a file on ftp.nisc.sri.com called
    interest-groups under the netinfo/ directory. It's updated fairly
    regularly, but is large (presently around 700K), so only get it every
    once in a while. The other list is maintained by Gene Spafford
    (spaf@cs.purdue.edu), and is posted in parts to the newsgroup
    news.lists semi-regularly. (Usenet News, for info on how to read that
    and other newsgroups.)

    Listservs

    On BITNET there's an automated system for maintaining discussion lists
    called the listserv. Rather than have an already harried and
    overworked human take care of additions and removals from a list, a
    program performs these and other tasks by responding to a set of
    user-driven commands.

    Areas of interest are wide and varied—ETHICS-L deals with ethics in
    computing, while ADND-L has to do with a role-playing game. A full
    list of the available BITNET lists can be obtained by writing to
    LISTSERV@BITNIC.BITNET with a body containing the command

    list global

    However, be sparing in your use of this—see if it's already on your
    system somewhere. The reply is quite large.

    The most fundamental command is subscribe. It will tell the
    listserv to add the sender to a specific list. The usage is

    subscribe foo-l Your Real Name

    It will respond with a message either saying that you've been added to
    the list, or that the request has been passed on to the system on
    which the list is actually maintained.

    The mate to subscribe is, naturally, unsubscribe. It will remove a
    given address from a BITNET list. It, along with all other listserv
    commands, can be abbreviated—subscribe as sub, unsubscribe as
    unsub, etc. For a full list of the available listserv commands,
    write to LISTSERV@BITNIC.BITNET, giving it the command help.

    As an aside, there have been implementations of the listserv system
    for non-BITNET hosts (more specifically, Unix systems). One of the
    most complete is available on cs.bu.edu in the
    directory pub/listserv.

    "I made this letter longer than usual because
    I lack the time to make it shorter."
    Pascal, Provincial Letters XVI

    ————–

    Anonymous FTP

    FTP (File Transfer Protocol) is the primary method of transferring
    files over the Internet. On many systems, it's also the name of the
    program that implements the protocol. Given proper permission, it's
    possible to copy a file from a computer in South Africa to one in Los
    Angeles at very fast speeds (on the order of 5–10K per second).
    This normally requires either a user id on both systems or a special
    configuration set up by the system administrator(s).

    There is a good way around this restriction—the anonymous FTP
    service. It essentially will let anyone in the world have access to
    a certain area of disk space in a non-threatening way. With this,
    people can make files publicly available with little hassle. Some
    systems have dedicated entire disks or even entire computers to
    maintaining extensive archives of source code and information. They
    include gatekeeper.dec.com (Digital), wuarchive.wustl.edu (Washington
    University in Saint Louis), and archive.cis.ohio-state.edu (The Ohio
    State University).

    The process involves the "foreign" user (someone not on the system
    itself) creating an FTP connection and logging into the system as the
    user anonymous, with an arbitrary password:

    Name (foo.site.com:you): anonymous
    Password: jm@south.america.org

    Custom and netiquette dictate that people respond to the
    Password: query with an email address so that the sites can
    track the level of FTP usage, if they desire. (Addresses for
    information on email addresses).

    The speed of the transfer depends on the speed of the underlying
    link. A site that has a 9600bps SLIP connection will not get the same
    throughput as a system with a 56k leased line (The Physical
    Connection, for more on what kinds of connections can exist in a
    network). Also, the traffic of all other users on that link will
    affect performance. If there are thirty people all FTPing from one
    site simultaneously, the load on the system (in addition to the
    network connection) will degrade the overall throughput of the
    transfer.

    FTP Etiquette

    Lest we forget, the Internet is there for people to do work. People
    using the network and the systems on it are doing so for a purpose,
    whether it be research, development, whatever. Any heavy activity
    takes away from the overall performance of the network as a whole.

    The effects of an FTP connection on a site and its link can vary; the
    general rule of thumb is that any extra traffic created detracts from
    the ability of that site's users to perform their tasks. To help be
    considerate of this, it's highly recommended that FTP sessions
    be held only after normal business hours for that site, preferably
    late at night. The possible effects of a large transfer will be less
    destructive at 2 a.m. than 2 p.m. Also, remember that if it's past
    dinner time in Maine, it's still early afternoon in California—think
    in terms of the current time at the site that's being visited, not of
    local time.

    Basic Commands

    While there have been many extensions to the various FTP clients out
    there, there is a de facto "standard" set that everyone expects to
    work. For more specific information, read the manual for your
    specific FTP program. This section will only skim the bare minimum of
    commands needed to operate an FTP session.

    Creating the Connection

    The actual command to use FTP will vary among operating systems; for
    the sake of clarity, we'll use FTP here, since it's the most
    general form.

    There are two ways to connect to a system—using its hostname
    or its Internet number. Using the hostname is usually preferred.
    However, some sites aren't able to resolve hostnames properly,
    and have no alternative. We'll assume you're able to use hostnames
    for simplicity's sake. The form is

    ftp somewhere.domain

    Domains for help with reading and using domain names
    (in the example below, somewhere.domain is ftp.uu.net).

    You must first know the name of the system you want to connect to.
    We'll use ftp.uu.net as an example. On your system, type:

    ftp ftp.uu.net

    (the actual syntax will vary depending on the type of system the
    connection's being made from). It will pause momentarily then respond
    with the message

    Connected to ftp.uu.net.

    and an initial prompt will appear:

    220 uunet FTP server (Version 5.100 Mon Feb 11 17:13:28 EST 1991) ready.
    Name (ftp.uu.net:jm):

    to which you should respond with anonymous:

    220 uunet FTP server (Version 5.100 Mon Feb 11 17:13:28 EST 1991) ready.
    Name (ftp.uu.net:jm): anonymous

    The system will then prompt you for a password; as noted previously, a
    good response is your email address:

    331 Guest login ok, send ident as password.
    Password: jm@south.america.org
    230 Guest login ok, access restrictions apply.
    ftp>

    The password itself will not echo. This is to protect a user's
    security when he or she is using a real account to FTP files between
    machines. Once you reach the ftp> prompt, you know you're
    logged in and ready to go.

    Notice the ftp.uu.net:joe in the Name: prompt? That's
    another clue that anonymous FTP is special: FTP expects a normal user
    accounts to be used for transfers.

    dir
    At the ftp> prompt, you can type a number of commands to perform
    various functions. One example is dir—it will list the files
    in the current directory. Continuing the example from above:

    ftp> dir

    200 PORT command successful.
    150 Opening ASCII mode data connection for /bin/ls.
    total 3116
    drwxr-xr-x 2 7 21 512 Nov 21 1988 .forward
    -rw-rw-r– 1 7 11 0 Jun 23 1988 .hushlogin
    drwxrwxr-x 2 0 21 512 Jun 4 1990 Census
    drwxrwxr-x 2 0 120 512 Jan 8 09:36 ClariNet
    … etc etc …
    -rw-rw-r– 1 7 14 42390 May 20 02:24 newthisweek.Z
    … etc etc …
    -rw-rw-r– 1 7 14 2018887 May 21 01:01 uumap.tar.Z
    drwxrwxr-x 2 7 6 1024 May 11 10:58 uunet-info

    226 Transfer complete.
    5414 bytes received in 1.1 seconds (4.9 Kbytes/s)
    ftp>

    The file newthisweek.Z was specifically included because we'll
    be using it later. Just for general information, it happens to be a
    listing of all of the files added to UUNET's archives during the past
    week.

    The directory shown is on a machine running the Unix operating
    system—the dir command will produce different results on other
    operating systems (e.g. TOPS, VMS, et al.). Learning to recognize
    different formats will take some time. After a few weeks of
    traversing the Internet, it proves easier to see, for example, how
    large a file is on an operating system you're otherwise not acquainted
    with.

    With many FTP implementations, it's also possible to take the output
    of dir and put it into a file on the local system with

    ftp> dir n* outfilename

    the contents of which can then be read outside of the live FTP
    connection; this is particularly useful for systems with very long
    directories (like ftp.uu.net). The above example would put the
    names of every file that begins with an n into the local file
    outfilename.

    cd

    At the beginning of an FTP session, the user is in a "top-level"
    directory. Most things are in directories below it (e.g. /pub). To
    change the current directory, one uses the cd command. To change to
    the directory pub, for example, one would type

    ftp> cd pub

    which would elicit the response

    250 CWD command successful.

    Meaning the "Change Working Directory" command (cd) worked
    properly. Moving "up" a directory is more system-specific—in Unix
    use the command cd .., and in VMS, cd [-].

    get and put

    The actual transfer is performed with the get and put
    commands. To get a file from the remote computer to the local
    system, the command takes the form:

    ftp> get filename

    where filename is the file on the remote system. Again using
    ftp.uu.net as an example, the file newthisweek.Z can be
    retrieved with

    ftp> get newthisweek.Z
    200 PORT command successful.
    150 Opening ASCII mode data connection for newthisweek.Z (42390 bytes).
    226 Transfer complete.
    local: newthisweek.Z remote: newthisweek.Z
    42553 bytes received in 6.9 seconds (6 Kbytes/s)
    ftp>

    The section below on using binary mode instead of ASCII will describe
    why this particular choice will result in a corrupt and subsequently
    unusable file.

    If, for some reason, you want to save a file under a different name
    (e.g. your system can only have 14-character filenames, or can only
    have one dot in the name), you can specify what the local filename
    should be by providing get with an additional argument

    ftp> get newthisweek.Z uunet-new

    which will place the contents of the file newthisweek.Z in
    uunet-new on the local system.

    The transfer works the other way, too. The put command will
    transfer a file from the local system to the remote system. If the
    permissions are set up for an FTP session to write to a remote
    directory, a file can be sent with

    ftp> put filename

    As with get, put will take a third argument, letting you
    specify a different name for the file on the remote system.

    ASCII vs Binary

    In the example above, the file newthisweek.Z was transferred, but
    supposedly not correctly. The reason is this: in a normal ASCII
    transfer (the default), certain characters are translated between
    systems, to help make text files more readable. However, when binary
    files (those containing non-ASCII characters) are transferred, this
    translation should not take place. One example is a binary
    program—a few changed characters can render it completely useless.

    To avoid this problem, it's possible to be in one of two modes—ASCII
    or binary. In binary mode, the file isn't translated in any way.
    What's on the remote system is precisely what's received. The
    commands to go between the two modes are:

    ftp> ascii
    200 Type set to A. (Note the A, which signifies ASCII mode.)

    ftp> binary
    200 Type set to I. (Set to Image format, for pure binary transfers.)

    Note that each command need only be done once to take effect; if the
    user types binary, all transfers in that session are done in
    binary mode (that is, unless ascii is typed later).

    The transfer of newthisweek.Z will work if done as:

    ftp> binary
    200 Type set to I.
    ftp> get newthisweek.Z
    200 PORT command successful.
    150 Opening BINARY mode data connection for newthisweek.Z (42390 bytes).
    226 Transfer complete.
    local: newthisweek.Z remote: newthisweek.Z
    42390 bytes received in 7.2 seconds (5.8 Kbytes/s)

    Note: The file size (42390) is different from that done
    in ASCII mode (42553) bytes; and the number 42390 matches the one
    in the listing of UUNET's top directory. We can be relatively sure
    that we've received the file without any problems.

    mget and mput

    The commands mget and mput allow for multiple file
    transfers using wildcards to get several files, or a whole set of
    files at once, rather than having to do it manually one by one. For
    example, to get all files that begin with the letter f, one
    would type

    ftp> mget f*

    Similarly, to put all of the local files that end with .c:

    ftp> mput *.c

    Rather than reiterate what's been written a hundred times before,
    consult a local manual for more information on wildcard matching
    (every DOS manual, for example, has a section on it).

    Normally, FTP assumes a user wants to be prompted for every file in a
    mget or mput operation. You'll often need to get a whole set of
    files and not have each of them confirmed—you know they're all
    right. In that case, use the prompt command to turn the queries off.

    ftp> prompt
    Interactive mode off.

    Likewise, to turn it back on, the prompt command should simply
    be issued again.

    Joe Granrose's List
    Monthly, Joe Granrose (odin@pilot.njin.net) posts to Usenet
    (Usenet News) an extensive list of sites offering anonymous FTP
    service. It's available in a number of ways:

    The Usenet groups comp.misc and comp.sources.wanted

    Anonymous FTP from pilot.njin.net [128.6.7.38], in
    /pub/ftp-list.

    Write to odin@pilot.njin.net with a Subject: line of listserv-request
    and a message body of send help. Please don't bother Joe with your
    requests—the server will provide you with the list.

    The archie Server
    archie is always in lowercase

    A group of people at McGill University in Canada got together and created a
    query system called archie. It was originally formed to be a
    quick and easy way to scan the offerings of the many anonymous FTP
    sites that are maintained around the world. As time progressed,
    archie grew to include other valuable services as well.

    The archie service is accessible through an interactive telnet
    session, email queries, and command-line and X-window clients. The
    email responses can be used along with FTPmail servers for those not
    on the Internet. (FTP-by-Mail Servers, for info on using FTPmail
    servers.)

    Using archie Today

    Currently, archie tracks the contents of over 800 anonymous FTP
    archive sites containing over a million files stored across the
    Internet. Collectively, these files represent well over 50 gigabytes
    of information, with new entries being added daily.

    The archie server automatically updates the listing information from
    each site about once a month. This avoids constantly updating the
    databases, which could waste network resources, yet ensures that the
    information on each site's holdings is reasonably up to date.

    To access archie interactively, telnet to one of the existing
    servers. {See Telnet, for notes on using the telnet program.} They
    include

    archie.ans.net (New York, USA)
    archie.rutgers.edu (New Jersey, USA)
    archie.sura.net (Maryland, USA)
    archie.unl.edu (Nebraska, USA)
    archie.mcgill.ca (the first Archie server, in Canada)
    archie.funet.fi (Finland)
    archie.au (Australia)
    archie.doc.ic.ac.uk (Great Britain)

    At the login: prompt of one of the servers, enter archie to log in.
    A greeting will be displayed, detailing information about ongoing
    work in the archie project; the user will be left at a archie>
    prompt, at which he may enter commands. Using help will yield
    instructions on using the prog command to make queries, set to
    control various aspects of the server's operation, et al. Type quit
    at the prompt to leave archie. Typing the query prog vine.tar.Z will
    yield a list of the systems that offer the source to the X-windows
    program vine; a piece of the information returned looks like:

    Host ftp.uu.net (137.39.1.9)
    Last updated 10:30 7 Jan 1992

    Location: /packages/X/contrib
    FILE rw-r–r– 15548 Oct 8 20:29 vine.tar.Z

    Host nic.funet.fi (128.214.6.100)
    Last updated 05:07 4 Jan 1992

    Location: /pub/X11/contrib
    FILE rw-rw-r– 15548 Nov 8 03:25 vine.tar.Z

    archie Clients

    There are two main-stream archie clients, one called (naturally
    enough) archie, the other xarchie (for X-Windows). They query the
    archie databases and yield a list of systems that have the requested
    file(s) available for anonymous FTP, without requiring an interactive
    session to the server. For example, to find the same information you
    tried with the server command prog, you could type

    % archie vine.tar.Z
    Host athene.uni-paderborn.de
    Location: /local/X11/more_contrib
    FILE -rw-r–r– 18854 Nov 15 1990 vine.tar.Z

    Host emx.utexas.edu
    Location: /pub/mnt/source/games
    FILE -rw-r–r– 12019 May 7 1988 vine.tar.Z

    Host export.lcs.mit.edu
    Location: /contrib
    FILE -rw-r–r– 15548 Oct 9 00:29 vine.tar.Z

    Note that your system administrator may not have installed the archie
    clients yet; the source is available on each of the archie servers, in
    the directory archie/clients.

    Using the X-windows client is much more intuitive—if it's installed,
    just read its man page and give it a whirl. It's essential for the
    networked desktop.

    Mailing archie

    Users limited to email connectivity to the Internet should send a
    message to the address archie@archie.mcgill.ca with the single word
    help in the body of the message. An email message will be returned
    explaining how to use the email archie server, along with the details
    of using FTPmail. Most of the commands offered by the telnet
    interface can be used with the mail server.

    The whatis database

    In addition to offering access to anonymous FTP listings, archie also
    permits access to the whatis description database. It includes
    the names and brief synopses for over 3,500 public domain software
    packages, datasets and informational documents located on the
    Internet.

    Additional whatis databases are scheduled to be added in the
    future. Planned offerings include listings for the names and locations
    of online library catalog programs, the names of publicly accessible
    electronic mailing lists, compilations of Frequently Asked Questions
    lists, and archive sites for the most popular Usenet newsgroups.
    Suggestions for additional descriptions or locations databases are
    welcomed and should be sent to the archie developers at
    archie-l@cs.mcgill.ca.

    "Was f@"ur pl@"undern!"
    ("What a place to plunder!")
    Gebhard Leberecht Bl@"ucher

    ——
    Usenet News

    Original from: chip@count.tct.com (Chip Salzenberg)
    [Most recent change: 19 May 1991 by spaf@cs.purdue.edu (Gene Spafford)]

    The first thing to understand about Usenet is that it is widely
    misunderstood. Every day on Usenet the "blind men and the
    elephant" phenomenon appears, in spades. In the opinion of the
    author, more flame wars (rabid arguments) arise because of a
    lack of understanding of the nature of Usenet than from any other
    source. And consider that such flame wars arise, of necessity, among
    people who are on Usenet. Imagine, then, how poorly understood Usenet
    must be by those outside!

    No essay on the nature of Usenet can ignore the erroneous impressions
    held by many Usenet users. Therefore, this section will treat
    falsehoods first. Keep reading for truth. (Beauty, alas, is not
    relevant to Usenet.)

    What Usenet Is

    Usenet is the set of machines that exchange articles tagged with one
    or more universally-recognized labels, called newsgroups (or
    "groups" for short). (Note that the term newsgroup is correct,
    while area, base, board, bboard, conference, round table, SIG, etc.
    are incorrect. If you want to be understood, be accurate.)

    The Diversity of Usenet

    If the above definition of Usenet sounds vague, that's because it is.
    It is almost impossible to generalize over all Usenet sites in any
    non-trivial way. Usenet encompasses government agencies, large
    universities, high schools, businesses of all sizes, home computers of
    all descriptions, etc.

    Every administrator controls his own site. No one has any real
    control over any site but his own. The administrator gets his power
    from the owner of the system he administers. As long as the owner is
    happy with the job the administrator is doing, he can do whatever he
    pleases, up to and including cutting off Usenet entirely. C'est
    la vie.

    What Usenet Is Not

    Usenet is not an organization.
    Usenet has no central authority. In fact, it has no central anything.
    There is a vague notion of "upstream" and "downstream" related to
    the direction of high-volume news flow. It follows that, to the
    extent that "upstream" sites decide what traffic they will carry for
    their "downstream" neighbors, that "upstream" sites have some
    influence on their neighbors. But such influence is usually easy to
    circumvent, and heavy-handed manipulation typically results in a
    backlash of resentment.

    Usenet is not a democracy.
    A democracy can be loosely defined as "government of the people, by
    the people, for the people." However, as explained above, Usenet is
    not an organization, and only an organization can be run as a
    democracy. Even a democracy must be organized, for if it lacks a
    means of enforcing the peoples' wishes, then it may as well not exist.

    Some people wish that Usenet were a democracy. Many people pretend
    that it is. Both groups are sadly deluded.

    Usenet is not fair.
    After all, who shall decide what's fair? For that matter, if someone
    is behaving unfairly, who's going to stop him? Neither you nor I,
    that's certain.

    Usenet is not a right.
    Some people misunderstand their local right of "freedom of speech"
    to mean that they have a legal right to use others' computers to say
    what they wish in whatever way they wish, and the owners of said
    computers have no right to stop them.

    Those people are wrong. Freedom of speech also means freedom not to
    speak; if I choose not to use my computer to aid your speech, that is
    my right. Freedom of the press belongs to those who own one.

    Usenet is not a public utility.
    Some Usenet sites are publicly funded or subsidized. Most of them,
    by plain count, are not. There is no government monopoly on Usenet,
    and little or no control.

    Usenet is not a commercial network.
    Many Usenet sites are academic or government organizations; in fact,
    Usenet originated in academia. Therefore, there is a Usenet custom of
    keeping commercial traffic to a minimum. If such commercial traffic
    is generally considered worth carrying, then it may be grudgingly
    tolerated. Even so, it is usually separated somehow from
    non-commercial traffic; see comp.newprod.

    Usenet is not the Internet.
    The Internet is a wide-ranging network, parts of which are subsidized
    by various governments. The Internet carries many kinds of traffic;
    Usenet is only one of them. And the Internet is only one of the
    various networks carrying Usenet traffic.

    Usenet is not a Unix network, nor even an ASCII network.

    Don't assume that everyone is using "rn" on a Unix machine. There
    are Vaxen running VMS, IBM mainframes, Amigas, and MS-DOS PCs reading
    and posting to Usenet. And, yes, some of them use (shudder) EBCDIC.
    Ignore them if you like, but they're out there.

    Usenet is not software.
    There are dozens of software packages used at various sites to
    transport and read Usenet articles. So no one program or package can
    be called "the Usenet software."

    Software designed to support Usenet traffic can be (and is) used for
    other kinds of communication, usually without risk of mixing the two.
    Such private communication networks are typically kept distinct from
    Usenet by the invention of newsgroup names different from the
    universally-recognized ones.

    Usenet is not a UUCP network.

    UUCP is a protocol (some might say protocol suite, but that's a
    technical point) for sending data over point-to-point connections,
    typically using dialup modems. Usenet is only one of the various
    kinds of traffic carried via UUCP, and UUCP is only one of the various
    transports carrying Usenet traffic.

    Well, enough negativity.

    Propagation of News

    In the old days, when UUCP over long-distance dialup lines was the
    dominant means of article transmission, a few well-connected sites
    had real influence in determining which newsgroups would be carried
    where. Those sites called themselves "the backbone."

    But things have changed. Nowadays, even the smallest Internet site
    has connectivity the likes of which the backbone admin of yesteryear
    could only dream. In addition, in the U.S., the advent of cheaper
    long-distance calls and high-speed modems has made long-distance
    Usenet feeds thinkable for smaller companies. There is only one
    pre-eminent UUCP transport site today in the U.S., namely UUNET. But
    UUNET isn't a player in the propagation wars, because it never
    refuses any traffic—it gets paid by the minute, after all; to
    refuse based on content would jeopardize its legal status as an
    enhanced service provider.

    All of the above applies to the U.S. In Europe, different cost
    structures favored the creation of strictly controlled hierarchical
    organizations with central registries. This is all very unlike the
    traditional mode of U.S. sites (pick a name, get the software, get a
    feed, you're on). Europe's "benign monopolies", long uncontested,
    now face competition from looser organizations patterned after the
    U.S. model.

    Group Creation

    As discussed above, Usenet is not a democracy. Nevertheless,
    currently the most popular way to create a new newsgroup involves a
    "vote" to determine popular support for (and opposition to) a
    proposed newsgroup. Newsgroup Creation, for detailed instructions and
    guidelines on the process involved in making a newsgroup.

    If you follow the guidelines, it is probable that your group will be
    created and will be widely propagated. However, due to the nature of
    Usenet, there is no way for any user to enforce the results of a
    newsgroup vote (or any other decision, for that matter). Therefore,
    for your new newsgroup to be propagated widely, you must not only
    follow the letter of the guidelines; you must also follow its spirit.
    And you must not allow even a whiff of shady dealings or dirty tricks
    to mar the vote.

    So, you may ask: How is a new user supposed to know anything about the
    "spirit" of the guidelines? Obviously, she can't. This fact leads
    inexorably to the following recommendation:

    If you're a new user, don't try to create a new newsgroup alone.

    If you have a good newsgroup idea, then read the news.groups
    newsgroup for a while (six months, at least) to find out how things
    work. If you're too impatient to wait six months, then you really
    need to learn; read news.groups for a year instead. If you just
    can't wait, find a Usenet old hand to run the vote for you.

    Readers may think this advice unnecessarily strict. Ignore it at your
    peril. It is embarrassing to speak before learning. It is foolish to
    jump into a society you don't understand with your mouth open. And it
    is futile to try to force your will on people who can tune you out
    with the press of a key.

    If You're Unhappy…
    Property rights being what they are, there is no higher authority on
    Usenet than the people who own the machines on which Usenet traffic is
    carried. If the owner of the machine you use says, "We will not
    carry alt.sex on this machine," and you are not happy with
    that order, you have no Usenet recourse. What can we outsiders do,
    after all?

    That doesn't mean you are without options. Depending on the nature
    of your site, you may have some internal political recourse. Or you
    might find external pressure helpful. Or, with a minimal investment,
    you can get a feed of your own from somewhere else. Computers capable
    of taking Usenet feeds are down in the $500 range now, Unix-capable
    boxes are going for under $2000, and there are at least two Unix
    lookalikes in the $100 price range.

    No matter what, appealing to "Usenet" won't help. Even if those who
    read such an appeal regarding system administration are sympathetic to
    your cause, they will almost certainly have even less influence at
    your site than you do.

    By the same token, if you don't like what some user at another site is
    doing, only the administrator and/or owner of that site have any
    authority to do anything about it. Persuade them that the user in
    question is a problem for them, and they might do something (if they
    feel like it). If the user in question is the administrator or owner
    of the site from which he or she posts, forget it; you can't win.
    Arrange for your newsreading software to ignore articles from him or
    her if you can, and chalk one up to experience.

    The History of Usenet (The ABCs)

    In the beginning, there were conversations, and they were good. Then
    came Usenet in 1979, shortly after the release of V7 Unix with UUCP;
    and it was better. Two Duke University grad students in North
    Carolina, Tom Truscott and Jim Ellis, thought of hooking computers
    together to exchange information with the Unix community. Steve
    Bellovin, a grad student at the University of North Carolina, put
    together the first version of the news software using shell scripts
    and installed it on the first two sites: unc and duke. At the
    beginning of 1980 the network consisted of those two sites and phs
    (another machine at Duke), and was described at the January 1980
    Usenix conference in Boulder, CO. {The Usenix conferences are
    semi-annual meetings where members of the Usenix Association, a
    group of Unix enthusiasts, meet and trade notes.} Steve Bellovin
    later rewrote the scripts into C programs, but they were never
    released beyond unc and duke. Shortly thereafter, Steve Daniel did
    another implementation in the C programming language for public
    distribution. Tom Truscott made further modifications, and this
    became the "A" news release.

    In 1981 at the University of California at Berkeley, grad student Mark
    Horton and high school student Matt Glickman rewrote the news software
    to add functionality and to cope with the ever increasing volume of
    news—"A" news was intended for only a few articles per group per
    day. This rewrite was the "B" news version. The first public
    release was version 2.1 in 1982; all versions before 2.1 were
    considered in beta test. As The Net grew, the news software was
    expanded and modified. The last version maintained and released
    primarily by Mark was 2.10.1.

    Rick Adams, then at the Center for Seismic Studies, took over
    coordination of the maintenance and enhancement of the news software
    with the 2.10.2 release in 1984. By this time, the increasing volume
    of news was becoming a concern, and the mechanism for moderated groups
    was added to the software at 2.10.2. Moderated groups were inspired
    by ARPA mailing lists and experience with other bulletin board
    systems. In late 1986, version 2.11 of news was released, including a
    number of changes to support a new naming structure for newsgroups,
    enhanced batching and compression, enhanced ihave/sendme control
    messages, and other features. The current release of news is 2.11,
    patchlevel 19.

    A new version of news, becoming known as "C" news, has been
    developed at the University of Toronto by Geoff Collyer and Henry
    Spencer. This version is a rewrite of the lowest levels of news to
    increase article processing speed, decrease article expiration
    processing and improve the reliability of the news system through
    better locking, etc. The package was released to The Net in the
    autumn of 1987. For more information, see the paper News Need Not Be
    Slow, published in the Winter 1987 Usenix Technical Conference
    proceedings.

    Usenet software has also been ported to a number of platforms, from
    the Amiga and IBM PCs all the way to minicomputers and mainframes.

    Hierarchies
    Newsgroups are organized according to their specific areas of
    concentration. Since the groups are in a tree structure, the
    various areas are called hierarchies. There are seven major categories:

    comp
    Topics of interest to both computer professionals and
    hobbyists, including topics in computer science, software sources, and
    information on hardware and software systems.

    misc
    Group addressing themes not easily classified into any of the other
    headings or which incorporate themes from multiple categories.
    Subjects include fitness, job-hunting, law, and investments.

    sci
    Discussions marked by special knowledge relating to research in or
    application of the established sciences.

    soc
    Groups primarily addressing social issues and socializing. Included
    are discussions related to many different world cultures.

    talk
    Groups largely debate-oriented and tending to feature long
    discussions without resolution and without appreciable amounts of
    generally useful information.

    news
    Groups concerned with the news network, group maintenance, and software.

    rec
    Groups oriented towards hobbies and recreational activities

    These "world" newsgroups are (usually) circulated around the entire
    Usenet—this implies world-wide distribution. Not all groups
    actually enjoy such wide distribution, however. The European Usenet
    and Eunet sites take only a selected subset of the more "technical"
    groups, and controversial "noise" groups are often not carried by many
    sites in the U.S. and Canada (these groups are primarily under the talk
    and soc classifications). Many sites do not carry some or all of
    the comp.binaries groups because of the typically large size of
    the posts in them (being actual executable programs).

    Also available are a number of "alternative" hierarchies:

    alt
    True anarchy; anything and everything can and does appear;
    subjects include sex, the Simpsons, and privacy.

    gnu
    Groups concentrating on interests and software with the GNU
    Project of the Free Software Foundation. For further info on what the
    FSF is, FSF.

    biz
    Business-related groups.

    Moderated vs Unmoderated

    Some newsgroups insist that the discussion remain focused and
    on-target; to serve this need, moderated groups came to be. All
    articles posted to a moderated group get mailed to the group's
    moderator. He or she periodically (hopefully sooner than later)
    reviews the posts, and then either posts them individually to Usenet,
    or posts a composite digest of the articles for the past day or
    two. This is how many mailing list gateways work (for example, the
    Risks Digest).

    news.groups & news.announce.newgroups

    Being a good net.citizen includes being involved in the continuing
    growth and evolution of the Usenet system. One part of this
    involvement includes following the discussion in the groups
    news.groups and the notes in news.announce.newgroups. It is there
    that discussion goes on about the creation of new groups and
    destruction of inactive ones. Every person on Usenet is allowed and
    encouraged to vote on the creation of a newsgroup.

    How Usenet Works

    The transmission of Usenet news is entirely cooperative. Feeds are
    generally provided out of good will and the desire to distribute news
    everywhere. There are places which provide feeds for a fee (e.g.
    UUNET), but for the large part no exchange of money is involved.

    There are two major transport methods, UUCP and NNTP. The first is
    mainly modem-based and involves the normal charges for telephone
    calls. The second, NNTP, is the primary method for distributing news
    over the Internet.

    With UUCP, news is stored in batches on a site until the
    neighbor calls to receive the articles, or the feed site happens to
    call. A list of groups which the neighbor wishes to receive is
    maintained on the feed site. The Cnews system compresses its batches,
    which can dramatically reduce the transmission time necessary for a
    relatively heavy newsfeed.

    NNTP, on the other hand, offers a little more latitude with how news
    is sent. The traditional store-and-forward method is, of course,
    available. Given the "real-time" nature of the Internet, though,
    other methods have been devised. Programs now keep constant
    connections with their news neighbors, sending news nearly
    instantaneously, and can handle dozens of simultaneous feeds, both
    incoming and outgoing.

    The transmission of a Usenet article is centered around the unique
    Message-ID: header. When an NNTP site offers an article to a
    neighbor, it says it has that specific Message ID. If the neighbor
    finds it hasn't received the article yet, it tells the feed to send it
    through; this is repeated for each and every article that's waiting
    for the neighbor. Using unique IDs helps prevent a system from
    receiving five copies of an article from each of its five news
    neighbors, for example.

    Further information on how Usenet works with relation to the various
    transports is available in the documentation for the Cnews and NNTP
    packages, as well as in RFC-1036, the Standard for Interchange of
    USENET Messages and RFC-977, Network News Transfer Protocol: A
    Proposed Standard for the Stream-Based Transmission of News. The
    RFCs do tend to be rather dry reading, particularly to the new user.

    Mail Gateways

    A natural progression is for Usenet news and electronic mailing lists
    to somehow become merged—which they have, in the form of news
    gateways. Many mailing lists are set up to "reflect" messages not
    only to the readership of the list, but also into a newsgroup.
    Likewise, posts to a newsgroup can be sent to the moderator of the
    mailing list, or to the entire mailing list. Some examples of this in
    action are comp.risks (the Risks Digest) and
    comp.dcom.telecom (the Telecom Digest).

    This method of propagating mailing list traffic has helped solve the
    problem of a single message being delivered to a number of people at
    the same site—instead, anyone can just subscribe to the group.
    Also, mailing list maintenance is lowered substantially, since the
    moderators don't have to be constantly removing and adding users to
    and from the list. Instead, the people can read and not read the
    newsgroup at their leisure.

    from "Dear Emily Postnews" by Brad Templeton
    Usenet "Netiquette"

    There are many traditions with Usenet, not the least of which is
    dubbed netiquette—being polite and considerate of others. If
    you follow a few basic guidelines, you, and everyone that reads your
    posts, will be much happier in the long run.

    Signatures

    At the end of most articles is a small blurb called a person's
    signature. In Unix this file is named .signature in the
    person's login directory—it will vary for other operating systems.
    It exists to provide information about how to get in touch with the
    person posting the article, including their email address, phone
    number, address, or where they're located. Even so, signatures have
    become the graffiti of computers. People put song lyrics, pictures,
    philosophical quotes, even advertisements in their ".sigs".
    (Note, however, that advertising in your signature will more often
    than not get you flamed until you take it out.)

    Four lines will suffice—more is just extra garbage for Usenet sites
    to carry along with your article, which is supposed to be the intended
    focus of the reader. Netiquette dictates limiting oneself to this
    "quota" of four—some people make signatures that are ten lines or
    even more, including elaborate ASCII drawings of their hand-written
    signature or faces or even the space shuttle. This is not
    cute, and will bother people to no end.

    Similarly, it's not necessary to include your signature—if you
    forget to append it to an article, don't worry about it. The
    article's just as good as it ever would be, and contains everything
    you should want to say. Don't re-post the article just to include the
    signature.

    Posting Personal Messages

    If mail to a person doesn't make it through, avoid posting the message
    to a newsgroup. Even if the likelihood of that person reading the
    group is very high, all of the other people reading the articles don't
    give a whit what you have to say to Jim Morrison. Simply wait for the
    person to post again and double-check the address, or get in touch
    with your system administrator and see if it's a problem with local
    email delivery. It may also turn out that their site is down or is
    having problems, in which case it's just necessary to wait until
    things return to normal before contacting Jim.

    Posting Mail

    In the interests of privacy, it's considered extremely bad taste to post
    any email that someone may have sent, unless they explicitly give you
    permission to redistribute it. While the legal issues can be heavily
    debated, most everyone agrees that email should be treated as anything
    one would receive via normal snailmail, {The slang for the normal land and air
    postal service.} , with all of the assumed rights that are carried with it.

    Test Messages

    Many people, particularly new users, want to try out posting before
    actually taking part in discussions. Often the mechanics of getting
    messages out is the most difficult part of Usenet. To this end,
    many, many users find it necessary to post their tests to "normal"
    groups (for example, news.admin or comp.mail.misc). This is
    considered a major netiquette faux pas in the Usenet world. There are
    a number of groups available, called test groups, that exist solely
    for the purpose of trying out a news system, reader, or even new
    signature. They include

    alt.test
    gnu.gnusenet.test
    misc.test

    some of which will generate auto-magic replies to your posts to
    let you know they made it through. There are certain denizens of
    Usenet that frequent the test groups to help new users out. They
    respond to the posts, often including the article so the poster can
    see how it got to the person's site. Also, many regional hierarchies
    have test groups, like phl.test in Philadelphia.

    By all means, experiment and test—just do it in its proper place.

    Famous People Appearing

    Every once in a while, someone says that a celebrity is accessible
    through "The Net"; or, even more entertaining, an article is forged
    to appear to be coming from that celebrity. One example is Stephen
    Spielberg—the rec.arts.movies readership was in an uproar for
    two weeks following a couple of posts supposedly made by Mr.
    Spielberg. (Some detective work revealed it to be a hoax.)

    There are a few well-known people that are acquainted with
    Usenet and computers in general—but the overwhelming majority are
    just normal people. One should act with skepticism whenever a notable
    personality is "seen" in a newsgroup.

    Summaries

    Authors of articles occasionally say that readers should reply by
    mail and they'll summarize. Accordingly, readers should do just
    that—reply via mail. Responding with a followup article to such an
    article defeats the intention of the author. She, in a few days,
    will post one article containing the highlights of the responses she
    received. By following up to the whole group, the author may not
    read what you have to say.

    When creating a summary of the replies to a post, try to make it as
    reader-friendly as possible. Avoid just putting all of the messages
    received into one big file. Rather, take some time and edit the
    messages into a form that contains the essential information that
    other readers would be interested in.

    Also, sometimes people will respond but request to remain anonymous
    (one example is the employees of a corporation that feel the
    information's not proprietary, but at the same time want to protect
    themselves from political backlash). Summaries should honor this
    request accordingly by listing the From: address as
    anonymous or (Address withheld by request).

    Quoting

    When following up to an article, many newsreaders provide the facility
    to quote the original article with each line prefixed by >
    , as in

    In article <1232@foo.bar.com>, sharon@foo.bar.com wrote:
    > I agree, I think that basketweaving's really catching on,
    > particularly in Pennsylvania. Here's a list of every person
    > in PA that currently engages in it publicly:
    line … etc …

    This is a severe example (potentially a horribly long article), but
    proves a point. When you quote another person, edit out whatever
    isn't directly applicable to your reply. {But not changing their
    words, of course. } This gives the reader of the new article a better
    idea of what points you were addressing. By including the entire
    article, you'll only annoy those reading it. Also, signatures in the
    original aren't necessary; the readers already know who wrote it (by
    the attribution).

    Avoid being tedious with responses—rather than pick apart an
    article, address it in parts or as a whole. Addressing practically
    each and every word in an article only proves that the person
    responding has absolutely nothing better to do with his time.

    If a "war" starts (insults and personal comments get thrown back
    and forth), take it into email—exchange email with the person
    you're arguing with. No one enjoys watching people bicker
    incessantly.

    Crossposting

    The Newsgroups: line isn't limited to just one group—an
    article can be posted in a list of groups. For instance, the line

    Newsgroups: sci.space,comp.simulation

    posts the article to both the groups sci.space and
    comp.simulation. It's usually safe to crosspost to up to three
    or four groups. To list more than that is considered "excessive
    noise."

    It's also suggested that if an article is crossposted a
    Followup-To: header be included. It should name the group to
    which all additional discussion should be directed to. For the above
    example a possible Followup-To: would be

    Followup-To: sci.space

    which would make all followups automatically be posted to just
    sci.space, rather than both sci.space and comp.simulation. If every
    response made with a newsreader's "followup" command should go to
    the person posting the article no matter what, there's also a
    mechanism worked in to accommodate. The Followup-To: header should
    contain the single word poster:

    Followup-To: poster

    Certain newsreaders will use this to sense that a reply should never
    be posted back onto The Net. This is often used with questions that
    will yield a summary of information later, a vote, or an
    advertisement.

    Recent News

    One should avoid posting "recent" events—sports scores, a plane
    crash, or whatever people will see on the evening news or read in the
    morning paper. By the time the article has propagated across all of
    Usenet, the "news" value of the article will have become stale.
    (This is one case for the argument that Usenet news is a misnomer.
    {Note that the Clarinet News service (Clarinet) offers news items in
    a Usenet format as a precise alternative to the morning paper, et.
    al.)

    Quality of Postings

    How you write and present yourself in your articles is important. If
    you have terrible spelling, keep a dictionary near by. If you have
    trouble with grammar and punctuation, try to get a book on English
    grammar and composition (found in many bookstores and at garage
    sales). By all means pay attention to what you say—it makes you who
    you are on The Net.

    Likewise, try to be clear in what you ask. Ambiguous or vague
    questions often lead to no response at all, leaving the poster
    discouraged. Give as much essential information as you feel is
    necessary to let people help you, but keep it within limits. For
    instance, you should probably include the operating system of your
    computer in the post if it's needed, but don't tell everybody what
    peripherals you have hanging off of it.

    Useful Subjects

    The Subject: line of an article is what will first attract
    people to read it—if it's vague or doesn't describe what's contained
    within, no one will read the article. At the same time,
    Subject: lines that're too wordy tend to be irritating. For
    example:

    Good
    Subject: Building Emacs on a Sun Sparc under 4.1

    Good
    Subject: Tryin' to find Waldo in NJ.

    Bad
    Subject: I can't get emacs to work !!!

    Bad
    Subject: I'm desperately in search of the honorable Mr. Waldo in the state
    of…

    Simply put, try to think of what will best help the reader when he or
    she encounters your article in a newsreading session.

    Tone of Voice

    Since common computers can't portray the inflection or tone in a
    person's voice, how articles are worded can directly affect the
    response to them. If you say

    Anybody using a Vic-20 should go buy themselves a life.

    you'll definitely get some responses—telling you to take a leap.
    Rather than be inflammatory, phrase your articles in a way that
    rationally expresses your opinion, like

    What're the practical uses of a Vic-20 these days?

    which presents yourself as a much more level-headed individual.

    Also, what case (upper or lower) you use can indicate how you're
    trying to speak—netiquette dictates that if you USE ALL CAPITAL
    LETTERS, people will think you're "shouting." Write as you would in
    a normal letter to a friend, following traditional rules of English
    (or whatever language you happen to speak).

    Computer Religion

    No matter what kind of computer a person is using, theirs is always
    the best and most efficient of them all. Posting articles
    asking questions like What computer should I buy? An Atari ST or an
    Amiga? will lead only to fervent arguments over the merits and
    drawbacks of each brand. Don't even ask The Net—go to a local user
    group, or do some research of your own like reading some magazine
    reviews. Trying to say one computer is somehow better than another is
    a moot point.

    The Anatomy of an Article

    Frequently Asked Questions

    A number of groups include Frequently Asked Question (FAQ) lists,
    which give the answers to questions or points that have been raised
    time and time again in a newsgroup. They're intended to help cut
    down on the redundant traffic in a group. For example, in the
    newsgroup alt.tv.simpsons, one recurring question is Did you notice
    that there's a different blackboard opening at the beginning of every
    Simpsons episode? As a result, it's part of the FAQ for that group.

    Usually, FAQ lists are posted at the beginning of each month, and are
    set to expire one month later (when, supposedly, the next FAQ will be
    published). Nearly every FAQ is also crossposted to news.answers,
    which is used as a Usenet repository for them.

    The Pit-Manager Archive

    MIT, with Jonathan Kamens, has graciously dedicated a machine to the
    archiving and storage of the various periodic postings that are
    peppered throughout the various Usenet groups. To access them, FTP to
    the system pit-manager.mit.edu and look in the directory
    /pub/usenet.

    "Be it true or false, so it be news."
    Ben Jonson, News from the New World

    —–
    Telnet

    Telnet is the main Internet protocol for creating a connection
    with a remote machine. It gives the user the opportunity to be on one
    computer system and do work on another, which may be across the street
    or thousands of miles away. Where modems are limited, in the majority,
    by the quality of telephone lines and a single connection, telnet
    provides a connection that's error-free and nearly always faster than
    the latest conventional modems.

    Using Telnet

    As with FTP (Anonymous FTP), the actual command for negotiating a telnet
    connection varies from system to system. The most common is
    telnet itself, though. It takes the form of:

    telnet somewhere.domain

    To be safe, we'll use your local system as a working example. By now,
    you hopefully know your site's domain name. If not, ask or try
    to figure it out. You'll not get by without it.

    To open the connection, type

    telnet your.system.name

    If the system were wubba.cs.widener.edu, for example, the
    command would look like

    telnet wubba.cs.widener.edu

    The system will respond with something similar to

    Trying 147.31.254.999…
    Connected to wubba.cs.widener.edu.
    Escape character is '^]'.

    The escape character, in this example ^] (Control-]), is the
    character that will let you go back to the local system to close the
    connection, suspend it, etc. To close this connection, the user
    would type ^], and respond to the telnet> prompt with the command
    close. Local documentation should be checked for information on
    specific commands, functions, and escape character that can be used.

    Telnet Ports

    Many telnet clients also include a third option, the port on
    which the connection should take place. Normally, port 23 is the
    default telnet port; the user never has to think about it. But
    sometimes it's desirable to telnet to a different port on a system,
    where there may be a service available, or to aid in debugging a
    problem. Using

    telnet somewhere.domain port

    will connect the user to the given port on the system
    somewhere.domain. Many libraries use this port method to offer their
    facilities to the general Internet community; other services are also
    available. For instance, one would type

    telnet martini.eecs.umich.edu 3000

    to connect to the geographic server at the University of Michigan
    (Geographic Server). Other such port connections follow the
    same usage.

    Publicly Accessible Libraries

    Over the last several years, most university libraries have switched
    from a manual (card) catalog system to computerized library catalogs.
    The automated systems provide users with easily accessible and
    up-to-date information about the books available in these libraries.
    This has been further improved upon with the advent of local area
    networks, dialup modems, and wide area networks. Now many of us can
    check on our local library's holdings or that of a library halfway
    around the world!

    Many, many institutions of higher learning have made their library
    catalogs available for searching by anyone on the Internet. They
    include Boston University, the Colorado Alliance of Research Libraries
    (CARL), and London University King's College.

    To include a listing of some of the existing sites would not only be
    far too long for this document, it would soon be out of date.
    Instead, several lists are being maintained and are available either
    by mail or via FTP. Also, the Internet Resource Guide (IRG) also
    describes a few libraries that are accessible—IRG for further
    information.

    Art St. George and Ron Larsen are maintaining a list of
    Internet-accessible libraries and databases often referred to as
    "the St. George directory." It began with only library catalogs
    but has expanded to include sections on campus-wide information
    systems, and even bulletin board systems that are not on the
    Internet. The library catalog sections are divided into those that
    are free, those that charge, and international (i.e. non-U.S.)
    catalogs; they are arranged by state, province, or country within
    each section. There is also a section giving dialup information for
    some of the library catalogs. It's available for FTP (Anonymous FTP)
    on nic.cerf.net in the directory
    cerfnet/cerfnet_info/library_catalog. The file internet-catalogs has
    a date suffix; check for the most current date. The information is
    updated periodically.

    Billy Barron, Systems Manager at the University of North Texas,
    produces a directory as an aid to his user community. It complements
    the St. George guide by providing a standard format for all systems
    which lists the Internet address, login instructions, the system
    vendor, and logoff information. The arrangement is alphabetic by
    organization name. It's available for FTP on vaxb.acs.unt.edu in the
    subdirectory library as the file libraries.txt.

    For announcements of new libraries being available and discussion on
    related topics, consult the Usenet newsgroup
    comp.internet.library (Usenet News to learn how to read
    news).

    Bulletin Board Systems

    The Cleveland Freenet

    Freenets are open-access, free, community computer systems. One such
    system is the Cleveland Freenet, sponsored by CWRU (Case Western
    Reserve University). Anyone and everyone is welcome to join and take
    part in the exciting project—that of a National Telecomputing Public
    Network, where everyone benefits. There's no charge for the
    registration process and no charge to use the system.

    To register, telnet to any one of

    freenet-in-a.cwru.edu
    freenet-in-b.cwru.edu
    freenet-in-c.cwru.edu

    After you're connected, choose the entry on the menu that signifies
    you're a guest user. Another menu will follow; select Apply for
    an account, and you'll be well on your way to being a FreeNet member.

    You will need to fill out a form and send it to them through the
    Postal Service—your login id and password will be created in a few
    days. At that point you're free to use the system as you wish. They
    provide multi-user chat, email, Usenet news, and a variety of other
    things to keep you occupied for hours on end.

    Directories

    There are a few systems that are maintained to provide the Internet
    community with access to lists of information—users, organizations,
    etc. They range from fully dedicated computers with access to papers
    and research results, to a system to find out about the faculty
    members of a university.

    Knowbot

    Knowbot is a "master directory" that contains email address
    information from the NIC WHOIS database (Whois), the PSI White
    Pages Pilot Project, the NYSERNET X.500 database and MCI Mail. Most
    of these services are email registries themselves, but Knowbot
    provides a very comfortable way to access all of them in one place.
    Telnet to nri.reston.va.us on port 185.

    White Pages

    PSI maintains a directory of information on individuals. It will
    list the person's name, organization, and email address if it is
    given. Telnet to wp.psi.net and log in as fred. The White Pages
    Project also includes an interface to use Xwindows remotely.

    Faculty and Staff Listings

    Many universities offer access to information on current faculty and
    staff. Included are:

    Cornell Telnet to cuinfo.cornell.edu on port 3000.
    NC State Telnet to ccvax1.cc.ncsu.edu and log in as info.
    Rutgers Telnet to hangout.rutgers.edu on port 98.
    U of Maryland Telnet to umail.umd.edu and log in as lookup.
    UNC Chapel Hill Telnet to info.acs.unc.edu and log in as info.
    Yale Telnet to yalevm.ycc.yale.edu on port 300.

    Databases

    For information on database services, Commercial Databases.
    Not all databases on the Internet require payment for use, though.
    There do exist some, largely research-driven databases, which are
    publicly accessible. New ones spring up regularly.

    To find out more about the databases in this section, contact the
    people directly responsible for them. Their areas of concentration
    and the software used to implement them are widely disparate, and are
    probably beyond the author's expertise. Also, don't forget to check
    with your local library—the reference librarian there can provide
    information on conventional resources, and possibly even those
    available over the Internet (they are becoming more common).

    Colorado Alliance of Research Libraries (CARL)

    The Colorado Alliance of Research Libraries (CARL), in association
    with CARL Systems Inc., operates a public access catalog of services.
    Offered are a number of library databases, including searches for
    government periodicals, book reviews, indices for current articles,
    and access to to other library databases around the country. Other
    services are available to CARL members including an online
    encyclopedia. Telnet to pac.carl.org, or write to help@carl.org for
    more details.

    PENpages

    PENpages is an agriculturally-oriented database administered by
    Pennsylvania State University. Information entered into PENpages is
    provided by numerous sources including the Pennsylvania Dept. of
    Agriculture, Rutgers University, and Penn State. Easy-to-use menus
    guide users to information ranging from cattle and agricultural
    prices to current weather information, from health information to
    agricultural news from around the nation. A keyword search option
    also allows users to search the database for related information and
    articles. The database is updated daily, and a listing of most
    recent additions is displayed after login. Telnet to psupen.psu.edu
    and log in as the user PNOTPA.

    Clemson Univ. Forestry & Agricultural Network

    Clemson maintains a database similar to PENpages in content, but the
    information provided tends to be localized to the Southeastern United
    States. A menu-driven database offers queries involving the weather,
    food, family, and human resources. Telnet to eureka.clemson.edu and
    log in as PUBLIC. You need to be on a good VT100 emulator (or a real
    VT terminal).

    University of Maryland Info Database

    The Computer Science department of the University of Maryland
    maintains a repository of information on a wide variety of topics.
    They wish to give a working example of how network technology can
    (and should) provide as much information as possible to those who use
    it. Telnet to info.umd.edu and log in as info. The information
    contained in the database is accessible through a screen-oriented
    interface, and everything therein is available via anonymous FTP.

    There is a mailing list used to discuss the UMD Info Database,
    welcoming suggestions for new information, comments on the interface
    the system provides, and other related topics. Send mail to
    listserv@umdd.umd.edu with a body of

    subscribe INFO-L Your Full Name

    Listservs for more information on using the Listserv system.

    University of Michigan Weather Underground

    The University of Michigan's Department of Atmospheric, Oceanic, &
    Space Sciences maintains a database of weather and related
    information for the United States and Canada. Available are current
    weather conditions and forecasts for cities in the U.S., a national
    weather summary, ski conditions, earthquake and hurricane updates,
    and a listing of severe weather conditions. Telnet to
    madlab.sprl.umich.edu on port 3000 to use the system.

    Geographic Name Server

    A geographic database listing information for cities in the United
    States and some international locations is maintained by Merit, Inc.
    The database is searchable by city name, zip code, etc. It will
    respond with a lot of information: the area code,
    elevation, time zone, and longitude and latitude are included. For
    example, a query of 19013 yields

    0 Chester
    1 42045 Delaware
    2 PA Pennsylvania
    3 US United States
    F 45 Populated place
    L 39 50 58 N 75 21 22 W
    P 45794
    E 22
    Z 19013
    Z 19014
    Z 19015
    Z 19016
    ..

    To use the server, telnet to martini.eecs.umich.edu on port
    3000. The command help will yield further instructions, along
    with an explanation for each of the fields in a reponse.

    FEDIX—Minority Scholarship Information

    FEDIX is an on-line information service that links the higher
    education community and the federal government to facilitate research,
    education, and services. The system provides accurate and timely
    federal agency information to colleges, universities, and other
    research organizations. There are no registration fees and no access
    charges for FEDIX whatsoever.

    FEDIX offers the Minority On-Line Information Service (MOLIS), a
    database listing current information about Black and Hispanic colleges
    and universities.

    Daily information updates are made on federal education and research
    programs, scholarships, fellowships, and grants, available used
    research equipment, and general information about FEDIX itself. To
    access the database, telnet to fedix.fie.com and log in as
    fedix.

    Science & Technology Information System

    The STIS is maintained by the National Science Foundation (NSF), and
    provides access to many NSF publications. The full text of
    publications can be searched online and copied from the system, which
    can accommodate up to ten users at one time. Telnet to stis.nsf.gov
    and log in as public. Everything on the system is also available via
    anonymous FTP. For further information, contact:

    STIS, Office of Information Systems, Room 401
    National Science Foundation
    1800 G. Street, N.W.
    Washington, D.C. 20550
    stis-request@nsf.gov
    (202) 357-7492
    (202) 357-7663 (Fax)

    Ocean Network Information Center

    The University of Delaware College of Marine Studies offers access to
    an interactive database of research information covering all aspects
    of marine studies, nicknamed OCEANIC. This includes the World Oceanic
    Circulation Experiment (WOCE) information and program information,
    research ship schedules and information, and a Who's Who of email and
    mailing addresses for oceanic studies. Data from a variety of
    academic institutions based on research studies is also available.
    Telnet to delocn.udel.edu and log in as INFO.

    NASA/IPAC Extragalactic Database (NED)

    The NASA/IPAC Extragalactic Database (NED) is an ongoing project,
    funded by NASA, to make data and literature on extragalactic objects
    available over computer networks. NED is an object-oriented database
    which contains extensive information for nearly 132,000 extragalactic
    objects taken from about major catalogs of galaxies, quasars, infrared
    and radio sources. NED provides positions, names, and other basic
    data (e.g. magnitude types, sizes and redshifts as well as
    bibliographic references and abstracts). Searches can be done by
    name, around a name, and on an astronomical position. NED contains a
    tutorial which guides the user through the retrieval process. Telnet
    to ipac.caltech.edu and log in as ned.

    U.S. Naval Observatory Automated Data Service

    Operated by the U.S. Naval Observatory in Washington, D.C., this
    automated data service provides database access to information
    ranging from current navigational satellite positioning, astronomical
    data, and software utilities. A wide variety of databases can be
    searched and instructions for file transfer are given. Telnet to
    tycho.usno.navy.mil and log in as ads.

    "My consciousness suddenly switched locations, for the first time in
    my life, from the vicinity of my head and body to a point about
    twenty feet away from where I normally see the world." Howard
    Rheingold, Virtual Reality p255

    —————–
    Various Tools

    New and interesting ways to use the Internet are being dreamed up
    every day. As they gain wide-spread use, some methods become
    near-standard (or actual written standard) tools for Internet users to
    take advantage of. A few are detailed here; there are undoubtedly
    others, and new ideas spring up all the time. An active user of the
    Internet will discover most of the more common ones in time. Usually,
    these services are free. Commercial Services for applications
    that are commercially available over the Internet.

    Usenet is often used to announce a new service or capability on
    the Internet. In particular, the groups comp.archives and
    comp.protocols.tcp-ip are good places to look. Information
    will drift into other areas as word spreads. Usenet News for
    information on reading news.

    Finger

    On many systems there exists the finger command, which yield
    information about each user that's currently logged in. This command
    also has extensions for use over the Internet, as well. Under normal
    circumstances, the command is simply finger for a summary of who's
    logged into the local system, or finger username for specific
    information about a user. It's also possible to go one step further
    and go onto the network. The general usage is

    finger @hostname

    To see who's currently logged in at Widener University, for instance, use

    % finger @cs.widener.edu
    [cs.widener.edu]
    Login Name TTY Idle When Where
    brendan Brendan Kehoe p0 Fri 02:14 tattoo.cs.widene
    sven Sven Heinicke p1 Fri 04:16 xyplex3.cs.widen

    To find out about a certain user, they can be fingered specifically
    (and need not be logged in):

    % finger bart@cs.widener.edu
    [cs.widener.edu]
    Login name: bart In real life: Bart Simpson
    Directory: /home/springfield/bart Shell: /bin/underachiever
    Affiliation: Brother of Lisa Home System: channel29.fox.org
    Last login Thu May 23 12:14 (EDT) on ttyp6 from channel29.fox.org.
    No unread mail
    Project: To become a "fluff" cartoon character.
    Plan:
    Don't have a cow, man.

    Please realize that some sites are very security conscious, and need
    to restrict the information about their systems and users available
    to the outside world. To that end, they often block finger requests
    from outside sites—so don't be surprised if fingering a computer or
    a user returns with Connection refused.

    Internet Relay Chat

    The Lamont View Server System
    On lamont.ldgo.columbia.edu in pub/gb.tar.Z.

    Ping

    The ping command allows the user to check if another system is
    currently "up" and running. The general form of the command
    is ping system. {The usage will, again, vary.}
    For example,

    ping cs.widener.edu

    will tell you if the main machine in Widener University's Computer
    Science lab is currently online (we certainly hope so!).

    Many implementations of ping also include an option to let you
    see how fast a link is running (to give you some idea of the load on
    the network). For example:

    % ping -s cs.swarthmore.edu
    PING cs.swarthmore.edu: 56 data bytes
    64 bytes from 130.58.68.1: icmp_seq=0 ttl=251 time=66 ms
    64 bytes from 130.58.68.1: icmp_seq=1 ttl=251 time=45 ms
    64 bytes from 130.58.68.1: icmp_seq=2 ttl=251 time=46 ms
    ^C
    — cs.swarthmore.edu ping statistics —
    3 packets transmitted, 3 packets received, 0% packet loss
    round-trip min/avg/max = 45/52/66 ms

    This case tells us that for cs.swarthmore.edu it takes about 46
    milliseconds for a packet to go from Widener to Swarthmore College and
    back again. It also gives the average and worst-case speeds, and any
    packet loss that may have occurred (e.g. because of network
    congestion).

    While ping generally doesn't hurt network performance, you
    shouldn't use it too often—usually once or twice will leave
    you relatively sure of the other system's state.

    Talk

    Sometimes email is clumsy and difficult to manage when one really
    needs to have an interactive conversation. The Internet provides for
    that as well, in the form of talk. Two users can literally see
    each other type across thousands of miles.

    To talk with Bart Simpson at Widener, one would type

    talk bart@@cs.widener.edu

    which would cause a message similar to the following to be displayed
    on Bart's terminal:

    Message from Talk_Daemon@cs.widener.edu at 21:45 …
    talk: connection requested by joe@ee.someplace.edu
    talk: respond with: talk joe@ee.someplace.edu

    Bart would, presumably, respond by typing talk joe@ee.someplace.edu.
    They could then chat about whatever they wished, with instantaneous
    response time, rather than the write-and-wait style of email. To
    leave talk, on many systems one would type Ctrl-C (hold down
    the Control key and press C). Check local documentation to be sure.

    There are two different versions of talk in common use today. The
    first, dubbed "old talk," is supported by a set of Unix systems
    (most notably, those currently sold by Sun). The second, ntalk
    (aka "new talk"), is more of the standard. If, when attempting to
    talk with another user, it responds with an error about protocol
    families, odds are the incompatibilities between versions of talk is
    the culprit. It's up to the system administrators of sites which use
    the old talk to install ntalk for their users.

    Wide Area Information Servers (WAIS)

    The WHOIS Database

    The main WHOIS database is run at the Network Information Center
    (NIC). The whois command will let you search a database of every
    registered domain (e.g. mit.edu) and of registered users. It's
    primarily used by system postmasters or listowners to find the Points
    of Contact for a site, to let them know of a problem or contact them
    for one reason or another. You can also find out their postal
    address. For example:

    % whois mit.edu
    Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) MIT.EDU 18.72.2.1
    Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT-DOM) MIT.EDU

    Note that there are two entries for mit.edu; we'll go for the
    second.

    % whois mit-dom
    Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT-DOM)
    Cambridge, MA 02139

    Domain Name: MIT.EDU

    Administrative Contact, Technical Contact, Zone Contact:
    Schiller, Jeffrey I. (JIS) JIS@MIT.EDU
    (617) 253-8400

    Record last updated on 22-Jun-88.

    Domain servers in listed order:
    STRAWB.MIT.EDU 18.71.0.151
    W20NS.MIT.EDU 18.70.0.160
    BITSY.MIT.EDU 18.72.0.3
    LITHIUM.LCS.MIT.EDU 18.26.0.121

    To see this host record with registered users, repeat the command with
    a star ('*') before the name; or, use '%' to show JUST the registered users.

    Much better! Now this information (sought, possibly, by a system
    administrator) can be used to find out how to notify MIT of a security
    issue or problem with connectivity.

    Queries can be made for individuals as well; the following would yield
    an entry for the author:

    % whois brendan
    Kehoe, Brendan (BK59) brendan@cs.widener.edu
    Widener University
    Department of Computer Science
    Kirkbride 219
    P.O. Box 83 Widener University
    Chester, PA 19013
    (215)/499-4011

    Record last updated on 02-May-91.

    Included is the author's name, his handle (a unique sequence of letters
    and numbers), information on how to contact him, and the last time the record
    was modified in any way.

    Anyone can register with the whois database. People who are
    administrative or technical contacts for domains are registered
    automatically when their domain applications are processed. For
    normal users, one must simply fill out a form from the NIC. FTP to
    nic.ddn.mil and get the file netinfo/user-template.txt. The completed
    form should be mailed to registrar@nic.ddn.mil.

    Other Uses of WHOIS

    Also, many educational sites run WHOIS servers of their own, to offer
    information about people who may be currently on the staff or
    attending the institution. To specify a WHOIS server, many
    implementations include some sort of option or qualifier—in VMS
    under MultiNet, it's /HOST, in Unix -h. To receive
    information about using the Stanford server, one might use the command

    whois -h stanford.edu help

    A large list of systems offering WHOIS services is being maintained by
    Matt Power of MIT (mhpower@stan.mit.edu). It is available via
    anonymous FTP from sipb.mit.edu, in the directory
    pub/whois. The file is named whois-servers.list.

    The systems available include, but are certainly not limited to,
    Syracuse University (syr.edu), New York University
    (acfcluster.nyu.edu), the University of California at San Diego
    (ucsd.edu), and Stanford University (stanford.edu).

    "Fingers were made before forks."
    Jonathan Swift, Polite Conversation

    ——-
    Commercial Services

    Many services can be accessed through the Internet. As time
    progresses and more outlets for commercial activity appear,
    once-restricted traffic (by the NSFnet Acceptable Use Policy) may now
    flow freely. Now that there are other networks for that information
    to travel on, businesses are making their move.

    Internet Service Providers

    Providers (AlterNet, PSI, etc)…

    Supercomputers
    The Internet Resource Guide (IRG) contains a chapter on
    computer time that's available for a fee. Rather than reproduce it
    here, which would fast become out-of-date as well as triple the size
    of this guide, it's suggested that the reader consult the IRG if such
    services are of interest.

    Electronic Journals

    The Association of Research Libraries (ARL) publishes a hard-copy
    directory of electronic journals, newsletters, and scholarly
    discussion lists. It is a compilation of entries for hundreds of

    sts, dozens of journals and newsletters, and a many
    "other" titles, including newsletter-digests, into one reference
    source. Each entry includes instructions on how to access the
    referenced publication or list.

    The documents are available electronically by sending the commands

    get ejournl1 directry
    get ejournl2 directry

    to the server at LISTSERV@OTTAWA.BITNET.
    Listservs for further instructions on using a listserv.

    The directory, along with a compilation by Diane Kovacs called
    Directories of Academic E-Mail Conferences, is available in
    print and on diskette (DOS WordPerfect and MacWord) from:

    Office of Scientific & Academic Publishing
    Association of Research Libraries
    1527 New Hampshire Avenue, NW
    Washington, DC 20036
    ARLHQ@UMDC.BITNET
    (202) 232–2466
    (202) 462–7849 (Fax)

    The ARL is a not-for-profit organization representing over one
    hundred research libraries in the United States and Canada. The
    publication is available to ARL members for $10 and to non-members
    for $20 (add $5 postage per directory for foreign addresses). Orders
    of six or more copies will receive a 10% discount; all orders must be
    prepaid and sent to the ARL.

    Commercial Databases

    The American Institute of Physics maintains the Physics Information
    Network. It contains the bibliographic SPIN and General Physics
    Advanced Abstracts databases. Also available is access to bulletin
    boards and several searchable lists (job notices, announcements, etc).
    Telnet to pinet.aip.org; new users must log in as NEW
    and give registration information.

    Some of the databases accessible through WAIS (WAIS) are
    available for a fee.

    Clarinet News

    Clarinet's an electronic publishing network service that provides
    professional news and information, including live UPI wireservice
    news, in the Usenet file format.

    Clarinet lets you read an "electronic newspaper" right on the local
    system; you can get timely industry news, technology related
    wirestories, syndicated columns and features, financial information,
    stock quotes and more.

    Clarinet's provided by using the Usenet message interchange format,
    and is available via UUCP and other delivery protocols, including
    NNTP.

    The main feature is ClariNews, an "electronic newspaper,"
    gathered live from the wire services of United Press International
    (UPI). ClariNews articles are distributed in 100 newsgroups based on
    their subject matter, and are keyworded for additional topics and the
    geographical location of the story. ClariNews includes headlines,
    industry news, box scores, network TV schedules, and more. The main
    products of ClariNews are:

    ClariNews General, the general news"paper" with news,
    sports, and features, averaging about 400 stories per day.

    TechWire, special groups for stories on science,
    technology, and industry stories around them.

    ClariNews-Biz, business and financial stories.

    Newsbytes, a daily computer industry newsmagazine.

    Syndicated Columns, including Dave Barry (humor) and Mike
    Royko (opinion).

    Full information on ClariNet, including subscription information, is
    available from

    Clarinet Communications Corp.
    124 King St. North
    Waterloo, Ontario N2J 2X8
    info@@clarinet.com
    (800) USE-NETS

    or with anonymous FTP in the directory /Clarinet on
    ftp.uu.net (Anonymous FTP).

    "Needless to say, Aristotle did not envisage modern finance."
    Frederick Copleston, S.J.
    A History of Philosophy: Vol 1 Greece & Rome Part II, p95

    ———
    Things You'll Hear About

    There are certain things that you'll hear about shortly after you
    start actively using the Internet. Most people assume that everyone's
    familiar with them, and they require no additional explanation. If
    only that were true!

    This section addresses a few topics that are commonly encountered and
    asked about as a new user explores Cyberspace. Some of them are
    directly related to how the networks are run today; other points are
    simply interesting to read about.

    The Internet Worm

    from a letter by Severo M. Ornstein, in ACM June 89 Vol32 No6
    and the appeal notice

    On November 2, 1988, Robert Morris, Jr., a graduate student in
    Computer Science at Cornell, wrote an experimental, self-replicating,
    self-propagating program called a worm and injected it into the
    Internet. He chose to release it from MIT, to disguise the fact that
    the worm came from Cornell. Morris soon discovered that the program
    was replicating and reinfecting machines at a much faster rate than
    he had anticipated—there was a bug. Ultimately, many machines at
    locations around the country either crashed or became "catatonic."
    When Morris realized what was happening, he contacted a friend at
    Harvard to discuss a solution. Eventually, they sent an anonymous
    message from Harvard over the network, instructing programmers how to
    kill the worm and prevent reinfection. However, because the network
    route was clogged, this message did not get through until it was too
    late. Computers were affected at many sites, including universities,
    military sites, and medical research facilities. The estimated cost
    of dealing with the worm at each installation ranged from $200 to
    more than $53,000. {Derived in part from a letter by Severo M.
    Ornstein, in the Communications of the ACM, Vol 32 No 6, June 1989.}

    The program took advantage of a hole in the debug mode of the Unix
    sendmail program, which runs on a system and waits for other systems
    to connect to it and give it email, and a hole in the finger daemon
    fingerd, which serves finger requests (Finger). People at the
    University of California at Berkeley and MIT had copies of the
    program and were actively disassembling it (returning the program
    back into its source form) to try to figure out how it worked.

    Teams of programmers worked non-stop to come up with at least a
    temporary fix, to prevent the continued spread of the worm. After
    about twelve hours, the team at Berkeley came up with steps that
    would help retard the spread of the virus. Another method was also
    discovered at Purdue and widely published. The information didn't
    get out as quickly as it could have, however, since so many sites had
    completely disconnected themselves from the network.

    After a few days, things slowly began to return to normalcy and
    everyone wanted to know who had done it all. Morris was later named
    in The New York Times as the author (though this hadn't yet been
    officially proven, there was a substantial body of evidence pointing
    to Morris).

    Robert T. Morris was convicted of violating the computer Fraud and
    Abuse Act (Title 18), and sentenced to three years of probation, 400
    hours of community service, a fine of $10,050, and the costs of his
    supervision. His appeal, filed in December, 1990, was rejected the
    following March.

    The Cuckoo's Egg

    First in an article entitled "Stalking the Wily Hacker," and later
    in the book The Cuckoo's Egg, Clifford Stoll detailed his experiences
    trying to track down someone breaking into a system at Lawrence
    Berkeley Laboratory in California. {See the bibliography for full
    citations.}

    A 75-cent discrepancy in the Lab's accounting records led Stoll on a
    chase through California, Virginia, and Europe to end up in a small
    apartment in Hannover, West Germany. Stoll dealt with many levels of
    bureaucracy and red tape, and worked with the FBI, the CIA, and the
    German Bundespost trying to track his hacker down.

    The experiences of Stoll, and particularly his message in speaking
    engagements, have all pointed out the dire need for communication
    between parties on a network of networks. The only way everyone can
    peacefully co-exist in Cyberspace is by ensuring rapid recognition of
    any existing problems.

    Organizations

    The indomitable need for humans to congregate and share their common
    interests is also present in the computing world. User groups
    exist around the world, where people share ideas and experiences.
    Similarly, there are organizations which are one step "above" user
    groups; that is to say, they exist to encourage or promote an idea or
    set of ideas, rather than support a specific computer or application
    of computers.

    The Association for Computing Machinery

    The Association for Computing Machinery (the ACM) was founded in
    1947, immediately after Eckert and Mauchly unveiled one of the first
    electronic computers, the ENIAC, in 1946. Since then, the ACM has
    grown by leaps and bounds, becoming one of the leading educational
    and scientific societies in the computer industry.

    The ACM's stated purposes are:

    To advance the sciences and arts of information processing;

    To promote the free interchange of information about the sciences and
    arts of information processing both among specialists and among the
    public;

    To develop and maintain the integrity and competence of individuals
    engaged in the practices of the sciences and arts of information
    processing.

    Membership in the ACM has grown from seventy-eight in September, 1947,
    to over 77,000 today. There are local chapters around the world, and
    many colleges and universities endorse student chapters. Lecturers
    frequent these meetings, which tend to be one step above the normal
    "user group" gathering. A large variety of published material is
    also available at discounted prices for members of the association.

    The ACM has a number of Special Interest Groups (SIGs) that
    concentrate on a certain area of computing, ranging from graphics to
    the Ada programming language to security. Each of the SIGs also
    publishes its own newsletter. There is a Usenet group, comp.org.acm,
    for the discussion of ACM topics. Usenet News for more information
    on reading news.

    For more information and a membership application, write to:

    Assocation for Computing Machinery
    1515 Broadway
    New York City, NY 10036
    ACMHELP@ACMVM.BITNET
    (212) 869-7440

    Computer Professionals for Social Responsibility
    from their letter to prospective members

    The CPSR is an alliance of computer professionals concentrating on
    certain areas of the impact of computer technology on society. It
    traces its history to the fall of 1981, when several researchers in
    Palo Alto, California, organized a lunch meeting to discuss their
    shared concerns about the connection between computing and the
    nuclear arms race. Out of that meeting and the discussions which
    followed, CPSR was born, and has been active ever since. {This
    section is part of the CPSR's letter to prospective members.}

    The national CPSR program focuses on the following project areas:

    Reliability and Risk This area reflects on the concern that
    overreliance on computing technology can lead to unacceptable risks
    to society. It includes, but isn't limited to, work in analyzing
    military systems such as SDI.

    Civil Liberties and Privacy This project is concerned with such
    topics as the FBI National Crime Information Center, the growing use
    of databases by both government and private industry, the right of
    access to public information, extension of First Amendment rights to
    electronic communication, and establishing legal protections for
    privacy of computerized information.

    Computers in the Workplace The CPSR Workplace Project has
    concentrated its attention on the design of software for the
    workplace, and particularly on the philosophy of "participatory
    design," in which software designers work together with users to
    ensure that systems meet the actual needs of that workplace.

    The 21st Century Project This is a coalition with other
    professional organizations working towards redirecting national
    research priorities from concentrating on military issues to
    anticipating and dealing with future problems as science and
    technology enter the next century.

    For more information on the CPSR, contact them at:

    Computer Professionals for Social Responsibility
    P.O. Box 717
    Palo Alto, CA 94302
    cpsr@csli.stanford.edu
    (415) 322–3778
    (415) 322–3798 (Fax)

    The Electronic Frontier Foundation

    The Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF) was established to help
    civilize the "electronic frontier"—the Cyberspacial medium
    becoming ever-present in today's society; to make it truly useful and
    beneficial not just to a technical elite, but to everyone; and to do
    this in a way which is in keeping with the society's highest
    traditions of the free and open flow of information and
    communication. {This section was derived from eff.about, available
    along with other material via anonymous FTP from ftp.eff.org}

    The mission of the EFF is to engage in and support educational
    activities which increase popular understanding of the opportunities
    and challenges posed by developments in computing and
    telecommunications;

    to develop among policy-makers a better understanding of the
    issues underlying free and open telecommunications, and support the
    creation of legal and structural approaches which will ease the
    assimilation of these new technologies by society;

    to raise public awareness about civil liberties issues arising from
    the rapid advancement in the area of new computer-based
    communications media and, where necessary, support litigation in the
    public interest to preserve, protect, and extend First Amendment
    rights within the realm of computing and telecommunications
    technology;

    to encourage and support the development of new tools which will
    endow non-technical users with full and easy access to computer-based
    telecommunications;

    The Usenet newsgroups comp.org.eff.talk and comp.org.eff.news are
    dedicated to discussion concerning the EFF. They also have mailing
    list counterparts for those that don't have access to Usenet,
    eff-talk-request@eff.org and eff-news-request@eff.org. The first is
    an informal arena (aka a normal newsgroup) where anyone may voice his
    or her opinions. The second, comp.org.eff.news, is a moderated area
    for regular postings from the EFF in the form of EFFector Online. To
    submit a posting for the EFFector Online, or to get general
    information about the EFF, write to eff@eff.org. There is also a
    wealth of information available via anonymous FTP on ftp.eff.org.

    The EFF can be contacted at

    The Electronic Frontier Foundation, Inc.
    155 Second St. #1
    Cambridge, MA 02141
    eff@eff.org
    (617) 864-0665
    (617) 864-0866 (Fax)

    The Free Software Foundation

    The Free Software Foundation was started by Richard Stallman (creator
    of the popular GNU Emacs editor). It is dedicated to eliminating
    restrictions on copying, redistributing, and modifying software.

    The word "free" in their name does not refer to price; it refers to
    freedom. First, the freedom to copy a program and redistribute it to
    your neighbors, so that they can use it as well as you. Second, the
    freedom to change a program, so that you can control it instead of it
    controlling you; for this, the source code must be made available to
    you.

    The Foundation works to provide these freedoms by developing free
    compatible replacements for proprietary software. Specifically, they
    are putting together a complete, integrated software system called
    "GNU" that is upward-compatible with Unix. {As an aside, the editor
    of the GNU project, emacs, contains a built-in LISP interpreter and a
    large part of its functionality is written in LISP. The name GNU is
    itself recursive (the mainstay of the LISP language); it stands for
    "Gnu's Not Unix."}

    When it is released, everyone will be permitted to copy it and
    distribute it to others. In addition, it will be distributed with
    source code, so you will be able to learn about operating systems by
    reading it, to port it to your own machine, and to exchange the
    changes with others.

    For more information on the Free Software Foundation and the status of
    the GNU Project, or for a list of the current tasks that still need to
    be done, write to gnu@prep.ai.mit.edu.

    The IEEE

    Need IEEE…

    The League for Programming Freedom

    The League for Programming Freedom is a grass-roots organization of
    professors, students, businessmen, programmers and users dedicated to
    "bringing back" the freedom to write programs, which they contend
    has been lost over the past number years. The League is not opposed
    to the legal system that Congress intended–copyright on individual
    programs. Their aim is to reverse the recent changes made by judges in
    response to special interests, often explicitly rejecting the public
    interest principles of the Constitution.

    The League works to abolish the new monopolies by publishing articles,
    talking with public officials, boycotting egregious offenders, and in
    the future may intervene in court cases. On May 24, 1989, the League
    picketed Lotus headquarters because of their lawsuits, and then
    again on August 2, 1990. These marches stimulated widespread media
    coverage for the issue. They welcome suggestions for other
    activities, as well as help in carrying them out.

    For information on the League and how to join, write to

    League for Programming Freedom
    1 Kendall Square #143
    P.O. Box 9171
    Cambridge, MA 02139
    league@prep.ai.mit.edu

    Networking Initiatives

    Research and development are two buzz words often heard when
    discussing the networking field—everything needs to go faster, over
    longer distances, for a lower cost. To "keep current," one should
    read the various trade magazines and newspapers, or frequent the
    networking-oriented newsgroups of Usenet. If possible, attend trade
    shows and symposia like Usenix, Interop, et. al.

    ISDN

    NREN

    The National Research and Education Network (NREN) is a five-year
    project approved by Congress in the Fall of 1991. It's intended to
    create a national electronic "super-highway." The NREN will be 50
    times faster than the fastest available networks (at the time of this
    writing). Proponents of the NREN claim it will be possible to
    transfer the equivalent of the entire text of the Encyclopedia
    Britannica in one second. Further information, including the
    original text of the bill presented by Senator Al Gore (D–TN), is
    available through anonymous FTP to nis.nsf.net, in the directory
    nsfnet. In addition, Vint Cerf wrote on the then-proposed NREN in
    RFC-1167, Thoughts on the National Research and Education Network.
    RFCs for information on obtaining RFCs.

    A mailing list, nren-discuss@uu.psi.com, is available for
    discussion of the NREN; write to
    nren-discuss-request@uu.psi.com to be added.

    "To talk in publick, to think in solitude,
    to read and to hear, to inquire,
    and to answer inquiries, is the business of a scholar."
    Samuel Johnson
    Chapter VIII
    The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia

    —–
    Finding Out More

    Internet Resource Guide

    The NSF Network Service Center (NNSC) compiles and makes available an
    Internet Resource Guide (IRG). The goal of the guide is to increase the
    visibility of various Internet resources that may help users do their
    work better. While not yet an exhaustive list, the guide is a useful
    compendium of many resources and can be a helpful reference for a new
    user.

    Resources listed are grouped by types into sections. Current sections
    include descriptions of online library catalogs, data archives, online
    white pages directory services, networks, network information centers,
    and computational resources, such as supercomputers. Each entry
    describes the resource, identifies who can use the resource, explains
    how to reach the local network via the Internet, and lists contacts
    for more information. The list is distributed electronically by the
    NNSC. To receive a guide, or to get on a mailing list that alerts you
    to when it is updated, send a message to
    resource-guide-request@nnsc.nsf.net.

    The current edition of the IRG is available via anonymous FTP from
    nnsc.nsf.net, in the directory /resource-guide.

    Requests for Comments

    The internal workings of the Internet are defined by a set of
    documents called RFCs (Request for Comments). The general process
    for creating an RFC is for someone wanting something formalized to
    write a document describing the issue and mailing it to Jon Postel
    (postel@isi.edu). He acts as a referee for the proposal. It is then
    commented upon by all those wishing to take part in the discussion
    (electronically, of course). It may go through multiple revisions.
    Should it be generally accepted as a good idea, it will be assigned a
    number and filed with the RFCs.

    The RFCs can be divided into five groups: required, suggested,
    directional, informational and obsolete. Required RFCs (e.g.,
    RFC-791, The Internet Protocol) must be implemented on any host
    connected to the Internet.

    Suggested RFCs are generally implemented by network hosts. Lack of
    them does not preclude access to the Internet, but may impact its
    usability. RFC-793, Transmission Control Protocol, is a must for
    those implementing TCP.

    Directional RFCs were discussed and agreed to, but their application
    has never come into wide use. This may be due to the lack of wide
    need for the specific application (RFC-937, The Post Office Protocol) or
    that, although technically superior, ran against other pervasive
    approaches (RFC-891, Hello). It is suggested that, should the facility
    be required by a particular site, an implementation be done in
    accordance with the RFC. This ensures that, should the idea be one
    whose time has come, the implementation will be in accordance with
    some standard and will be generally usable.

    Informational RFCs contain factual information about the Internet and
    its operation (RFC-990, Assigned Numbers).

    There is also a subset of RFCs called FYIs (For Your Information).
    They are written in a language much more informal than that used in
    the other, standard RFCs. Topics range from answers to common
    questions for new and experienced users to a suggested bibliography.

    Finally, as the Internet has grown and technology has changed, some
    RFCs become unnecessary. These obsolete RFCs cannot be ignored,
    however. Frequently when a change is made to some RFC that causes a
    new one to obsolete others, the new RFC only contains explanations and
    motivations for the change. Understanding the model on which the
    whole facility is based may involve reading the original and
    subsequent RFCs on the topic.

    RFCs and FYIs are available via FTP from many sources, including:

    The nic.ddn.mil archive, as /rfc/rfc-xxxx.txt, where
    xxxx is the number of the RFC.

    from ftp.uu.net, in the directory /RFC.

    They're also available through mail by writing to
    service@nic.ddn.mil, with a Subject: line of send RFC-xxxx.TXT, again
    with xxxx being the RFC number.

    "Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we
    know where we can find information upon it."
    Samuel Johnson
    Letter to Lord Chesterfield
    February, 1755
    a book of quotes said April 18, 1775 .. the book of Johnson's works
    said it's 1755; I'll go with the latter.

    ——-
    Conclusion

    This guide is far from complete—the Internet changes on a daily (if
    not hourly) basis. However, this booklet should provide enough
    information to make the incredible breadth and complexity of the
    Internet a mite less imposing. Coupled with some exploration and
    experimentation, every user has the potential to be a competent net
    citizen, using the facilities that are available to their fullest.

    You, the reader, are strongly encouraged to suggest improvements to
    any part of this booklet. If something was unclear, left you with
    doubts, or wasn't addressed, it should be fixed. If you find any
    problems, inaccuracies, spelling errors, etc., please report them to:

    Brendan Kehoe
    Department of Computer Science
    Widener University
    Chester, PA 19013

    Internet: guide-bugs@cs.widener.edu
    UUCP: …!widener!guide-bugs

    If you are interested in future updates to this guide (aside from
    normal new editions), discussion about information to be included or
    removed, etc., write to guide-request@cs.widener.edu to be placed on
    a mailing list for such things.

    @dots is actually `. . . .'
    "I've seed de first an de last @dots I seed de beginnin,
    en now I sees de endin."
    William Faulkner
    The Sound & The Fury
    April 8, 1928

    ——–

    Getting to Other Networks

    Inter-connectivity has been and always will be one of the biggest
    goals in computer networking. The ultimate desire is to make it so
    one person can contact anyone else no matter where they are. A number
    of "gateways" between networks have been set up. They include:

    AppleLink
    Quantum Services sells access to AppleLink, which is similar to
    QuantumLink for Commodore computers and PCLink for IBM PCs and
    compatibles. It also provides email access through the address
    user@applelink.apple.com.

    ATTMail
    AT&T sells a commercial email service called ATTMail. Its users
    can be reached by writing to user@attmail.com.

    BIX
    Users on BIX (the Byte Information eXchange) can be reached
    through the DAS gateway at user@cibix.das.net.

    CompuServe (CI$)
    To reach a user on the commercial service CompuServe, you must
    address the mail as xxxxx.xxx@compuserve.com, with
    xxxxx.xxx being their CompuServe user ID. Normally CompuServe
    ids are represented as being separated by a comma (like
    71999,141); since most mailers don't react well to having
    commas in addresses, it was changed to a period. For the above
    address, mail would be sent to 71999.141@compuserve.com.

    EasyNet
    Digital sells a service called EasyNet; users that subscribe to it can
    be reached with the addresses user@host.enet.dec.com or
    user%host.enet@decwrl.dec.com.

    FidoNet
    The FidoNet computer network can be reached by using a special
    addressing method. If John Smith is on the node 1:2/3.4 on
    FidoNet, his or her email address would be
    john.smith@p4.f3.n2.z1.fidonet.org
    (notice how the numbers fall in place?).

    MCI Mail
    MCI also sells email accounts (similar to ATTMail). Users can be
    reached with user@mcimail.com.

    PeaceNet
    Users on the PeaceNet network can be reached by writing to
    user@igc.org.

    The Well
    Users on the service The Well can be reached by writing to
    user@well.sf.ca.us. The Well is directly connected to the Internet.

    This table is far from complete. In addition to sites not being
    listed, some services are not (nor do they plan to be) accessible
    from the "outside" (like Prodigy); others, like GEnie, are actively
    investigating the possibility of creating a gateway into their
    system. For the latest information, consult a list called the
    Inter-Network Mail Guide. It's available from a number of FTP sites,
    including UUNET; Anonymous FTP, for more information on getting a
    copy of it using anonymous FTP.

    Retrieving Files via Email

    For those who have a connection to the Internet, but cannot FTP, there
    do exist a few alternatives to get those files you so desperately
    need. When requesting files, it's imperative that you keep in mind
    the size of your request—odds are the other people who may be using
    your link won't be too receptive to sudden bursts of really heavy
    traffic on their normally sedate connection.

    Archive Servers

    An alternative to the currently well over-used FTPmail system is
    taking advantage of the many archive servers that are presently
    being maintained. These are programs that receive email messages that
    contain commands, and act on them. For example, sending an archive
    server the command help will usually yield, in the form of a
    piece of email, information on how to use the various commands that
    the server has available.

    One such archive server is service@nic.ddn.mil. Maintained by
    the Network Information Center (NIC) in Chantilly, VA, the server is
    set up to make all of the information at the NIC available for people
    who don't have access to FTP. This also includes the WHOIS service
    (Whois). Some sample Subject: lines for queries to the
    NIC server are:

    Subject: help Describes available commands.
    Subject: rfc 822 Sends a copy of RFC-822.
    Subject: rfc index Sends an index of the available RFCs.
    Subject: netinfo domain-template.txt Sends a domain application.
    Subject: whois widener Sends WHOIS information on `widener'.

    More information on using their archive server can be obtained by
    writing to their server address service@nic.ddn.mil with a
    Subject: of help.

    There are different "brands" of archive server, each with its own
    set of commands and services. Among them there often exists a common
    set of commands and services (e.g. index, help, etc).
    Be that as it may, one should always consult the individual help for a
    specific server before assuming the syntax—100K surprises can be
    hard on a system.

    FTP-by-Mail Servers
    Some systems offer people the ability to receive files through a
    mock-FTP interface via email. Anonymous FTP for a general overview of
    how to FTP. The effects of providing such a service varies, although
    a rule of thumb is that it will probably use a substantial amount of
    the available resources on a system.

    The "original" FTP-by-Mail service, BITFTP, is available to BITNET
    users from the Princeton node PUCC. It was once accessible to
    anyone, but had to be closed out to non-BITNET users because of the
    heavy load on the system.

    In response to this closure, Paul Vixie designed and installed a
    system called FTPmail on one of Digital's gateway computers,
    decwrl.dec.com. Write to ftpmail@decwrl.dec.com with help in the
    body of the letter for instructions on its use. The software is
    undergoing constant development; once it reaches a stable state,
    other sites will be encouraged to adopt it and provide the service
    also.

    Newsgroup Creation

    Everyone has the opportunity to make a Call For Votes on the
    Usenet and attempt to create a newsgroup that he/she feels would be of
    benefit to the general readership. The rules governing newsgroup
    creation have evolved over the years into a generally accepted method.
    They only govern the "world" groups; they aren't applicable to
    regional or other alternative hierarchies.

    Discussion

    A discussion must first take place to address issues like the naming
    of the group, where in the group tree it should go (e.g.
    rec.sports.koosh vs rec.games.koosh?), and whether or not it should
    be created in the first place. The formal Request For Discussion
    (RFD) should be posted to news.announce.newgroups, along with any
    other groups or mailing lists at all related to the proposed topic.
    news.announce.newgroups is moderated. You should place it first in
    the Newsgroups: header, so that it will get mailed to the moderator
    only. The article won't be immediately posted to the other
    newsgroups listed; rather, it will give you the opportunity to have
    the moderator correct any inconsistencies or mistakes in your RFD.
    He or she will take care of posting it to the newsgroups you
    indicated. Also the Followup-To: header will be set so that the
    actual discussion takes place only in news.groups. If a user has
    difficulty posting to a moderated group, he or she may mail
    submissions intended for news.announce.newgroups to the address
    announce-newgroups@rpi.edu.

    The final name and charter of the group, and whether it will be
    moderated or unmoderated, will be determined during the discussion
    period. If it's to be moderated, the discussion will also decide who
    the moderator will be. If there's no general agreement on these
    points among those in favor of a new group at the end of 30 days,
    the discussion will be taken into mail rather than continued posting
    to news.groups; that way, the proponents of the group can iron out
    their differences and come back with a proper proposal, and make
    a new Request For Discussion.

    Voting
    After the discussion period (which is mandatory), if it's been
    determined that a new group really is desired, a name and charter are
    agreed upon, and it's been determined whether the group will be
    moderated (and by whom), a Call For Votes (CFV) should be posted
    to news.announce.newgroups, along with any other groups that
    the original Request For Discussion was posted to. The CFV should be
    posted (or mailed to the news.announce.newgroups moderator) as
    soon as possible after the discussion ends (to keep it fresh in
    everyone's mind).

    The Call for Votes should include clear instructions on how to cast a
    vote. It's important that it be clearly explained how to both vote
    for and against a group (and be of equivalent difficulty or
    ease). If it's easier for you or your administrator, two separate
    addresses can be used to mail yes and no votes to, providing that
    they're on the same machine. Regardless of the method, everyone
    must have a very specific idea of how to get his/her vote counted.

    The voting period can last between 21 and 31 days, no matter what the
    preliminary results of the vote are. A vote can't be called off
    simply because 400 "no" votes have come in and only two "yes"
    votes. The Call for Votes should include the exact date that the
    voting period will end—only those votes arriving on the vote-taker's
    machine before this date can be counted.

    To keep awareness high, the CFV can be repeated during the vote,
    provided that it gives the same clear, unbiased instructions for
    casting a vote as the original; it also has to be the same proposal as
    was first posted. The charter can't change in mid-vote. Also, votes
    that're posted don't count—only those that were mailed to the
    vote-taker can be tallied.

    Partial results should never be included; only a statement of
    the specific proposal, that a vote is in progress on it, and how to
    cast a vote. A mass acknowledgement ("Mass ACK" or "Vote ACK") is
    permitted; however, it must be presented in a way that gives no
    indication of which way a person voted. One way to avoid this is to
    create one large list of everyone who's voted, and sort it in
    alphabetical order. It should not be two sorted lists (of the yes and
    no votes, respectively).

    Every vote is autonomous. The votes for or against one group can't be
    transferred to another, similar proposal. A vote can only count for
    the exact proposal that it was a response to. In particular, a vote
    for or against a newsgroup under one name can't be counted as a vote
    for or against another group with a different name or charter, a
    different moderated/unmoderated status, or, if it's moderated, a
    different moderator or set of moderators. Whew!

    Finally, the vote has to be explicit; they should be of the form I
    vote for the group foo.bar as proposed or I vote against the group
    foo.bar as proposed. The wording doesn't have to be exact, your
    intention just has to be clear.

    The Result of a Vote

    At the end of the voting period, the vote-taker has to post (to
    news.announce.newgroups) the tally and email addresses of the votes
    received. Again, it can also be posted to any of the groups listed in
    the original CFV. The tally should make clear which way a person
    voted, so the results can be verified if it proves necessary to do so.

    After the vote result is posted to news.announce.newgroups,
    there is a mandatory five-day waiting period. This affords everyone
    the opportunity to correct any errors or inconsistencies in the voter
    list or the voting procedure.

    Creation of the Group

    If, after the waiting period, there are no serious objections that
    might invalidate the vote, the vote is put to the "water test." If
    there were 100 more valid YES/create votes than NO/don't create
    votes, and at least two-thirds of the total number of votes are in
    favor of creation, then a newgroup control message can be sent out
    (often by the moderator of news.announce.newgroups). If the 100-vote
    margin or the two-thirds percentage isn't met, the group has failed
    and can't be created.

    If the proposal failed, all is not lost—after a six-month waiting
    period (a "cooling down"), a new Request For Discussion can be posted
    to news.groups, and the whole process can start over again. If after
    a couple of tries it becomes obvious that the group is not
    wanted or needed, the vote-taker should humbly step back and accept
    the opinion of the majority. (As life goes, so goes Usenet.)

    ——–

    Glossary

    This glossary is only a tiny subset of all of the various terms and
    other things that people regularly use on The Net. For a more
    complete (and very entertaining) reference, it's suggested you get a
    copy of The New Hacker's Dictionary, which is based on a VERY large
    text file called the Jargon File. Edited by Eric Raymond
    (eric@snark.thyrsus.com), it is available from the MIT Press,
    Cambridge, Massachusetts, 02142; its ISBN number is 0-262-68069-6.
    Also see RFC-1208, A Glossary of Networking Terms.

    🙂
    This odd symbol is one of the ways a person can portray "mood" in
    the very flat medium of computers—by using "smilies." This is
    `metacommunication', and there are literally hundreds of them, from
    the obvious to the obscure. This particular example expresses
    "happiness." Don't see it? Tilt your head to the left 90 degrees.
    Smilies are also used to denote sarcasm.

    Network addresses are usually of two types:

    the physical or hardware address of a network interface card; for
    ethernet this 48-bit address might be 0260.8C00.7666. The hardware
    address is used to forward packets within a physical network.
    Fortunately, network users do not have to be concerned about hardware
    addresses since they are automatically handled by the networking
    software.

    The logical or Internet address is used to facilitate moving data
    between physical networks. The 32-bit Internet address is made up of a
    network number, a subnetwork number, and a host number. Each host
    computer on the Internet, has a unique address. For example, all
    Internet addresses at Colorado State have a network number of 129.82, a
    subnet number in the range of 1-254, and a host number in the range of
    1-254. All Internet hosts have a numeric address and an English-style
    name. For example, the Internet address for UCC's CYBER 840 is
    129.82.103.96; its Internet name is csugreen.UCC.ColoState.EDU.

    address resolution
    Conversion of an Internet address to the corresponding physical address.
    On an ethernet, resolution requires broadcasting on the local area network.

    administrivia
    Administrative tasks, most often related to the maintenance of mailing
    lists, digests, news gateways, etc.

    anonymous FTP
    Also known as "anon FTP"; a service provided to make files available
    to the general Internet community—Anonymous FTP.

    ANSI
    The American National Standards Institute disseminates basic standards
    like ASCII, and acts as the United States' delegate to the ISO.
    Standards can be ordered from ANSI by writing to the ANSI Sales Department,
    1430 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, or by telephoning (212) 354-3300.

    archie
    A service which provides lookups for packages in a database of the
    offerings of countless of anonymous FTP sites. archie for a
    full description.

    archive server
    An email-based file transfer facility offered by some systems.

    ARPA (Advanced Research Projects Agency)
    Former name of DARPA, the government agency that funded ARPAnet and
    later the DARPA Internet.

    ARPAnet
    A pioneering long haul network funded by ARPA. It
    served as the basis for early networking research as well as a
    central backbone during the development of the Internet. The
    ARPAnet consisted of individual packet switching computers
    interconnected by leased lines. The ARPAnet no longer exists as a
    singular entity.

    asynchronous
    Transmission by individual bytes, not related to specific timing on the
    transmitting end.

    auto-magic
    Something which happens pseudo-automatically, and is usually too
    complex to go into any further than to say it happens "auto-magically."

    backbone
    A high-speed connection within a network that connects shorter,
    usually slower circuits. Also used in reference to a system that acts
    as a "hub" for activity (although those are becoming much less
    prevalent now than they were ten years ago).

    bandwidth
    The capacity of a medium to transmit a signal. More informally, the
    mythical "size" of The Net, and its ability to carry the files and
    messages of those that use it. Some view certain kinds of traffic
    (FTPing hundreds of graphics images, for example) as a "waste of
    bandwidth" and look down upon them.

    BITNET (Because It's Time Network)
    An NJE-based international educational network.

    bounce
    The return of a piece of mail because of an error in its delivery.

    btw
    An abbreviation for "by the way."

    CFV (Call For Votes)
    Initiates the voting period for a Usenet newsgroup. At least one
    (occasionally two or more) email address is customarily included as a
    repository for the votes. See Newsgroup Creation
    for a full description of the Usenet voting process.

    ClariNews
    The fee-based Usenet newsfeed available from ClariNet Communications.

    client
    The user of a network service; also used to describe a computer that
    relies upon another for some or all of its resources.

    Cyberspace
    A term coined by William Gibson in his fantasy novel
    Neuromancer to describe the "world" of computers, and the
    society that gathers around them.

    datagram
    The basic unit of information passed across the Internet. It contains
    a source and destination address along with data. Large messages are
    broken down into a sequence of IP datagrams.

    disassembling
    Converting a binary program into human-readable machine language code.

    DNS (Domain Name System)
    The method used to convert Internet names to their corresponding
    Internet numbers.

    domain
    A part of the naming hierarchy. Syntactically, a domain name consists
    of a sequence of names or other words separated by dots.

    dotted quad
    A set of four numbers connected with periods that make up an Internet
    address; for example, 147.31.254.130.

    email
    The vernacular abbreviation for electronic mail.

    email address
    The UUCP or domain-based address that a user is referred to with. For
    example, the author's address is brendan@cs.widener.edu.

    ethernet
    A 10-million bit per second networking scheme originally developed by
    Xerox Corporation. Ethernet is widely used for LANs because it can
    network a wide variety of computers, it is not proprietary, and
    components are widely available from many commercial sources.

    FDDI (Fiber Distributed Data Interface)
    An emerging standard for network technology based on fiber optics that
    has been established by ANSI. FDDI specifies a 100-million bit per
    second data rate. The access control mechanism uses token ring
    technology.

    flame
    A piece of mail or a Usenet posting which is violently argumentative.

    FQDN (Fully Qualified Domain Name)
    The FQDN is the full site name of a system, rather than just its
    hostname. For example, the system lisa at Widener University
    has a FQDN of lisa.cs.widener.edu.

    FTP (File Transfer Protocol)
    The Internet standard high-level protocol for transferring files from
    one computer to another.

    FYI
    An abbreviation for the phrase "for your information." There is
    also a series of RFCs put out by the Network Information Center called
    FYIs; they address common questions of new users and many other useful
    things. RFCs for instructions on retrieving FYIs.

    gateway
    A special-purpose dedicated computer that attaches to two or more
    networks and routes packets from one network to the other. In
    particular, an Internet gateway routes IP datagrams among the networks
    it connects. Gateways route packets to other gateways until they can be
    delivered to the final destination directly across one physical network.

    header
    The portion of a packet, preceding the actual data, containing source
    and destination addresses and error-checking fields. Also part of a
    message or news article.

    hostname
    The name given to a machine. (See also FQDN.)

    IMHO (In My Humble Opinion)
    This usually accompanies a statement that may bring about personal
    offense or strong disagreement.

    Internet
    A concatenation of many individual TCP/IP campus, state, regional, and
    national networks (such as NSFnet, ARPAnet, and Milnet) into one
    single logical network all sharing a common addressing scheme.

    Internet number
    The dotted-quad address used to specify a certain system. The
    Internet number for the site cs.widener.edu is 147.31.254.130. A
    resolver is used to translate between hostnames and Internet
    addresses.

    interoperate
    The ability of multi-vendor computers to work together using a common
    set of protocols. With interoperability, PCs, Macs, Suns, Dec VAXen,
    CDC Cybers, etc, all work together allowing one host computer to
    communicate with and take advantage of the resources of another.

    ISO (International Organization for Standardization)
    Coordinator of the main networking standards that are put into use today.

    kernel
    The level of an operating system or networking system that contains the
    system-level commands or all of the functions hidden from the user. In
    a Unix system, the kernel is a program that contains the device drivers,
    the memory management routines, the scheduler, and system calls. This
    program is always running while the system is operating.

    LAN (Local Area Network)
    Any physical network technology that operates at high speed over short
    distances (up to a few thousand meters).

    mail gateway
    A machine that connects to two or more electronic mail systems
    (especially dissimilar mail systems on two different networks) and
    transfers mail messages among them.

    mailing list
    A possibly moderated discussion group, distributed via email from a
    central computer maintaining the list of people involved in the
    discussion.

    mail path
    A series of machine names used to direct electronic mail from one user
    to another.

    medium
    The material used to support the transmission of data. This can be
    copper wire, coaxial cable, optical fiber, or electromagnetic wave (as in
    microwave).

    multiplex
    The division of a single transmission medium into multiple logical
    channels supporting many simultaneous sessions. For example, one
    network may have simultaneous FTP, telnet, rlogin, and SMTP
    connections, all going at the same time.

    net.citizen
    An inhabitant of Cyberspace. One usually tries to be a good
    net.citizen, lest one be flamed.

    netiquette
    A pun on "etiquette"; proper behavior on The Net. Usenet Netiquette.

    network
    A group of machines connected together so they can transmit information
    to one another. There are two kinds of networks: local networks and
    remote networks.

    NFS (Network File System)
    A method developed by Sun Microsystems to allow computers to share
    files across a network in a way that makes them appear as if they're
    "local" to the system.

    NIC
    The Network Information Center.

    node
    A computer that is attached to a network; also called a host.

    NSFnet
    The national backbone network, funded by the National Science Foundation
    and operated by the Merit Corporation, used to interconnect regional
    (mid-level) networks such as WestNet to one another.

    packet
    The unit of data sent across a packet switching network. The term is
    used loosely. While some Internet literature uses it to refer
    specifically to data sent across a physical network, other literature
    views the Internet as a packet switching network and describes IP
    datagrams as packets.

    polling
    Connecting to another system to check for things like mail or news.

    postmaster
    The person responsible for taking care of mail problems, answering
    queries about users, and other related work at a site.

    protocols
    A formal description of message formats and the rules two computers must
    follow to exchange those messages. Protocols can describe low-level
    details of machine-to-machine interfaces (e.g., the order in which bits
    and bytes are sent across a wire) or high-level exchanges between
    allocation programs (e.g., the way in which two programs transfer a file
    across the Internet).

    recursion
    The facility of a programming language to be able to call functions
    from within themselves.

    resolve
    Translate an Internet name into its equivalent IP address or other DNS
    information.

    RFD (Request For Discussion)
    Usually a two- to three-week period in which the particulars of
    newsgroup creation are battled out.

    route
    The path that network traffic takes from its source to its destination.

    router
    A dedicated computer (or other device) that sends packets from one
    place to another, paying attention to the current state of the network.

    RTFM (Read The Fantastic Manual).
    This anacronym is often used when someone asks a simple or common
    question. The word `Fantastic' is usually replaced with one much more
    vulgar.

    SMTP (Simple Mail Transfer Protocol)
    The Internet standard protocol for transferring electronic mail messages
    from one computer to another. SMTP specifies how two mail systems
    interact and the format of control messages they exchange to transfer
    mail.

    server
    A computer that shares its resources, such as printers and files, with
    other computers on the network. An example of this is a Network File
    System (NFS) server which shares its disk space with other computers.

    signal-to-noise ratio
    When used in reference to Usenet activity, signal-to-noise
    ratio describes the relation between amount of actual information in
    a discussion, compared to their quantity. More often than not,
    there's substantial activity in a newsgroup, but a very small number
    of those articles actually contain anything useful.

    signature
    The small, usually four-line message at the bottom of a piece of email
    or a Usenet article. In Unix, it's added by creating a file
    ..signature in the user's home directory. Large signatures are
    a no-no.

    summarize
    To encapsulate a number of responses into one coherent, usable
    message. Often done on controlled mailing lists or active newsgroups,
    to help reduce bandwidth.

    synchronous
    Data communications in which transmissions are sent at a fixed rate,
    with the sending and receiving devices synchronized.

    TCP/IP (Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Protocol)
    A set of protocols, resulting from ARPA efforts, used by the Internet to
    support services such as remote login (telnet), file transfer
    (FTP) and mail (SMTP).

    telnet
    The Internet standard protocol for remote terminal connection service.
    Telnet allows a user at one site to interact with a remote timesharing
    system at another site as if the user's terminal were connected directly
    to the remote computer.

    terminal server
    A small, specialized, networked computer that connects many terminals to
    a LAN through one network connection. Any user on the network can then
    connect to various network hosts.

    TeX
    A free typesetting system by Donald Knuth.

    twisted pair
    Cable made up of a pair of insulated copper wires wrapped around each
    other to cancel the effects of electrical noise.

    UUCP (Unix to Unix Copy Program)
    A store-and-forward system, primarily for Unix systems but currently
    supported on other platforms (e.g. VMS and personal computers).

    WAN (Wide-Area Network)
    A network spanning hundreds or thousands of miles.

    workstation
    A networked personal computing device with more power than a standard
    IBM PC or Macintosh. Typically, a workstation has an operating system
    such as unix that is capable of running several tasks at the same time.
    It has several megabytes of memory and a large, high-resolution display.
    Examples are Sun workstations and Digital DECstations.

    worm
    A computer program which replicates itself. The Internet worm
    (The Internet Worm) was perhaps the most famous; it
    successfully (and accidentally) duplicated itself on systems across
    the Internet.

    wrt
    With respect to.

    "I hate definitions."
    Benjamin Disraeli
    Vivian Grey, bk i chap ii

    ——
    Bibliography

    What follows is a compendium of sources that have information that
    will be of use to anyone reading this guide. Most of them were used
    in the writing of the booklet, while others are simply noted because
    they are a must for any good net.citizen's bookshelf.

    Books

    Comer, Douglas E.
    Internetworking With TCP/IP, 2nd ed., 2v
    Prentice Hall
    Englewood Cliffs, NJ
    1991

    Davidson, John
    An Introduction to TCP/IP
    Springer-Verlag
    Berlin
    1988

    Frey, Donnalyn, and Adams, Rick
    !@%:: A Directory of Electronic Mail Addressing and Networks
    O'Reilly and Associates
    Newton, MA
    1989

    Gibson, William
    Neuromancer
    Ace
    New York, NY
    1984

    LaQuey, Tracy
    Users' Directory of Computer Networks
    Digital Press
    Bedford, MA
    1990

    Levy, Stephen
    Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution
    Anchor Press/Doubleday
    Garden City, NY
    1984

    Partridge, Craig
    Innovations in Internetworking
    ARTECH House
    Norwood, MA
    1988

    Quarterman, John S.
    The Matrix: Computer Networks and Conferencing Systems Worldwide
    Digital Press
    Bedford, MA
    1989

    Raymond, Eric (ed)
    The New Hacker's Dictionary
    MIT Press
    Cambridge, MA
    1991

    Stoll, Clifford
    The Cuckoo's Egg
    Doubleday
    New York
    1989

    Tanenbaum, Andrew S.
    Computer Networks, 2d ed
    Prentice-Hall
    Englewood Cliffs, NJ
    1988

    Todinao, Grace
    Using UUCP and USENET: A Nutshell Handbook
    O'Reilly and Associates
    Newton, MA
    1986

    The Waite Group
    Unix Communications, 2nd ed.
    Howard W. Sams & Company
    Indianapolis
    1991

    Periodicals & Papers
    magazine: Barlow, J
    Coming Into The Country
    Communications of the ACM 34:3
    2
    March 1991
    Addresses "Cyberspace"—John Barlow was a co-founder of the EFF.

    proceedings: Collyer, G., and Spencer, H
    News Need Not Be Slow
    Proceedings of the 1987 Winter USENIX Conference
    181–90
    USENIX Association, Berkeley, CA
    January 1987

    magazine: Denning, P
    The Internet Worm
    American Scientist
    126–128
    March–April 1989

    magazine: The Science of Computing: Computer Networks
    American Scientist
    127–129
    March–April 1985

    magazine: Frey, D., and Adams, R
    USENET: Death by Success?
    UNIX REVIEW
    55–60
    August 1987

    magazine: Gifford, W. S
    ISDN User-Network Interfaces
    IEEE Journal on Selected Areas in Communications
    343–348
    May 1986

    magazine: Ginsberg, K
    Getting from Here to There
    UNIX REVIEW
    45
    January 1986

    magazine: Hiltz, S. R
    The Human Element in Computerized Conferencing Systems
    Computer Networks
    421–428
    December 1978

    proceedings: Horton, M
    What is a Domain?
    Proceedings of the Summer 1984 USENIX Conference
    368–372
    USENIX Association, Berkeley, CA
    June 1984

    magazine: Jacobsen, Ole J
    Information on TCP/IP
    ConneXions—The Interoperability Report
    14–15
    July 1988

    magazine: Jennings, D., et al
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    28 February 1986

    paper: Markoff, J
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    New York Times
    Nov. 5, 1988
    A1

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    B10

    magazine: McQuillan, J. M., and Walden, D. C
    The ARPA Network Design Decisions
    Computer Networks
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    1977

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    A letter concerning the Internet worm
    Communications of the ACM 32:6
    June 1989

    proceedings: Partridge, C
    Mail Routing Using Domain Names: An Informal Tour
    Proceedings of the 1986 Summer USENIX Conference
    366–76
    USENIX Association, Berkeley, CA
    June 1986

    magazine: Quarterman, J
    Etiquette and Ethics
    ConneXions—The Interoperability Report
    12–16
    March 1989

    magazine: Notable Computer Networks
    Communications of the ACM 29:10
    October 1986
    This was the predecessor to The Matrix.

    magazine: Raeder, A. W., and Andrews, K. L
    Searching Library Catalogs on the Internet: A Survey
    Database Searcher 6
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    September 1990

    proceedings: Seeley, D
    A tour of the worm
    Proceedings of the 1989 Winter USENIX Conference
    287–304
    USENIX Association, Berkeley, CA
    February 1989

    magazine: Shulman, G
    Legal Research on USENET Liability Issues
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    E-Mail to Anywhere
    PC World
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    14
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    This article grew into the book The Cuckoo's Egg.

    proceedings: Taylor, D
    The Postman Always Rings Twice: Electronic Mail in a Highly Distributed
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    Proceedings of the 1988 Winter USENIX Conference
    145–153
    USENIX Association, Berkeley, CA
    December 1988

    magazine: U.S.Gen'l Accounting Ofc
    Computer Security: Virus Highlights Need for Improved Internet Management
    GAO/IMTEC-89-57,
    1989
    Addresses the Internet worm.

    "And all else is literature."
    Paul Verlaine
    The Sun, New York
    While he was city editor in 1873–1890.

    —
    Bill Walther, Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada

  • Through the Looking-Glass

    Through the Looking-Glass

    Aproximadamente 31.095 palavras.

    [Illustration]

    THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS

    And What Alice Found There

    By Lewis Carroll

    The Millennium Fulcrum Edition 1.7

    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
    (_As arranged before commencement of game._)

    WHITE RED.
    PIECES. PAWNS. PAWNS. PIECES.
    Tweedledee. Daisy. Daisy. Humpty Dumpty.
    Unicorn. Haigha. Messenger. Carpenter.
    Sheep. Oyster. Oyster. Walrus.
    W. Queen. “Lily.” Tiger-lily. R. Queen.
    W. King. Fawn. Rose. R. King.
    Aged man. Oyster. Oyster. Crow.
    W. Knight. Hatta. Frog. R. Knight.
    Tweedledum. Daisy. Daisy. Lion.

    _RED._

    [Illustration: chessboard]

    _WHITE._

    White Pawn (Alice) to play, and win in eleven moves.

    1. Alice meets R. Q.
    1. R. Q. to K. R.’s 4th
    2. Alice through Q.’s 3d (_by railway_) to 4th (_Tweedledum and Tweedledee_)
    2. W. Q. to Q. B.’s 4th (_after shawl_)
    3. Alice meets W. Q. (_with shawl_)
    3. W. Q. to Q.B.’s 5th (_becomes sheep_)
    4. Alice to Q.’s 5th (_shop, river, shop_)
    4. W. Q. to K. B.’s 8th (_leaves egg on shelf_)
    5. Alice to Q.’s 6th (_Humpty Dumpty_)
    5. W. Q. to Q. B.’s 8th (_flying from R. Kt._)
    6. Alice to Q.’s 7th (_forest_)
    6. R. Kt. to K.’s 2nd (ch.)
    7. W.Kt. takes R.Kt.
    7. W. Kt. to K. B’s 5th
    8. Alice to Q.’s 8th (_coronation_)
    8. R. Q. to K.’s sq. (_examination_)
    9. Alice becomes Queen
    9. Queens castle
    10. Alice castles (_feast_)
    10. W.Q. to Q.R.’s 6th (_soup_)
    11. Alice takes R.Q. & wins

    Child of the pure unclouded brow
    And dreaming eyes of wonder!
    Though time be fleet, and I and thou
    Are half a life asunder,
    Thy loving smile will surely hail
    The love-gift of a fairy-tale.

    I have not seen thy sunny face,
    Nor heard thy silver laughter;
    No thought of me shall find a place
    In thy young life’s hereafter—
    Enough that now thou wilt not fail
    To listen to my fairy-tale.

    A tale begun in other days,
    When summer suns were glowing—
    A simple chime, that served to time
    The rhythm of our rowing—
    Whose echoes live in memory yet,
    Though envious years would say ‘forget.’

    Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
    With bitter tidings laden,
    Shall summon to unwelcome bed
    A melancholy maiden!
    We are but older children, dear,
    Who fret to find our bedtime near.

    Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
    The storm-wind’s moody madness—
    Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
    And childhood’s nest of gladness.
    The magic words shall hold thee fast:
    Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

    And though the shadow of a sigh
    May tremble through the story,
    For ‘happy summer days’ gone by,
    And vanish’d summer glory—
    It shall not touch with breath of bale
    The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

    Contents

    CHAPTER I. Looking-Glass house
    CHAPTER II. The Garden of Live Flowers
    CHAPTER III. Looking-Glass Insects
    CHAPTER IV. Tweedledum And Tweedledee
    CHAPTER V. Wool and Water
    CHAPTER VI. Humpty Dumpty
    CHAPTER VII. The Lion and the Unicorn
    CHAPTER VIII. “It’s my own Invention”
    CHAPTER IX. Queen Alice
    CHAPTER X. Shaking
    CHAPTER XI. Waking
    CHAPTER XII. Which Dreamed it?

    CHAPTER I.
    Looking-Glass house

    One thing was certain, that the _white_ kitten had had nothing to do
    with it:—it was the black kitten’s fault entirely. For the white kitten
    had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of
    an hour (and bearing it pretty well, considering); so you see that it
    _couldn’t_ have had any hand in the mischief.

    The way Dinah washed her children’s faces was this: first she held the
    poor thing down by its ear with one paw, and then with the other paw
    she rubbed its face all over, the wrong way, beginning at the nose: and
    just now, as I said, she was hard at work on the white kitten, which
    was lying quite still and trying to purr—no doubt feeling that it was
    all meant for its good.

    But the black kitten had been finished with earlier in the afternoon,
    and so, while Alice was sitting curled up in a corner of the great
    arm-chair, half talking to herself and half asleep, the kitten had been
    having a grand game of romps with the ball of worsted Alice had been
    trying to wind up, and had been rolling it up and down till it had all
    come undone again; and there it was, spread over the hearth-rug, all
    knots and tangles, with the kitten running after its own tail in the
    middle.

    “Oh, you wicked little thing!” cried Alice, catching up the kitten, and
    giving it a little kiss to make it understand that it was in disgrace.
    “Really, Dinah ought to have taught you better manners! You _ought_,
    Dinah, you know you ought!” she added, looking reproachfully at the old
    cat, and speaking in as cross a voice as she could manage—and then she
    scrambled back into the arm-chair, taking the kitten and the worsted
    with her, and began winding up the ball again. But she didn’t get on
    very fast, as she was talking all the time, sometimes to the kitten,
    and sometimes to herself. Kitty sat very demurely on her knee,
    pretending to watch the progress of the winding, and now and then
    putting out one paw and gently touching the ball, as if it would be
    glad to help, if it might.

    “Do you know what to-morrow is, Kitty?” Alice began. “You’d have
    guessed if you’d been up in the window with me—only Dinah was making
    you tidy, so you couldn’t. I was watching the boys getting in sticks
    for the bonfire—and it wants plenty of sticks, Kitty! Only it got so
    cold, and it snowed so, they had to leave off. Never mind, Kitty, we’ll
    go and see the bonfire to-morrow.” Here Alice wound two or three turns
    of the worsted round the kitten’s neck, just to see how it would look:
    this led to a scramble, in which the ball rolled down upon the floor,
    and yards and yards of it got unwound again.

    “Do you know, I was so angry, Kitty,” Alice went on as soon as they
    were comfortably settled again, “when I saw all the mischief you had
    been doing, I was very nearly opening the window, and putting you out
    into the snow! And you’d have deserved it, you little mischievous
    darling! What have you got to say for yourself? Now don’t interrupt
    me!” she went on, holding up one finger. “I’m going to tell you all
    your faults. Number one: you squeaked twice while Dinah was washing
    your face this morning. Now you can’t deny it, Kitty: I heard you!
    What’s that you say?” (pretending that the kitten was speaking.) “Her
    paw went into your eye? Well, that’s _your_ fault, for keeping your
    eyes open—if you’d shut them tight up, it wouldn’t have happened. Now
    don’t make any more excuses, but listen! Number two: you pulled
    Snowdrop away by the tail just as I had put down the saucer of milk
    before her! What, you were thirsty, were you? How do you know she
    wasn’t thirsty too? Now for number three: you unwound every bit of the
    worsted while I wasn’t looking!

    “That’s three faults, Kitty, and you’ve not been punished for any of
    them yet. You know I’m saving up all your punishments for Wednesday
    week—Suppose they had saved up all _my_ punishments!” she went on,
    talking more to herself than the kitten. “What _would_ they do at the
    end of a year? I should be sent to prison, I suppose, when the day
    came. Or—let me see—suppose each punishment was to be going without a
    dinner: then, when the miserable day came, I should have to go without
    fifty dinners at once! Well, I shouldn’t mind _that_ much! I’d far
    rather go without them than eat them!

    “Do you hear the snow against the window-panes, Kitty? How nice and
    soft it sounds! Just as if some one was kissing the window all over
    outside. I wonder if the snow _loves_ the trees and fields, that it
    kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with
    a white quilt; and perhaps it says, ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the
    summer comes again.’ And when they wake up in the summer, Kitty, they
    dress themselves all in green, and dance about—whenever the wind
    blows—oh, that’s very pretty!” cried Alice, dropping the ball of
    worsted to clap her hands. “And I do so _wish_ it was true! I’m sure
    the woods look sleepy in the autumn, when the leaves are getting brown.

    “Kitty, can you play chess? Now, don’t smile, my dear, I’m asking it
    seriously. Because, when we were playing just now, you watched just as
    if you understood it: and when I said ‘Check!’ you purred! Well, it
    _was_ a nice check, Kitty, and really I might have won, if it hadn’t
    been for that nasty Knight, that came wiggling down among my pieces.
    Kitty, dear, let’s pretend—” And here I wish I could tell you half the
    things Alice used to say, beginning with her favourite phrase “Let’s
    pretend.” She had had quite a long argument with her sister only the
    day before—all because Alice had begun with “Let’s pretend we’re kings
    and queens;” and her sister, who liked being very exact, had argued
    that they couldn’t, because there were only two of them, and Alice had
    been reduced at last to say, “Well, _you_ can be one of them then, and
    _I’ll_ be all the rest.” And once she had really frightened her old
    nurse by shouting suddenly in her ear, “Nurse! Do let’s pretend that
    I’m a hungry hyaena, and you’re a bone.”

    But this is taking us away from Alice’s speech to the kitten. “Let’s
    pretend that you’re the Red Queen, Kitty! Do you know, I think if you
    sat up and folded your arms, you’d look exactly like her. Now do try,
    there’s a dear!” And Alice got the Red Queen off the table, and set it
    up before the kitten as a model for it to imitate: however, the thing
    didn’t succeed, principally, Alice said, because the kitten wouldn’t
    fold its arms properly. So, to punish it, she held it up to the
    Looking-glass, that it might see how sulky it was—“and if you’re not
    good directly,” she added, “I’ll put you through into Looking-glass
    House. How would you like _that_?”

    “Now, if you’ll only attend, Kitty, and not talk so much, I’ll tell you
    all my ideas about Looking-glass House. First, there’s the room you can
    see through the glass—that’s just the same as our drawing room, only
    the things go the other way. I can see all of it when I get upon a
    chair—all but the bit behind the fireplace. Oh! I do so wish I could
    see _that_ bit! I want so much to know whether they’ve a fire in the
    winter: you never _can_ tell, you know, unless our fire smokes, and
    then smoke comes up in that room too—but that may be only pretence,
    just to make it look as if they had a fire. Well then, the books are
    something like our books, only the words go the wrong way; I know that,
    because I’ve held up one of our books to the glass, and then they hold
    up one in the other room.

    “How would you like to live in Looking-glass House, Kitty? I wonder if
    they’d give you milk in there? Perhaps Looking-glass milk isn’t good to
    drink—But oh, Kitty! now we come to the passage. You can just see a
    little _peep_ of the passage in Looking-glass House, if you leave the
    door of our drawing-room wide open: and it’s very like our passage as
    far as you can see, only you know it may be quite different on beyond.
    Oh, Kitty! how nice it would be if we could only get through into
    Looking-glass House! I’m sure it’s got, oh! such beautiful things in
    it! Let’s pretend there’s a way of getting through into it, somehow,
    Kitty. Let’s pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so that we
    can get through. Why, it’s turning into a sort of mist now, I declare!
    It’ll be easy enough to get through—” She was up on the chimney-piece
    while she said this, though she hardly knew how she had got there. And
    certainly the glass _was_ beginning to melt away, just like a bright
    silvery mist.

    In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly
    down into the Looking-glass room. The very first thing she did was to
    look whether there was a fire in the fireplace, and she was quite
    pleased to find that there was a real one, blazing away as brightly as
    the one she had left behind. “So I shall be as warm here as I was in
    the old room,” thought Alice: “warmer, in fact, because there’ll be no
    one here to scold me away from the fire. Oh, what fun it’ll be, when
    they see me through the glass in here, and can’t get at me!”

    Then she began looking about, and noticed that what could be seen from
    the old room was quite common and uninteresting, but that all the rest
    was as different as possible. For instance, the pictures on the wall
    next the fire seemed to be all alive, and the very clock on the
    chimney-piece (you know you can only see the back of it in the
    Looking-glass) had got the face of a little old man, and grinned at
    her.

    “They don’t keep this room so tidy as the other,” Alice thought to
    herself, as she noticed several of the chessmen down in the hearth
    among the cinders: but in another moment, with a little “Oh!” of
    surprise, she was down on her hands and knees watching them. The
    chessmen were walking about, two and two!

    “Here are the Red King and the Red Queen,” Alice said (in a whisper,
    for fear of frightening them), “and there are the White King and the
    White Queen sitting on the edge of the shovel—and here are two castles
    walking arm in arm—I don’t think they can hear me,” she went on, as she
    put her head closer down, “and I’m nearly sure they can’t see me. I
    feel somehow as if I were invisible—”

    Here something began squeaking on the table behind Alice, and made her
    turn her head just in time to see one of the White Pawns roll over and
    begin kicking: she watched it with great curiosity to see what would
    happen next.

    “It is the voice of my child!” the White Queen cried out as she rushed
    past the King, so violently that she knocked him over among the
    cinders. “My precious Lily! My imperial kitten!” and she began
    scrambling wildly up the side of the fender.

    “Imperial fiddlestick!” said the King, rubbing his nose, which had been
    hurt by the fall. He had a right to be a _little_ annoyed with the
    Queen, for he was covered with ashes from head to foot.

    Alice was very anxious to be of use, and, as the poor little Lily was
    nearly screaming herself into a fit, she hastily picked up the Queen
    and set her on the table by the side of her noisy little daughter.

    The Queen gasped, and sat down: the rapid journey through the air had
    quite taken away her breath and for a minute or two she could do
    nothing but hug the little Lily in silence. As soon as she had
    recovered her breath a little, she called out to the White King, who
    was sitting sulkily among the ashes, “Mind the volcano!”

    “What volcano?” said the King, looking up anxiously into the fire, as
    if he thought that was the most likely place to find one.

    “Blew—me—up,” panted the Queen, who was still a little out of breath.
    “Mind you come up—the regular way—don’t get blown up!”

    Alice watched the White King as he slowly struggled up from bar to bar,
    till at last she said, “Why, you’ll be hours and hours getting to the
    table, at that rate. I’d far better help you, hadn’t I?” But the King
    took no notice of the question: it was quite clear that he could
    neither hear her nor see her.

    So Alice picked him up very gently, and lifted him across more slowly
    than she had lifted the Queen, that she mightn’t take his breath away:
    but, before she put him on the table, she thought she might as well
    dust him a little, he was so covered with ashes.

    She said afterwards that she had never seen in all her life such a face
    as the King made, when he found himself held in the air by an invisible
    hand, and being dusted: he was far too much astonished to cry out, but
    his eyes and his mouth went on getting larger and larger, and rounder
    and rounder, till her hand shook so with laughing that she nearly let
    him drop upon the floor.

    “Oh! _please_ don’t make such faces, my dear!” she cried out, quite
    forgetting that the King couldn’t hear her. “You make me laugh so that
    I can hardly hold you! And don’t keep your mouth so wide open! All the
    ashes will get into it—there, now I think you’re tidy enough!” she
    added, as she smoothed his hair, and set him upon the table near the
    Queen.

    The King immediately fell flat on his back, and lay perfectly still:
    and Alice was a little alarmed at what she had done, and went round the
    room to see if she could find any water to throw over him. However, she
    could find nothing but a bottle of ink, and when she got back with it
    she found he had recovered, and he and the Queen were talking together
    in a frightened whisper—so low, that Alice could hardly hear what they
    said.

    The King was saying, “I assure you, my dear, I turned cold to the very
    ends of my whiskers!”

    To which the Queen replied, “You haven’t got any whiskers.”

    “The horror of that moment,” the King went on, “I shall never, _never_
    forget!”

    “You will, though,” the Queen said, “if you don’t make a memorandum of
    it.”

    Alice looked on with great interest as the King took an enormous
    memorandum-book out of his pocket, and began writing. A sudden thought
    struck her, and she took hold of the end of the pencil, which came some
    way over his shoulder, and began writing for him.

    The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, and struggled with the pencil
    for some time without saying anything; but Alice was too strong for
    him, and at last he panted out, “My dear! I really _must_ get a thinner
    pencil. I can’t manage this one a bit; it writes all manner of things
    that I don’t intend—”

    “What manner of things?” said the Queen, looking over the book (in
    which Alice had put “_The White Knight is sliding down the poker. He
    balances very badly_”) “That’s not a memorandum of _your_ feelings!”

    There was a book lying near Alice on the table, and while she sat
    watching the White King (for she was still a little anxious about him,
    and had the ink all ready to throw over him, in case he fainted again),
    she turned over the leaves, to find some part that she could read,
    “—for it’s all in some language I don’t know,” she said to herself.

    It was like this.

    .YKCOWREBBAJ

    sevot yhtils eht dna, gillirb sawT’
    ebaw eht ni elbmig dna eryg diD
    ,sevogorob eht erew ysmim llA
    .ebargtuo shtar emom eht dnA

    She puzzled over this for some time, but at last a bright thought
    struck her. “Why, it’s a Looking-glass book, of course! And if I hold
    it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again.”

    This was the poem that Alice read.

    JABBERWOCKY.

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!”

    He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought—
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

    And as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

    “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
    He chortled in his joy.

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    “It seems very pretty,” she said when she had finished it, “but it’s
    _rather_ hard to understand!” (You see she didn’t like to confess, even
    to herself, that she couldn’t make it out at all.) “Somehow it seems to
    fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are!
    However, _somebody_ killed _something_: that’s clear, at any rate—”

    “But oh!” thought Alice, suddenly jumping up, “if I don’t make haste I
    shall have to go back through the Looking-glass, before I’ve seen what
    the rest of the house is like! Let’s have a look at the garden first!”
    She was out of the room in a moment, and ran down stairs—or, at least,
    it wasn’t exactly running, but a new invention of hers for getting down
    stairs quickly and easily, as Alice said to herself. She just kept the
    tips of her fingers on the hand-rail, and floated gently down without
    even touching the stairs with her feet; then she floated on through the
    hall, and would have gone straight out at the door in the same way, if
    she hadn’t caught hold of the door-post. She was getting a little giddy
    with so much floating in the air, and was rather glad to find herself
    walking again in the natural way.

    CHAPTER II.
    The Garden of Live Flowers

    “I should see the garden far better,” said Alice to herself, “if I
    could get to the top of that hill: and here’s a path that leads
    straight to it—at least, no, it doesn’t do that—” (after going a few
    yards along the path, and turning several sharp corners), “but I
    suppose it will at last. But how curiously it twists! It’s more like a
    corkscrew than a path! Well, _this_ turn goes to the hill, I
    suppose—no, it doesn’t! This goes straight back to the house! Well
    then, I’ll try it the other way.”

    And so she did: wandering up and down, and trying turn after turn, but
    always coming back to the house, do what she would. Indeed, once, when
    she turned a corner rather more quickly than usual, she ran against it
    before she could stop herself.

    “It’s no use talking about it,” Alice said, looking up at the house and
    pretending it was arguing with her. “I’m _not_ going in again yet. I
    know I should have to get through the Looking-glass again—back into the
    old room—and there’d be an end of all my adventures!”

    So, resolutely turning her back upon the house, she set out once more
    down the path, determined to keep straight on till she got to the hill.
    For a few minutes all went on well, and she was just saying, “I really
    _shall_ do it this time—” when the path gave a sudden twist and shook
    itself (as she described it afterwards), and the next moment she found
    herself actually walking in at the door.

    “Oh, it’s too bad!” she cried. “I never saw such a house for getting in
    the way! Never!”

    However, there was the hill full in sight, so there was nothing to be
    done but start again. This time she came upon a large flower-bed, with
    a border of daisies, and a willow-tree growing in the middle.

    “O Tiger-lily,” said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving
    gracefully about in the wind, “I _wish_ you could talk!”

    “We _can_ talk,” said the Tiger-lily: “when there’s anybody worth
    talking to.”

    Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite
    seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went
    on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice—almost in a whisper.
    “And can _all_ the flowers talk?”

    “As well as _you_ can,” said the Tiger-lily. “And a great deal louder.”

    “It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,” said the Rose, “and I
    really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, ‘Her face has
    got _some_ sense in it, though it’s not a clever one!’ Still, you’re
    the right colour, and that goes a long way.”

    “I don’t care about the colour,” the Tiger-lily remarked. “If only her
    petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.”

    Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions.
    “Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody
    to take care of you?”

    “There’s the tree in the middle,” said the Rose: “what else is it good
    for?”

    “But what could it do, if any danger came?” Alice asked.

    “It says ‘Bough-wough!’” cried a Daisy: “that’s why its branches are
    called boughs!”

    “Didn’t you know _that_?” cried another Daisy, and here they all began
    shouting together, till the air seemed quite full of little shrill
    voices. “Silence, every one of you!” cried the Tiger-lily, waving
    itself passionately from side to side, and trembling with excitement.
    “They know I can’t get at them!” it panted, bending its quivering head
    towards Alice, “or they wouldn’t dare to do it!”

    “Never mind!” Alice said in a soothing tone, and stooping down to the
    daisies, who were just beginning again, she whispered, “If you don’t
    hold your tongues, I’ll pick you!”

    There was silence in a moment, and several of the pink daisies turned
    white.

    “That’s right!” said the Tiger-lily. “The daisies are worst of all.
    When one speaks, they all begin together, and it’s enough to make one
    wither to hear the way they go on!”

    “How is it you can all talk so nicely?” Alice said, hoping to get it
    into a better temper by a compliment. “I’ve been in many gardens
    before, but none of the flowers could talk.”

    “Put your hand down, and feel the ground,” said the Tiger-lily. “Then
    you’ll know why.”

    Alice did so. “It’s very hard,” she said, “but I don’t see what that
    has to do with it.”

    “In most gardens,” the Tiger-lily said, “they make the beds too soft—so
    that the flowers are always asleep.”

    This sounded a very good reason, and Alice was quite pleased to know
    it. “I never thought of that before!” she said.

    “It’s _my_ opinion that you never think _at all_,” the Rose said in a
    rather severe tone.

    “I never saw anybody that looked stupider,” a Violet said, so suddenly,
    that Alice quite jumped; for it hadn’t spoken before.

    “Hold _your_ tongue!” cried the Tiger-lily. “As if _you_ ever saw
    anybody! You keep your head under the leaves, and snore away there,
    till you know no more what’s going on in the world, than if you were a
    bud!”

    “Are there any more people in the garden besides me?” Alice said, not
    choosing to notice the Rose’s last remark.

    “There’s one other flower in the garden that can move about like you,”
    said the Rose. “I wonder how you do it—” (“You’re always wondering,”
    said the Tiger-lily), “but she’s more bushy than you are.”

    “Is she like me?” Alice asked eagerly, for the thought crossed her
    mind, “There’s another little girl in the garden, somewhere!”

    “Well, she has the same awkward shape as you,” the Rose said, “but
    she’s redder—and her petals are shorter, I think.”

    “Her petals are done up close, almost like a dahlia,” the Tiger-lily
    interrupted: “not tumbled about anyhow, like yours.”

    “But that’s not _your_ fault,” the Rose added kindly: “you’re beginning
    to fade, you know—and then one can’t help one’s petals getting a little
    untidy.”

    Alice didn’t like this idea at all: so, to change the subject, she
    asked “Does she ever come out here?”

    “I daresay you’ll see her soon,” said the Rose. “She’s one of the
    thorny kind.”

    “Where does she wear the thorns?” Alice asked with some curiosity.

    “Why all round her head, of course,” the Rose replied. “I was wondering
    _you_ hadn’t got some too. I thought it was the regular rule.”

    “She’s coming!” cried the Larkspur. “I hear her footstep, thump, thump,
    thump, along the gravel-walk!”

    Alice looked round eagerly, and found that it was the Red Queen. “She’s
    grown a good deal!” was her first remark. She had indeed: when Alice
    first found her in the ashes, she had been only three inches high—and
    here she was, half a head taller than Alice herself!

    “It’s the fresh air that does it,” said the Rose: “wonderfully fine air
    it is, out here.”

    “I think I’ll go and meet her,” said Alice, for, though the flowers
    were interesting enough, she felt that it would be far grander to have
    a talk with a real Queen.

    “You can’t possibly do that,” said the Rose: “_I_ should advise you to
    walk the other way.”

    This sounded nonsense to Alice, so she said nothing, but set off at
    once towards the Red Queen. To her surprise, she lost sight of her in a
    moment, and found herself walking in at the front-door again.

    A little provoked, she drew back, and after looking everywhere for the
    queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she
    would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction.

    It succeeded beautifully. She had not been walking a minute before she
    found herself face to face with the Red Queen, and full in sight of the
    hill she had been so long aiming at.

    “Where do you come from?” said the Red Queen. “And where are you going?
    Look up, speak nicely, and don’t twiddle your fingers all the time.”

    Alice attended to all these directions, and explained, as well as she
    could, that she had lost her way.

    “I don’t know what you mean by _your_ way,” said the Queen: “all the
    ways about here belong to _me_—but why did you come out here at all?”
    she added in a kinder tone. “Curtsey while you’re thinking what to say,
    it saves time.”

    Alice wondered a little at this, but she was too much in awe of the
    Queen to disbelieve it. “I’ll try it when I go home,” she thought to
    herself, “the next time I’m a little late for dinner.”

    “It’s time for you to answer now,” the Queen said, looking at her
    watch: “open your mouth a _little_ wider when you speak, and always say
    ‘your Majesty.’”

    “I only wanted to see what the garden was like, your Majesty—”

    “That’s right,” said the Queen, patting her on the head, which Alice
    didn’t like at all, “though, when you say ‘garden,’—_I’ve_ seen
    gardens, compared with which this would be a wilderness.”

    Alice didn’t dare to argue the point, but went on: “—and I thought I’d
    try and find my way to the top of that hill—”

    “When you say ‘hill,’” the Queen interrupted, “_I_ could show you
    hills, in comparison with which you’d call that a valley.”

    “No, I shouldn’t,” said Alice, surprised into contradicting her at
    last: “a hill _can’t_ be a valley, you know. That would be nonsense—”

    The Red Queen shook her head, “You may call it ‘nonsense’ if you like,”
    she said, “but _I’ve_ heard nonsense, compared with which that would be
    as sensible as a dictionary!”

    Alice curtseyed again, as she was afraid from the Queen’s tone that she
    was a _little_ offended: and they walked on in silence till they got to
    the top of the little hill.

    For some minutes Alice stood without speaking, looking out in all
    directions over the country—and a most curious country it was. There
    were a number of tiny little brooks running straight across it from
    side to side, and the ground between was divided up into squares by a
    number of little green hedges, that reached from brook to brook.

    “I declare it’s marked out just like a large chessboard!” Alice said at
    last. “There ought to be some men moving about somewhere—and so there
    are!” She added in a tone of delight, and her heart began to beat quick
    with excitement as she went on. “It’s a great huge game of chess that’s
    being played—all over the world—if this _is_ the world at all, you
    know. Oh, what fun it is! How I _wish_ I was one of them! I wouldn’t
    mind being a Pawn, if only I might join—though of course I should
    _like_ to be a Queen, best.”

    She glanced rather shyly at the real Queen as she said this, but her
    companion only smiled pleasantly, and said, “That’s easily managed. You
    can be the White Queen’s Pawn, if you like, as Lily’s too young to
    play; and you’re in the Second Square to begin with: when you get to
    the Eighth Square you’ll be a Queen—” Just at this moment, somehow or
    other, they began to run.

    Alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how
    it was that they began: all she remembers is, that they were running
    hand in hand, and the Queen went so fast that it was all she could do
    to keep up with her: and still the Queen kept crying “Faster! Faster!”
    but Alice felt she _could not_ go faster, though she had not breath
    left to say so.

    The most curious part of the thing was, that the trees and the other
    things round them never changed their places at all: however fast they
    went, they never seemed to pass anything. “I wonder if all the things
    move along with us?” thought poor puzzled Alice. And the Queen seemed
    to guess her thoughts, for she cried, “Faster! Don’t try to talk!”

    Not that Alice had any idea of doing _that_. She felt as if she would
    never be able to talk again, she was getting so much out of breath: and
    still the Queen cried “Faster! Faster!” and dragged her along. “Are we
    nearly there?” Alice managed to pant out at last.

    “Nearly there!” the Queen repeated. “Why, we passed it ten minutes ago!
    Faster!” And they ran on for a time in silence, with the wind whistling
    in Alice’s ears, and almost blowing her hair off her head, she fancied.

    “Now! Now!” cried the Queen. “Faster! Faster!” And they went so fast
    that at last they seemed to skim through the air, hardly touching the
    ground with their feet, till suddenly, just as Alice was getting quite
    exhausted, they stopped, and she found herself sitting on the ground,
    breathless and giddy.

    The Queen propped her up against a tree, and said kindly, “You may rest
    a little now.”

    Alice looked round her in great surprise. “Why, I do believe we’ve been
    under this tree the whole time! Everything’s just as it was!”

    “Of course it is,” said the Queen, “what would you have it?”

    “Well, in _our_ country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d
    generally get to somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time,
    as we’ve been doing.”

    “A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, _here_, you see, it
    takes all the running _you_ can do, to keep in the same place. If you
    want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as
    that!”

    “I’d rather not try, please!” said Alice. “I’m quite content to stay
    here—only I _am_ so hot and thirsty!”

    “I know what _you’d_ like!” the Queen said good-naturedly, taking a
    little box out of her pocket. “Have a biscuit?”

    Alice thought it would not be civil to say “No,” though it wasn’t at
    all what she wanted. So she took it, and ate it as well as she could:
    and it was _very_ dry; and she thought she had never been so nearly
    choked in all her life.

    “While you’re refreshing yourself,” said the Queen, “I’ll just take the
    measurements.” And she took a ribbon out of her pocket, marked in
    inches, and began measuring the ground, and sticking little pegs in
    here and there.

    “At the end of two yards,” she said, putting in a peg to mark the
    distance, “I shall give you your directions—have another biscuit?”

    “No, thank you,” said Alice: “one’s _quite_ enough!”

    “Thirst quenched, I hope?” said the Queen.

    Alice did not know what to say to this, but luckily the Queen did not
    wait for an answer, but went on. “At the end of _three_ yards I shall
    repeat them—for fear of your forgetting them. At the end of _four_, I
    shall say good-bye. And at the end of _five_, I shall go!”

    She had got all the pegs put in by this time, and Alice looked on with
    great interest as she returned to the tree, and then began slowly
    walking down the row.

    At the two-yard peg she faced round, and said, “A pawn goes two squares
    in its first move, you know. So you’ll go _very_ quickly through the
    Third Square—by railway, I should think—and you’ll find yourself in the
    Fourth Square in no time. Well, _that_ square belongs to Tweedledum and
    Tweedledee—the Fifth is mostly water—the Sixth belongs to Humpty
    Dumpty—But you make no remark?”

    “I—I didn’t know I had to make one—just then,” Alice faltered out.

    “You _should_ have said, ‘It’s extremely kind of you to tell me all
    this’—however, we’ll suppose it said—the Seventh Square is all
    forest—however, one of the Knights will show you the way—and in the
    Eighth Square we shall be Queens together, and it’s all feasting and
    fun!” Alice got up and curtseyed, and sat down again.

    At the next peg the Queen turned again, and this time she said, “Speak
    in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing—turn out your
    toes as you walk—and remember who you are!” She did not wait for Alice
    to curtsey this time, but walked on quickly to the next peg, where she
    turned for a moment to say “good-bye,” and then hurried on to the last.

    How it happened, Alice never knew, but exactly as she came to the last
    peg, she was gone. Whether she vanished into the air, or whether she
    ran quickly into the wood (“and she _can_ run very fast!” thought
    Alice), there was no way of guessing, but she was gone, and Alice began
    to remember that she was a Pawn, and that it would soon be time for her
    to move.

    CHAPTER III.
    Looking-Glass Insects

    Of course the first thing to do was to make a grand survey of the
    country she was going to travel through. “It’s something very like
    learning geography,” thought Alice, as she stood on tiptoe in hopes of
    being able to see a little further. “Principal rivers—there _are_ none.
    Principal mountains—I’m on the only one, but I don’t think it’s got any
    name. Principal towns—why, what _are_ those creatures, making honey
    down there? They can’t be bees—nobody ever saw bees a mile off, you
    know—” and for some time she stood silent, watching one of them that
    was bustling about among the flowers, poking its proboscis into them,
    “just as if it was a regular bee,” thought Alice.

    However, this was anything but a regular bee: in fact it was an
    elephant—as Alice soon found out, though the idea quite took her breath
    away at first. “And what enormous flowers they must be!” was her next
    idea. “Something like cottages with the roofs taken off, and stalks put
    to them—and what quantities of honey they must make! I think I’ll go
    down and—no, I won’t _just_ yet,” she went on, checking herself just as
    she was beginning to run down the hill, and trying to find some excuse
    for turning shy so suddenly. “It’ll never do to go down among them
    without a good long branch to brush them away—and what fun it’ll be
    when they ask me how I like my walk. I shall say—‘Oh, I like it well
    enough—’” (here came the favourite little toss of the head), “‘only it
    was so dusty and hot, and the elephants did tease so!’”

    “I think I’ll go down the other way,” she said after a pause: “and
    perhaps I may visit the elephants later on. Besides, I do so want to
    get into the Third Square!”

    So with this excuse she ran down the hill and jumped over the first of
    the six little brooks.

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    “Tickets, please!” said the Guard, putting his head in at the window.
    In a moment everybody was holding out a ticket: they were about the
    same size as the people, and quite seemed to fill the carriage.

    “Now then! Show your ticket, child!” the Guard went on, looking angrily
    at Alice. And a great many voices all said together (“like the chorus
    of a song,” thought Alice), “Don’t keep him waiting, child! Why, his
    time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!”

    “I’m afraid I haven’t got one,” Alice said in a frightened tone: “there
    wasn’t a ticket-office where I came from.” And again the chorus of
    voices went on. “There wasn’t room for one where she came from. The
    land there is worth a thousand pounds an inch!”

    “Don’t make excuses,” said the Guard: “you should have bought one from
    the engine-driver.” And once more the chorus of voices went on with
    “The man that drives the engine. Why, the smoke alone is worth a
    thousand pounds a puff!”

    Alice thought to herself, “Then there’s no use in speaking.” The voices
    didn’t join in this time, as she hadn’t spoken, but to her great
    surprise, they all _thought_ in chorus (I hope you understand what
    _thinking in chorus_ means—for I must confess that _I_ don’t), “Better
    say nothing at all. Language is worth a thousand pounds a word!”

    “I shall dream about a thousand pounds tonight, I know I shall!”
    thought Alice.

    All this time the Guard was looking at her, first through a telescope,
    then through a microscope, and then through an opera-glass. At last he
    said, “You’re travelling the wrong way,” and shut up the window and
    went away.

    “So young a child,” said the gentleman sitting opposite to her (he was
    dressed in white paper), “ought to know which way she’s going, even if
    she doesn’t know her own name!”

    A Goat, that was sitting next to the gentleman in white, shut his eyes
    and said in a loud voice, “She ought to know her way to the
    ticket-office, even if she doesn’t know her alphabet!”

    There was a Beetle sitting next to the Goat (it was a very queer
    carriage-full of passengers altogether), and, as the rule seemed to be
    that they should all speak in turn, _he_ went on with “She’ll have to
    go back from here as luggage!”

    Alice couldn’t see who was sitting beyond the Beetle, but a hoarse
    voice spoke next. “Change engines—” it said, and was obliged to leave
    off.

    “It sounds like a horse,” Alice thought to herself. And an extremely
    small voice, close to her ear, said, “You might make a joke on
    that—something about ‘horse’ and ‘hoarse,’ you know.”

    Then a very gentle voice in the distance said, “She must be labelled
    ‘Lass, with care,’ you know—”

    And after that other voices went on (“What a number of people there are
    in the carriage!” thought Alice), saying, “She must go by post, as
    she’s got a head on her—” “She must be sent as a message by the
    telegraph—” “She must draw the train herself the rest of the way—” and
    so on.

    But the gentleman dressed in white paper leaned forwards and whispered
    in her ear, “Never mind what they all say, my dear, but take a
    return-ticket every time the train stops.”

    “Indeed I shan’t!” Alice said rather impatiently. “I don’t belong to
    this railway journey at all—I was in a wood just now—and I wish I could
    get back there.”

    “You might make a joke on _that_,” said the little voice close to her
    ear: “something about ‘you _would_ if you could,’ you know.”

    “Don’t tease so,” said Alice, looking about in vain to see where the
    voice came from; “if you’re so anxious to have a joke made, why don’t
    you make one yourself?”

    The little voice sighed deeply: it was _very_ unhappy, evidently, and
    Alice would have said something pitying to comfort it, “If it would
    only sigh like other people!” she thought. But this was such a
    wonderfully small sigh, that she wouldn’t have heard it at all, if it
    hadn’t come _quite_ close to her ear. The consequence of this was that
    it tickled her ear very much, and quite took off her thoughts from the
    unhappiness of the poor little creature.

    “I know you are a friend,” the little voice went on; “a dear friend,
    and an old friend. And you won’t hurt me, though I _am_ an insect.”

    “What kind of insect?” Alice inquired a little anxiously. What she
    really wanted to know was, whether it could sting or not, but she
    thought this wouldn’t be quite a civil question to ask.

    “What, then you don’t—” the little voice began, when it was drowned by
    a shrill scream from the engine, and everybody jumped up in alarm,
    Alice among the rest.

    The Horse, who had put his head out of the window, quietly drew it in
    and said, “It’s only a brook we have to jump over.” Everybody seemed
    satisfied with this, though Alice felt a little nervous at the idea of
    trains jumping at all. “However, it’ll take us into the Fourth Square,
    that’s some comfort!” she said to herself. In another moment she felt
    the carriage rise straight up into the air, and in her fright she
    caught at the thing nearest to her hand, which happened to be the
    Goat’s beard.

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    But the beard seemed to melt away as she touched it, and she found
    herself sitting quietly under a tree—while the Gnat (for that was the
    insect she had been talking to) was balancing itself on a twig just
    over her head, and fanning her with its wings.

    It certainly was a _very_ large Gnat: “about the size of a chicken,”
    Alice thought. Still, she couldn’t feel nervous with it, after they had
    been talking together so long.

    “—then you don’t like all insects?” the Gnat went on, as quietly as if
    nothing had happened.

    “I like them when they can talk,” Alice said. “None of them ever talk,
    where _I_ come from.”

    “What sort of insects do you rejoice in, where _you_ come from?” the
    Gnat inquired.

    “I don’t _rejoice_ in insects at all,” Alice explained, “because I’m
    rather afraid of them—at least the large kinds. But I can tell you the
    names of some of them.”

    “Of course they answer to their names?” the Gnat remarked carelessly.

    “I never knew them to do it.”

    “What’s the use of their having names,” the Gnat said, “if they won’t
    answer to them?”

    “No use to _them_,” said Alice; “but it’s useful to the people who name
    them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all?”

    “I can’t say,” the Gnat replied. “Further on, in the wood down there,
    they’ve got no names—however, go on with your list of insects: you’re
    wasting time.”

    “Well, there’s the Horse-fly,” Alice began, counting off the names on
    her fingers.

    “All right,” said the Gnat: “half way up that bush, you’ll see a
    Rocking-horse-fly, if you look. It’s made entirely of wood, and gets
    about by swinging itself from branch to branch.”

    “What does it live on?” Alice asked, with great curiosity.

    “Sap and sawdust,” said the Gnat. “Go on with the list.”

    Alice looked up at the Rocking-horse-fly with great interest, and made
    up her mind that it must have been just repainted, it looked so bright
    and sticky; and then she went on.

    “And there’s the Dragon-fly.”

    “Look on the branch above your head,” said the Gnat, “and there you’ll
    find a snap-dragon-fly. Its body is made of plum-pudding, its wings of
    holly-leaves, and its head is a raisin burning in brandy.”

    “And what does it live on?”

    “Frumenty and mince pie,” the Gnat replied; “and it makes its nest in a
    Christmas box.”

    “And then there’s the Butterfly,” Alice went on, after she had taken a
    good look at the insect with its head on fire, and had thought to
    herself, “I wonder if that’s the reason insects are so fond of flying
    into candles—because they want to turn into Snap-dragon-flies!”

    “Crawling at your feet,” said the Gnat (Alice drew her feet back in
    some alarm), “you may observe a Bread-and-Butterfly. Its wings are thin
    slices of Bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump
    of sugar.”

    “And what does _it_ live on?”

    “Weak tea with cream in it.”

    A new difficulty came into Alice’s head. “Supposing it couldn’t find
    any?” she suggested.

    “Then it would die, of course.”

    “But that must happen very often,” Alice remarked thoughtfully.

    “It always happens,” said the Gnat.

    After this, Alice was silent for a minute or two, pondering. The Gnat
    amused itself meanwhile by humming round and round her head: at last it
    settled again and remarked, “I suppose you don’t want to lose your
    name?”

    “No, indeed,” Alice said, a little anxiously.

    “And yet I don’t know,” the Gnat went on in a careless tone: “only
    think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without
    it! For instance, if the governess wanted to call you to your lessons,
    she would call out ‘come here—,’ and there she would have to leave off,
    because there wouldn’t be any name for her to call, and of course you
    wouldn’t have to go, you know.”

    “That would never do, I’m sure,” said Alice: “the governess would never
    think of excusing me lessons for that. If she couldn’t remember my
    name, she’d call me ‘Miss!’ as the servants do.”

    “Well, if she said ‘Miss,’ and didn’t say anything more,” the Gnat
    remarked, “of course you’d miss your lessons. That’s a joke. I wish
    _you_ had made it.”

    “Why do you wish _I_ had made it?” Alice asked. “It’s a very bad one.”

    But the Gnat only sighed deeply, while two large tears came rolling
    down its cheeks.

    “You shouldn’t make jokes,” Alice said, “if it makes you so unhappy.”

    Then came another of those melancholy little sighs, and this time the
    poor Gnat really seemed to have sighed itself away, for, when Alice
    looked up, there was nothing whatever to be seen on the twig, and, as
    she was getting quite chilly with sitting still so long, she got up and
    walked on.

    She very soon came to an open field, with a wood on the other side of
    it: it looked much darker than the last wood, and Alice felt a _little_
    timid about going into it. However, on second thoughts, she made up her
    mind to go on: “for I certainly won’t go _back_,” she thought to
    herself, and this was the only way to the Eighth Square.

    “This must be the wood,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “where
    things have no names. I wonder what’ll become of _my_ name when I go
    in? I shouldn’t like to lose it at all—because they’d have to give me
    another, and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one. But then the
    fun would be trying to find the creature that had got my old name!
    That’s just like the advertisements, you know, when people lose
    dogs—‘_answers to the name of “Dash:” had on a brass collar_’—just
    fancy calling everything you met ‘Alice,’ till one of them answered!
    Only they wouldn’t answer at all, if they were wise.”

    She was rambling on in this way when she reached the wood: it looked
    very cool and shady. “Well, at any rate it’s a great comfort,” she said
    as she stepped under the trees, “after being so hot, to get into
    the—into _what_?” she went on, rather surprised at not being able to
    think of the word. “I mean to get under the—under the—under _this_, you
    know!” putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. “What _does_ it call
    itself, I wonder? I do believe it’s got no name—why, to be sure it
    hasn’t!”

    She stood silent for a minute, thinking: then she suddenly began again.
    “Then it really _has_ happened, after all! And now, who am I? I _will_
    remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!” But being determined
    didn’t help much, and all she could say, after a great deal of
    puzzling, was, “L, I _know_ it begins with L!”

    Just then a Fawn came wandering by: it looked at Alice with its large
    gentle eyes, but didn’t seem at all frightened. “Here then! Here then!”
    Alice said, as she held out her hand and tried to stroke it; but it
    only started back a little, and then stood looking at her again.

    “What do you call yourself?” the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet
    voice it had!

    “I wish I knew!” thought poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly,
    “Nothing, just now.”

    “Think again,” it said: “that won’t do.”

    Alice thought, but nothing came of it. “Please, would you tell me what
    _you_ call yourself?” she said timidly. “I think that might help a
    little.”

    “I’ll tell you, if you’ll move a little further on,” the Fawn said. “I
    can’t remember here.”

    So they walked on together though the wood, Alice with her arms clasped
    lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into
    another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air,
    and shook itself free from Alice’s arms. “I’m a Fawn!” it cried out in
    a voice of delight, “and, dear me! you’re a human child!” A sudden look
    of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it
    had darted away at full speed.

    Alice stood looking after it, almost ready to cry with vexation at
    having lost her dear little fellow-traveller so suddenly. “However, I
    know my name now.” she said, “that’s _some_ comfort. Alice—Alice—I
    won’t forget it again. And now, which of these finger-posts ought I to
    follow, I wonder?”

    It was not a very difficult question to answer, as there was only one
    road through the wood, and the two finger-posts both pointed along it.
    “I’ll settle it,” Alice said to herself, “when the road divides and
    they point different ways.”

    But this did not seem likely to happen. She went on and on, a long way,
    but wherever the road divided there were sure to be two finger-posts
    pointing the same way, one marked “TO TWEEDLEDUM’S HOUSE” and the other
    “TO THE HOUSE OF TWEEDLEDEE.”

    “I do believe,” said Alice at last, “that they live in the same house!
    I wonder I never thought of that before—But I can’t stay there long.
    I’ll just call and say ‘how d’you do?’ and ask them the way out of the
    wood. If I could only get to the Eighth Square before it gets dark!” So
    she wandered on, talking to herself as she went, till, on turning a
    sharp corner, she came upon two fat little men, so suddenly that she
    could not help starting back, but in another moment she recovered
    herself, feeling sure that they must be

    CHAPTER IV.
    Tweedledum And Tweedledee

    They were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other’s
    neck, and Alice knew which was which in a moment, because one of them
    had “DUM” embroidered on his collar, and the other “DEE.” “I suppose
    they’ve each got ‘TWEEDLE’ round at the back of the collar,” she said
    to herself.

    They stood so still that she quite forgot they were alive, and she was
    just looking round to see if the word ‘TWEEDLE’ was written at the back
    of each collar, when she was startled by a voice coming from the one
    marked “DUM.”

    “If you think we’re wax-works,” he said, “you ought to pay, you know.
    Wax-works weren’t made to be looked at for nothing, nohow!”

    “Contrariwise,” added the one marked “DEE,” “if you think we’re alive,
    you ought to speak.”

    “I’m sure I’m very sorry,” was all Alice could say; for the words of
    the old song kept ringing through her head like the ticking of a clock,
    and she could hardly help saying them out loud:—

    “Tweedledum and Tweedledee
    Agreed to have a battle;
    For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
    Had spoiled his nice new rattle.

    Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
    As black as a tar-barrel;
    Which frightened both the heroes so,
    They quite forgot their quarrel.”

    “I know what you’re thinking about,” said Tweedledum: “but it isn’t so,
    nohow.”

    “Contrariwise,” continued Tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and
    if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”

    “I was thinking,” Alice said very politely, “which is the best way out
    of this wood: it’s getting so dark. Would you tell me, please?”

    But the little men only looked at each other and grinned.

    They looked so exactly like a couple of great schoolboys, that Alice
    couldn’t help pointing her finger at Tweedledum, and saying “First
    Boy!”

    “Nohow!” Tweedledum cried out briskly, and shut his mouth up again with
    a snap.

    “Next Boy!” said Alice, passing on to Tweedledee, though she felt quite
    certain he would only shout out “Contrariwise!” and so he did.

    “You’ve been wrong!” cried Tweedledum. “The first thing in a visit is
    to say ‘How d’ye do?’ and shake hands!” And here the two brothers gave
    each other a hug, and then they held out the two hands that were free,
    to shake hands with her.

    Alice did not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of
    hurting the other one’s feelings; so, as the best way out of the
    difficulty, she took hold of both hands at once: the next moment they
    were dancing round in a ring. This seemed quite natural (she remembered
    afterwards), and she was not even surprised to hear music playing: it
    seemed to come from the tree under which they were dancing, and it was
    done (as well as she could make it out) by the branches rubbing one
    across the other, like fiddles and fiddle-sticks.

    “But it certainly _was_ funny,” (Alice said afterwards, when she was
    telling her sister the history of all this,) “to find myself singing
    ‘_Here we go round the mulberry bush_.’ I don’t know when I began it,
    but somehow I felt as if I’d been singing it a long long time!”

    The other two dancers were fat, and very soon out of breath. “Four
    times round is enough for one dance,” Tweedledum panted out, and they
    left off dancing as suddenly as they had begun: the music stopped at
    the same moment.

    Then they let go of Alice’s hands, and stood looking at her for a
    minute: there was a rather awkward pause, as Alice didn’t know how to
    begin a conversation with people she had just been dancing with. “It
    would never do to say ‘How d’ye do?’ _now_,” she said to herself: “we
    seem to have got beyond that, somehow!”

    “I hope you’re not much tired?” she said at last.

    “Nohow. And thank you _very_ much for asking,” said Tweedledum.

    “So _much_ obliged!” added Tweedledee. “You like poetry?”

    “Ye-es, pretty well—_some_ poetry,” Alice said doubtfully. “Would you
    tell me which road leads out of the wood?”

    “What shall I repeat to her?” said Tweedledee, looking round at
    Tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing Alice’s question.

    “‘_The Walrus and the Carpenter_’ is the longest,” Tweedledum replied,
    giving his brother an affectionate hug.

    Tweedledee began instantly:

    “The sun was shining—”

    Here Alice ventured to interrupt him. “If it’s _very_ long,” she said,
    as politely as she could, “would you please tell me first which road—”

    Tweedledee smiled gently, and began again:

    “The sun was shining on the sea,
    Shining with all his might:
    He did his very best to make
    The billows smooth and bright—
    And this was odd, because it was
    The middle of the night.

    The moon was shining sulkily,
    Because she thought the sun
    Had got no business to be there
    After the day was done—
    ‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said,
    ‘To come and spoil the fun!’

    The sea was wet as wet could be,
    The sands were dry as dry.
    You could not see a cloud, because
    No cloud was in the sky:
    No birds were flying over head—
    There were no birds to fly.

    The Walrus and the Carpenter
    Were walking close at hand;
    They wept like anything to see
    Such quantities of sand:
    ‘If this were only cleared away,’
    They said, ‘it _would_ be grand!’

    ‘If seven maids with seven mops
    Swept it for half a year,
    Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
    ‘That they could get it clear?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter,
    And shed a bitter tear.

    ‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’
    The Walrus did beseech.
    ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
    Along the briny beach:
    We cannot do with more than four,
    To give a hand to each.’

    The eldest Oyster looked at him.
    But never a word he said:
    The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
    And shook his heavy head—
    Meaning to say he did not choose
    To leave the oyster-bed.

    But four young oysters hurried up,
    All eager for the treat:
    Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
    Their shoes were clean and neat—
    And this was odd, because, you know,
    They hadn’t any feet.

    Four other Oysters followed them,
    And yet another four;
    And thick and fast they came at last,
    And more, and more, and more—
    All hopping through the frothy waves,
    And scrambling to the shore.

    The Walrus and the Carpenter
    Walked on a mile or so,
    And then they rested on a rock
    Conveniently low:
    And all the little Oysters stood
    And waited in a row.

    ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
    ‘To talk of many things:
    Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
    Of cabbages—and kings—
    And why the sea is boiling hot—
    And whether pigs have wings.’

    ‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried,
    ‘Before we have our chat;
    For some of us are out of breath,
    And all of us are fat!’
    ‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter.
    They thanked him much for that.

    ‘A loaf of bread,’ the Walrus said,
    ‘Is what we chiefly need:
    Pepper and vinegar besides
    Are very good indeed—
    Now if you’re ready Oysters dear,
    We can begin to feed.’

    ‘But not on us!’ the Oysters cried,
    Turning a little blue,
    ‘After such kindness, that would be
    A dismal thing to do!’
    ‘The night is fine,’ the Walrus said
    ‘Do you admire the view?

    ‘It was so kind of you to come!
    And you are very nice!’
    The Carpenter said nothing but
    ‘Cut us another slice:
    I wish you were not quite so deaf—
    I’ve had to ask you twice!’

    ‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said,
    ‘To play them such a trick,
    After we’ve brought them out so far,
    And made them trot so quick!’
    The Carpenter said nothing but
    ‘The butter’s spread too thick!’

    ‘I weep for you,’ the Walrus said.
    ‘I deeply sympathize.’
    With sobs and tears he sorted out
    Those of the largest size.
    Holding his pocket handkerchief
    Before his streaming eyes.

    ‘O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter.
    ‘You’ve had a pleasant run!
    Shall we be trotting home again?’
    But answer came there none—
    And that was scarcely odd, because
    They’d eaten every one.”

    “I like the Walrus best,” said Alice: “because you see he was a
    _little_ sorry for the poor oysters.”

    “He ate more than the Carpenter, though,” said Tweedledee. “You see he
    held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn’t count
    how many he took: contrariwise.”

    “That was mean!” Alice said indignantly. “Then I like the Carpenter
    best—if he didn’t eat so many as the Walrus.”

    “But he ate as many as he could get,” said Tweedledum.

    This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, “Well! They were _both_
    very unpleasant characters—” Here she checked herself in some alarm, at
    hearing something that sounded to her like the puffing of a large
    steam-engine in the wood near them, though she feared it was more
    likely to be a wild beast. “Are there any lions or tigers about here?”
    she asked timidly.

    “It’s only the Red King snoring,” said Tweedledee.

    “Come and look at him!” the brothers cried, and they each took one of
    Alice’s hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping.

    “Isn’t he a _lovely_ sight?” said Tweedledum.

    Alice couldn’t say honestly that he was. He had a tall red night-cap
    on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy
    heap, and snoring loud—“fit to snore his head off!” as Tweedledum
    remarked.

    “I’m afraid he’ll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,” said Alice,
    who was a very thoughtful little girl.

    “He’s dreaming now,” said Tweedledee: “and what do you think he’s
    dreaming about?”

    Alice said “Nobody can guess that.”

    “Why, about _you_!” Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands
    triumphantly. “And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you
    suppose you’d be?”

    “Where I am now, of course,” said Alice.

    “Not you!” Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. “You’d be nowhere. Why,
    you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!”

    “If that there King was to wake,” added Tweedledum, “you’d go
    out—bang!—just like a candle!”

    “I shouldn’t!” Alice exclaimed indignantly. “Besides, if _I’m_ only a
    sort of thing in his dream, what are _you_, I should like to know?”

    “Ditto” said Tweedledum.

    “Ditto, ditto” cried Tweedledee.

    He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn’t help saying, “Hush! You’ll
    be waking him, I’m afraid, if you make so much noise.”

    “Well, it no use _your_ talking about waking him,” said Tweedledum,
    “when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well
    you’re not real.”

    “I _am_ real!” said Alice and began to cry.

    “You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying,” Tweedledee remarked:
    “there’s nothing to cry about.”

    “If I wasn’t real,” Alice said—half-laughing through her tears, it all
    seemed so ridiculous—“I shouldn’t be able to cry.”

    “I hope you don’t suppose those are real tears?” Tweedledum interrupted
    in a tone of great contempt.

    “I know they’re talking nonsense,” Alice thought to herself: “and it’s
    foolish to cry about it.” So she brushed away her tears, and went on as
    cheerfully as she could. “At any rate I’d better be getting out of the
    wood, for really it’s coming on very dark. Do you think it’s going to
    rain?”

    Tweedledum spread a large umbrella over himself and his brother, and
    looked up into it. “No, I don’t think it is,” he said: “at least—not
    under _here_. Nohow.”

    “But it may rain _outside_?”

    “It may—if it chooses,” said Tweedledee: “we’ve no objection.
    Contrariwise.”

    “Selfish things!” thought Alice, and she was just going to say
    “Good-night” and leave them, when Tweedledum sprang out from under the
    umbrella and seized her by the wrist.

    “Do you see _that_?” he said, in a voice choking with passion, and his
    eyes grew large and yellow all in a moment, as he pointed with a
    trembling finger at a small white thing lying under the tree.

    “It’s only a rattle,” Alice said, after a careful examination of the
    little white thing. “Not a rattle-_snake_, you know,” she added
    hastily, thinking that he was frightened: “only an old rattle—quite old
    and broken.”

    “I knew it was!” cried Tweedledum, beginning to stamp about wildly and
    tear his hair. “It’s spoilt, of course!” Here he looked at Tweedledee,
    who immediately sat down on the ground, and tried to hide himself under
    the umbrella.

    Alice laid her hand upon his arm, and said in a soothing tone, “You
    needn’t be so angry about an old rattle.”

    “But it isn’t old!” Tweedledum cried, in a greater fury than ever.
    “It’s new, I tell you—I bought it yesterday—my nice new RATTLE!” and
    his voice rose to a perfect scream.

    All this time Tweedledee was trying his best to fold up the umbrella,
    with himself in it: which was such an extraordinary thing to do, that
    it quite took off Alice’s attention from the angry brother. But he
    couldn’t quite succeed, and it ended in his rolling over, bundled up in
    the umbrella, with only his head out: and there he lay, opening and
    shutting his mouth and his large eyes—“looking more like a fish than
    anything else,” Alice thought.

    “Of course you agree to have a battle?” Tweedledum said in a calmer
    tone.

    “I suppose so,” the other sulkily replied, as he crawled out of the
    umbrella: “only _she_ must help us to dress up, you know.”

    So the two brothers went off hand-in-hand into the wood, and returned
    in a minute with their arms full of things—such as bolsters, blankets,
    hearth-rugs, table-cloths, dish-covers and coal-scuttles. “I hope
    you’re a good hand at pinning and tying strings?” Tweedledum remarked.
    “Every one of these things has got to go on, somehow or other.”

    Alice said afterwards she had never seen such a fuss made about
    anything in all her life—the way those two bustled about—and the
    quantity of things they put on—and the trouble they gave her in tying
    strings and fastening buttons—“Really they’ll be more like bundles of
    old clothes than anything else, by the time they’re ready!” she said to
    herself, as she arranged a bolster round the neck of Tweedledee, “to
    keep his head from being cut off,” as he said.

    “You know,” he added very gravely, “it’s one of the most serious things
    that can possibly happen to one in a battle—to get one’s head cut off.”

    Alice laughed aloud: but she managed to turn it into a cough, for fear
    of hurting his feelings.

    “Do I look very pale?” said Tweedledum, coming up to have his helmet
    tied on. (He _called_ it a helmet, though it certainly looked much more
    like a saucepan.)

    “Well—yes—a _little_,” Alice replied gently.

    “I’m very brave generally,” he went on in a low voice: “only to-day I
    happen to have a headache.”

    “And _I’ve_ got a toothache!” said Tweedledee, who had overheard the
    remark. “I’m far worse off than you!”

    “Then you’d better not fight to-day,” said Alice, thinking it a good
    opportunity to make peace.

    “We _must_ have a bit of a fight, but I don’t care about going on
    long,” said Tweedledum. “What’s the time now?”

    Tweedledee looked at his watch, and said “Half-past four.”

    “Let’s fight till six, and then have dinner,” said Tweedledum.

    “Very well,” the other said, rather sadly: “and _she_ can watch us—only
    you’d better not come _very_ close,” he added: “I generally hit
    everything I can see—when I get really excited.”

    “And _I_ hit everything within reach,” cried Tweedledum, “whether I can
    see it or not!”

    Alice laughed. “You must hit the _trees_ pretty often, I should think,”
    she said.

    Tweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. “I don’t suppose,”
    he said, “there’ll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by
    the time we’ve finished!”

    “And all about a rattle!” said Alice, still hoping to make them a
    _little_ ashamed of fighting for such a trifle.

    “I shouldn’t have minded it so much,” said Tweedledum, “if it hadn’t
    been a new one.”

    “I wish the monstrous crow would come!” thought Alice.

    “There’s only one sword, you know,” Tweedledum said to his brother:
    “but you can have the umbrella—it’s quite as sharp. Only we must begin
    quick. It’s getting as dark as it can.”

    “And darker,” said Tweedledee.

    It was getting dark so suddenly that Alice thought there must be a
    thunderstorm coming on. “What a thick black cloud that is!” she said.
    “And how fast it comes! Why, I do believe it’s got wings!”

    “It’s the crow!” Tweedledum cried out in a shrill voice of alarm: and
    the two brothers took to their heels and were out of sight in a moment.

    Alice ran a little way into the wood, and stopped under a large tree.
    “It can never get at me _here_,” she thought: “it’s far too large to
    squeeze itself in among the trees. But I wish it wouldn’t flap its
    wings so—it makes quite a hurricane in the wood—here’s somebody’s shawl
    being blown away!”

    CHAPTER V.
    Wool and Water

    She caught the shawl as she spoke, and looked about for the owner: in
    another moment the White Queen came running wildly through the wood,
    with both arms stretched out wide, as if she were flying, and Alice
    very civilly went to meet her with the shawl.

    “I’m very glad I happened to be in the way,” Alice said, as she helped
    her to put on her shawl again.

    The White Queen only looked at her in a helpless frightened sort of
    way, and kept repeating something in a whisper to herself that sounded
    like “bread-and-butter, bread-and-butter,” and Alice felt that if there
    was to be any conversation at all, she must manage it herself. So she
    began rather timidly: “Am I addressing the White Queen?”

    “Well, yes, if you call that a-dressing,” The Queen said. “It isn’t
    _my_ notion of the thing, at all.”

    Alice thought it would never do to have an argument at the very
    beginning of their conversation, so she smiled and said, “If your
    Majesty will only tell me the right way to begin, I’ll do it as well as
    I can.”

    “But I don’t want it done at all!” groaned the poor Queen. “I’ve been
    a-dressing myself for the last two hours.”

    It would have been all the better, as it seemed to Alice, if she had
    got some one else to dress her, she was so dreadfully untidy. “Every
    single thing’s crooked,” Alice thought to herself, “and she’s all over
    pins!—may I put your shawl straight for you?” she added aloud.

    “I don’t know what’s the matter with it!” the Queen said, in a
    melancholy voice. “It’s out of temper, I think. I’ve pinned it here,
    and I’ve pinned it there, but there’s no pleasing it!”

    “It _can’t_ go straight, you know, if you pin it all on one side,”
    Alice said, as she gently put it right for her; “and, dear me, what a
    state your hair is in!”

    “The brush has got entangled in it!” the Queen said with a sigh. “And I
    lost the comb yesterday.”

    Alice carefully released the brush, and did her best to get the hair
    into order. “Come, you look rather better now!” she said, after
    altering most of the pins. “But really you should have a lady’s maid!”

    “I’m sure I’ll take you with pleasure!” the Queen said. “Twopence a
    week, and jam every other day.”

    Alice couldn’t help laughing, as she said, “I don’t want you to hire
    _me_—and I don’t care for jam.”

    “It’s very good jam,” said the Queen.

    “Well, I don’t want any _to-day_, at any rate.”

    “You couldn’t have it if you _did_ want it,” the Queen said. “The rule
    is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday—but never jam to-day.”

    “It _must_ come sometimes to ‘jam to-day,’” Alice objected.

    “No, it can’t,” said the Queen. “It’s jam every _other_ day: to-day
    isn’t any _other_ day, you know.”

    “I don’t understand you,” said Alice. “It’s dreadfully confusing!”

    “That’s the effect of living backwards,” the Queen said kindly: “it
    always makes one a little giddy at first—”

    “Living backwards!” Alice repeated in great astonishment. “I never
    heard of such a thing!”

    “—but there’s one great advantage in it, that one’s memory works both
    ways.”

    “I’m sure _mine_ only works one way,” Alice remarked. “I can’t remember
    things before they happen.”

    “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,” the Queen
    remarked.

    “What sort of things do _you_ remember best?” Alice ventured to ask.

    “Oh, things that happened the week after next,” the Queen replied in a
    careless tone. “For instance, now,” she went on, sticking a large piece
    of plaster on her finger as she spoke, “there’s the King’s Messenger.
    He’s in prison now, being punished: and the trial doesn’t even begin
    till next Wednesday: and of course the crime comes last of all.”

    “Suppose he never commits the crime?” said Alice.

    “That would be all the better, wouldn’t it?” the Queen said, as she
    bound the plaster round her finger with a bit of ribbon.

    Alice felt there was no denying _that_. “Of course it would be all the
    better,” she said: “but it wouldn’t be all the better his being
    punished.”

    “You’re wrong _there_, at any rate,” said the Queen: “were _you_ ever
    punished?”

    “Only for faults,” said Alice.

    “And you were all the better for it, I know!” the Queen said
    triumphantly.

    “Yes, but then I _had_ done the things I was punished for,” said Alice:
    “that makes all the difference.”

    “But if you _hadn’t_ done them,” the Queen said, “that would have been
    better still; better, and better, and better!” Her voice went higher
    with each “better,” till it got quite to a squeak at last.

    Alice was just beginning to say “There’s a mistake somewhere—,” when
    the Queen began screaming so loud that she had to leave the sentence
    unfinished. “Oh, oh, oh!” shouted the Queen, shaking her hand about as
    if she wanted to shake it off. “My finger’s bleeding! Oh, oh, oh, oh!”

    Her screams were so exactly like the whistle of a steam-engine, that
    Alice had to hold both her hands over her ears.

    “What _is_ the matter?” she said, as soon as there was a chance of
    making herself heard. “Have you pricked your finger?”

    “I haven’t pricked it _yet_,” the Queen said, “but I soon shall—oh, oh,
    oh!”

    “When do you expect to do it?” Alice asked, feeling very much inclined
    to laugh.

    “When I fasten my shawl again,” the poor Queen groaned out: “the brooch
    will come undone directly. Oh, oh!” As she said the words the brooch
    flew open, and the Queen clutched wildly at it, and tried to clasp it
    again.

    “Take care!” cried Alice. “You’re holding it all crooked!” And she
    caught at the brooch; but it was too late: the pin had slipped, and the
    Queen had pricked her finger.

    “That accounts for the bleeding, you see,” she said to Alice with a
    smile. “Now you understand the way things happen here.”

    “But why don’t you scream now?” Alice asked, holding her hands ready to
    put over her ears again.

    “Why, I’ve done all the screaming already,” said the Queen. “What would
    be the good of having it all over again?”

    By this time it was getting light. “The crow must have flown away, I
    think,” said Alice: “I’m so glad it’s gone. I thought it was the night
    coming on.”

    “I wish _I_ could manage to be glad!” the Queen said. “Only I never can
    remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in this wood, and
    being glad whenever you like!”

    “Only it is so _very_ lonely here!” Alice said in a melancholy voice;
    and at the thought of her loneliness two large tears came rolling down
    her cheeks.

    “Oh, don’t go on like that!” cried the poor Queen, wringing her hands
    in despair. “Consider what a great girl you are. Consider what a long
    way you’ve come to-day. Consider what o’clock it is. Consider anything,
    only don’t cry!”

    Alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears.
    “Can _you_ keep from crying by considering things?” she asked.

    “That’s the way it’s done,” the Queen said with great decision: “nobody
    can do two things at once, you know. Let’s consider your age to begin
    with—how old are you?”

    “I’m seven and a half exactly.”

    “You needn’t say ‘exactually,’” the Queen remarked: “I can believe it
    without that. Now I’ll give _you_ something to believe. I’m just one
    hundred and one, five months and a day.”

    “I can’t believe _that_!” said Alice.

    “Can’t you?” the Queen said in a pitying tone. “Try again: draw a long
    breath, and shut your eyes.”

    Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one _can’t_ believe
    impossible things.”

    “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was
    your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve
    believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. There goes
    the shawl again!”

    The brooch had come undone as she spoke, and a sudden gust of wind blew
    the Queen’s shawl across a little brook. The Queen spread out her arms
    again, and went flying after it, and this time she succeeded in
    catching it for herself. “I’ve got it!” she cried in a triumphant tone.
    “Now you shall see me pin it on again, all by myself!”

    “Then I hope your finger is better now?” Alice said very politely, as
    she crossed the little brook after the Queen.

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    “Oh, much better!” cried the Queen, her voice rising to a squeak as she
    went on. “Much be-etter! Be-etter! Be-e-e-etter! Be-e-ehh!” The last
    word ended in a long bleat, so like a sheep that Alice quite started.

    She looked at the Queen, who seemed to have suddenly wrapped herself up
    in wool. Alice rubbed her eyes, and looked again. She couldn’t make out
    what had happened at all. Was she in a shop? And was that really—was it
    really a _sheep_ that was sitting on the other side of the counter? Rub
    as she could, she could make nothing more of it: she was in a little
    dark shop, leaning with her elbows on the counter, and opposite to her
    was an old Sheep, sitting in an arm-chair knitting, and every now and
    then leaving off to look at her through a great pair of spectacles.

    “What is it you want to buy?” the Sheep said at last, looking up for a
    moment from her knitting.

    “I don’t _quite_ know yet,” Alice said, very gently. “I should like to
    look all round me first, if I might.”

    “You may look in front of you, and on both sides, if you like,” said
    the Sheep: “but you can’t look _all_ round you—unless you’ve got eyes
    at the back of your head.”

    But these, as it happened, Alice had _not_ got: so she contented
    herself with turning round, looking at the shelves as she came to them.

    The shop seemed to be full of all manner of curious things—but the
    oddest part of it all was, that whenever she looked hard at any shelf,
    to make out exactly what it had on it, that particular shelf was always
    quite empty: though the others round it were crowded as full as they
    could hold.

    “Things flow about so here!” she said at last in a plaintive tone,
    after she had spent a minute or so in vainly pursuing a large bright
    thing, that looked sometimes like a doll and sometimes like a work-box,
    and was always in the shelf next above the one she was looking at. “And
    this one is the most provoking of all—but I’ll tell you what—” she
    added, as a sudden thought struck her, “I’ll follow it up to the very
    top shelf of all. It’ll puzzle it to go through the ceiling, I expect!”

    But even this plan failed: the “thing” went through the ceiling as
    quietly as possible, as if it were quite used to it.

    “Are you a child or a teetotum?” the Sheep said, as she took up another
    pair of needles. “You’ll make me giddy soon, if you go on turning round
    like that.” She was now working with fourteen pairs at once, and Alice
    couldn’t help looking at her in great astonishment.

    “How _can_ she knit with so many?” the puzzled child thought to
    herself. “She gets more and more like a porcupine every minute!”

    “Can you row?” the Sheep asked, handing her a pair of knitting-needles
    as she spoke.

    “Yes, a little—but not on land—and not with needles—” Alice was
    beginning to say, when suddenly the needles turned into oars in her
    hands, and she found they were in a little boat, gliding along between
    banks: so there was nothing for it but to do her best.

    “Feather!” cried the Sheep, as she took up another pair of needles.

    This didn’t sound like a remark that needed any answer, so Alice said
    nothing, but pulled away. There was something very queer about the
    water, she thought, as every now and then the oars got fast in it, and
    would hardly come out again.

    “Feather! Feather!” the Sheep cried again, taking more needles. “You’ll
    be catching a crab directly.”

    “A dear little crab!” thought Alice. “I should like that.”

    “Didn’t you hear me say ‘Feather’?” the Sheep cried angrily, taking up
    quite a bunch of needles.

    “Indeed I did,” said Alice: “you’ve said it very often—and very loud.
    Please, where _are_ the crabs?”

    “In the water, of course!” said the Sheep, sticking some of the needles
    into her hair, as her hands were full. “Feather, I say!”

    “_Why_ do you say ‘feather’ so often?” Alice asked at last, rather
    vexed. “I’m not a bird!”

    “You are,” said the Sheep: “you’re a little goose.”

    This offended Alice a little, so there was no more conversation for a
    minute or two, while the boat glided gently on, sometimes among beds of
    weeds (which made the oars stick fast in the water, worse then ever),
    and sometimes under trees, but always with the same tall river-banks
    frowning over their heads.

    “Oh, please! There are some scented rushes!” Alice cried in a sudden
    transport of delight. “There really are—and _such_ beauties!”

    “You needn’t say ‘please’ to _me_ about ’em,” the Sheep said, without
    looking up from her knitting: “I didn’t put ’em there, and I’m not
    going to take ’em away.”

    “No, but I meant—please, may we wait and pick some?” Alice pleaded. “If
    you don’t mind stopping the boat for a minute.”

    “How am _I_ to stop it?” said the Sheep. “If you leave off rowing,
    it’ll stop of itself.”

    So the boat was left to drift down the stream as it would, till it
    glided gently in among the waving rushes. And then the little sleeves
    were carefully rolled up, and the little arms were plunged in
    elbow-deep to get the rushes a good long way down before breaking them
    off—and for a while Alice forgot all about the Sheep and the knitting,
    as she bent over the side of the boat, with just the ends of her
    tangled hair dipping into the water—while with bright eager eyes she
    caught at one bunch after another of the darling scented rushes.

    “I only hope the boat won’t tipple over!” she said to herself. “Oh,
    _what_ a lovely one! Only I couldn’t quite reach it.” And it certainly
    _did_ seem a little provoking (“almost as if it happened on purpose,”
    she thought) that, though she managed to pick plenty of beautiful
    rushes as the boat glided by, there was always a more lovely one that
    she couldn’t reach.

    “The prettiest are always further!” she said at last, with a sigh at
    the obstinacy of the rushes in growing so far off, as, with flushed
    cheeks and dripping hair and hands, she scrambled back into her place,
    and began to arrange her new-found treasures.

    What mattered it to her just then that the rushes had begun to fade,
    and to lose all their scent and beauty, from the very moment that she
    picked them? Even real scented rushes, you know, last only a very
    little while—and these, being dream-rushes, melted away almost like
    snow, as they lay in heaps at her feet—but Alice hardly noticed this,
    there were so many other curious things to think about.

    They hadn’t gone much farther before the blade of one of the oars got
    fast in the water and _wouldn’t_ come out again (so Alice explained it
    afterwards), and the consequence was that the handle of it caught her
    under the chin, and, in spite of a series of little shrieks of “Oh, oh,
    oh!” from poor Alice, it swept her straight off the seat, and down
    among the heap of rushes.

    However, she wasn’t hurt, and was soon up again: the Sheep went on with
    her knitting all the while, just as if nothing had happened. “That was
    a nice crab you caught!” she remarked, as Alice got back into her
    place, very much relieved to find herself still in the boat.

    “Was it? I didn’t see it,” Said Alice, peeping cautiously over the side
    of the boat into the dark water. “I wish it hadn’t let go—I should so
    like to see a little crab to take home with me!” But the Sheep only
    laughed scornfully, and went on with her knitting.

    “Are there many crabs here?” said Alice.

    “Crabs, and all sorts of things,” said the Sheep: “plenty of choice,
    only make up your mind. Now, what _do_ you want to buy?”

    “To buy!” Alice echoed in a tone that was half astonished and half
    frightened—for the oars, and the boat, and the river, had vanished all
    in a moment, and she was back again in the little dark shop.

    “I should like to buy an egg, please,” she said timidly. “How do you
    sell them?”

    “Fivepence farthing for one—Twopence for two,” the Sheep replied.

    “Then two are cheaper than one?” Alice said in a surprised tone, taking
    out her purse.

    “Only you _must_ eat them both, if you buy two,” said the Sheep.

    “Then I’ll have _one_, please,” said Alice, as she put the money down
    on the counter. For she thought to herself, “They mightn’t be at all
    nice, you know.”

    The Sheep took the money, and put it away in a box: then she said “I
    never put things into people’s hands—that would never do—you must get
    it for yourself.” And so saying, she went off to the other end of the
    shop, and set the egg upright on a shelf.

    “I wonder _why_ it wouldn’t do?” thought Alice, as she groped her way
    among the tables and chairs, for the shop was very dark towards the
    end. “The egg seems to get further away the more I walk towards it. Let
    me see, is this a chair? Why, it’s got branches, I declare! How very
    odd to find trees growing here! And actually here’s a little brook!
    Well, this is the very queerest shop I ever saw!”

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    So she went on, wondering more and more at every step, as everything
    turned into a tree the moment she came up to it, and she quite expected
    the egg to do the same.

    CHAPTER VI.
    Humpty Dumpty

    However, the egg only got larger and larger, and more and more human:
    when she had come within a few yards of it, she saw that it had eyes
    and a nose and mouth; and when she had come close to it, she saw
    clearly that it was HUMPTY DUMPTY himself. “It can’t be anybody else!”
    she said to herself. “I’m as certain of it, as if his name were written
    all over his face.”

    It might have been written a hundred times, easily, on that enormous
    face. Humpty Dumpty was sitting with his legs crossed, like a Turk, on
    the top of a high wall—such a narrow one that Alice quite wondered how
    he could keep his balance—and, as his eyes were steadily fixed in the
    opposite direction, and he didn’t take the least notice of her, she
    thought he must be a stuffed figure after all.

    “And how exactly like an egg he is!” she said aloud, standing with her
    hands ready to catch him, for she was every moment expecting him to
    fall.

    “It’s _very_ provoking,” Humpty Dumpty said after a long silence,
    looking away from Alice as he spoke, “to be called an egg—_Very!_”

    “I said you _looked_ like an egg, Sir,” Alice gently explained. “And
    some eggs are very pretty, you know” she added, hoping to turn her
    remark into a sort of a compliment.

    “Some people,” said Humpty Dumpty, looking away from her as usual,
    “have no more sense than a baby!”

    Alice didn’t know what to say to this: it wasn’t at all like
    conversation, she thought, as he never said anything to _her_; in fact,
    his last remark was evidently addressed to a tree—so she stood and
    softly repeated to herself:—

    “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall:
    Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
    All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
    Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty in his place again.”

    “That last line is much too long for the poetry,” she added, almost out
    loud, forgetting that Humpty Dumpty would hear her.

    “Don’t stand there chattering to yourself like that,” Humpty Dumpty
    said, looking at her for the first time, “but tell me your name and
    your business.”

    “My _name_ is Alice, but—”

    “It’s a stupid enough name!” Humpty Dumpty interrupted impatiently.
    “What does it mean?”

    “_Must_ a name mean something?” Alice asked doubtfully.

    “Of course it must,” Humpty Dumpty said with a short laugh: “_my_ name
    means the shape I am—and a good handsome shape it is, too. With a name
    like yours, you might be any shape, almost.”

    “Why do you sit out here all alone?” said Alice, not wishing to begin
    an argument.

    “Why, because there’s nobody with me!” cried Humpty Dumpty. “Did you
    think I didn’t know the answer to _that_? Ask another.”

    “Don’t you think you’d be safer down on the ground?” Alice went on, not
    with any idea of making another riddle, but simply in her good-natured
    anxiety for the queer creature. “That wall is so _very_ narrow!”

    “What tremendously easy riddles you ask!” Humpty Dumpty growled out.
    “Of course I don’t think so! Why, if ever I _did_ fall off—which
    there’s no chance of—but _if_ I did—” Here he pursed his lips and
    looked so solemn and grand that Alice could hardly help laughing. “_If_
    I did fall,” he went on, “_The King has promised me—with his very own
    mouth_—to—to—”

    “To send all his horses and all his men,” Alice interrupted, rather
    unwisely.

    “Now I declare that’s too bad!” Humpty Dumpty cried, breaking into a
    sudden passion. “You’ve been listening at doors—and behind trees—and
    down chimneys—or you couldn’t have known it!”

    “I haven’t, indeed!” Alice said very gently. “It’s in a book.”

    “Ah, well! They may write such things in a _book_,” Humpty Dumpty said
    in a calmer tone. “That’s what you call a History of England, that is.
    Now, take a good look at me! I’m one that has spoken to a King, _I_ am:
    mayhap you’ll never see such another: and to show you I’m not proud,
    you may shake hands with me!” And he grinned almost from ear to ear, as
    he leant forwards (and as nearly as possible fell off the wall in doing
    so) and offered Alice his hand. She watched him a little anxiously as
    she took it. “If he smiled much more, the ends of his mouth might meet
    behind,” she thought: “and then I don’t know what would happen to his
    head! I’m afraid it would come off!”

    “Yes, all his horses and all his men,” Humpty Dumpty went on. “They’d
    pick me up again in a minute, _they_ would! However, this conversation
    is going on a little too fast: let’s go back to the last remark but
    one.”

    “I’m afraid I can’t quite remember it,” Alice said very politely.

    “In that case we start fresh,” said Humpty Dumpty, “and it’s my turn to
    choose a subject—” (“He talks about it just as if it was a game!”
    thought Alice.) “So here’s a question for you. How old did you say you
    were?”

    Alice made a short calculation, and said “Seven years and six months.”

    “Wrong!” Humpty Dumpty exclaimed triumphantly. “You never said a word
    like it!”

    “I though you meant ‘How old _are_ you?’” Alice explained.

    “If I’d meant that, I’d have said it,” said Humpty Dumpty.

    Alice didn’t want to begin another argument, so she said nothing.

    “Seven years and six months!” Humpty Dumpty repeated thoughtfully. “An
    uncomfortable sort of age. Now if you’d asked _my_ advice, I’d have
    said ‘Leave off at seven’—but it’s too late now.”

    “I never ask advice about growing,” Alice said indignantly.

    “Too proud?” the other inquired.

    Alice felt even more indignant at this suggestion. “I mean,” she said,
    “that one can’t help growing older.”

    “_One_ can’t, perhaps,” said Humpty Dumpty, “but _two_ can. With proper
    assistance, you might have left off at seven.”

    “What a beautiful belt you’ve got on!” Alice suddenly remarked.

    (They had had quite enough of the subject of age, she thought: and if
    they really were to take turns in choosing subjects, it was her turn
    now.) “At least,” she corrected herself on second thoughts, “a
    beautiful cravat, I should have said—no, a belt, I mean—I beg your
    pardon!” she added in dismay, for Humpty Dumpty looked thoroughly
    offended, and she began to wish she hadn’t chosen that subject. “If I
    only knew,” she thought to herself, “which was neck and which was
    waist!”

    Evidently Humpty Dumpty was very angry, though he said nothing for a
    minute or two. When he _did_ speak again, it was in a deep growl.

    “It is a—_most—provoking_—thing,” he said at last, “when a person
    doesn’t know a cravat from a belt!”

    “I know it’s very ignorant of me,” Alice said, in so humble a tone that
    Humpty Dumpty relented.

    “It’s a cravat, child, and a beautiful one, as you say. It’s a present
    from the White King and Queen. There now!”

    “Is it really?” said Alice, quite pleased to find that she _had_ chosen
    a good subject, after all.

    “They gave it me,” Humpty Dumpty continued thoughtfully, as he crossed
    one knee over the other and clasped his hands round it, “they gave it
    me—for an un-birthday present.”

    “I beg your pardon?” Alice said with a puzzled air.

    “I’m not offended,” said Humpty Dumpty.

    “I mean, what _is_ an un-birthday present?”

    “A present given when it isn’t your birthday, of course.”

    Alice considered a little. “I like birthday presents best,” she said at
    last.

    “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” cried Humpty Dumpty. “How
    many days are there in a year?”

    “Three hundred and sixty-five,” said Alice.

    “And how many birthdays have you?”

    “One.”

    “And if you take one from three hundred and sixty-five, what remains?”

    “Three hundred and sixty-four, of course.”

    Humpty Dumpty looked doubtful. “I’d rather see that done on paper,” he
    said.

    Alice couldn’t help smiling as she took out her memorandum-book, and
    worked the sum for him:

    365
    1
    ____
    364
    ___

    Humpty Dumpty took the book, and looked at it carefully. “That seems to
    be done right—” he began.

    “You’re holding it upside down!” Alice interrupted.

    “To be sure I was!” Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round
    for him. “I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that
    _seems_ to be done right—though I haven’t time to look it over
    thoroughly just now—and that shows that there are three hundred and
    sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents—”

    “Certainly,” said Alice.

    “And only _one_ for birthday presents, you know. There’s glory for
    you!”

    “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory,’” Alice said.

    Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. “Of course you don’t—till I tell
    you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”

    “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument,’” Alice
    objected.

    “When _I_ use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone,
    “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

    “The question is,” said Alice, “whether you _can_ make words mean so
    many different things.”

    “The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s
    all.”

    Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty
    Dumpty began again. “They’ve a temper, some of them—particularly verbs,
    they’re the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not
    verbs—however, _I_ can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability!
    That’s what _I_ say!”

    “Would you tell me, please,” said Alice “what that means?”

    “Now you talk like a reasonable child,” said Humpty Dumpty, looking
    very much pleased. “I meant by ‘impenetrability’ that we’ve had enough
    of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you
    mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest
    of your life.”

    “That’s a great deal to make one word mean,” Alice said in a thoughtful
    tone.

    “When I make a word do a lot of work like that,” said Humpty Dumpty, “I
    always pay it extra.”

    “Oh!” said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark.

    “Ah, you should see ’em come round me of a Saturday night,” Humpty
    Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side: “for to get
    their wages, you know.”

    (Alice didn’t venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see I
    can’t tell _you_.)

    “You seem very clever at explaining words, Sir,” said Alice. “Would you
    kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called ‘Jabberwocky’?”

    “Let’s hear it,” said Humpty Dumpty. “I can explain all the poems that
    were ever invented—and a good many that haven’t been invented just
    yet.”

    This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    “That’s enough to begin with,” Humpty Dumpty interrupted: “there are
    plenty of hard words there. ‘_Brillig_’ means four o’clock in the
    afternoon—the time when you begin _broiling_ things for dinner.”

    “That’ll do very well,” said Alice: “and ‘_slithy_’?”

    “Well, ‘_slithy_’ means ‘lithe and slimy.’ ‘Lithe’ is the same as
    ‘active.’ You see it’s like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed
    up into one word.”

    “I see it now,” Alice remarked thoughtfully: “and what are ‘_toves_’?”

    “Well, ‘_toves_’ are something like badgers—they’re something like
    lizards—and they’re something like corkscrews.”

    “They must be very curious looking creatures.”

    “They are that,” said Humpty Dumpty: “also they make their nests under
    sun-dials—also they live on cheese.”

    “And what’s the ‘_gyre_’ and to ‘_gimble_’?”

    “To ‘_gyre_’ is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To ‘_gimble_’
    is to make holes like a gimlet.”

    “And ‘_the wabe_’ is the grass-plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?” said
    Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity.

    “Of course it is. It’s called ‘_wabe_,’ you know, because it goes a
    long way before it, and a long way behind it—”

    “And a long way beyond it on each side,” Alice added.

    “Exactly so. Well, then, ‘_mimsy_’ is ‘flimsy and miserable’ (there’s
    another portmanteau for you). And a ‘_borogove_’ is a thin
    shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round—something
    like a live mop.”

    “And then ‘_mome raths_’?” said Alice. “I’m afraid I’m giving you a
    great deal of trouble.”

    “Well, a ‘_rath_’ is a sort of green pig: but ‘_mome_’ I’m not certain
    about. I think it’s short for ‘from home’—meaning that they’d lost
    their way, you know.”

    “And what does ‘_outgrabe_’ mean?”

    “Well, ‘_outgrabing_’ is something between bellowing and whistling,
    with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you’ll hear it done,
    maybe—down in the wood yonder—and when you’ve once heard it you’ll be
    _quite_ content. Who’s been repeating all that hard stuff to you?”

    “I read it in a book,” said Alice. “But I had some poetry repeated to
    me, much easier than that, by—Tweedledee, I think it was.”

    “As to poetry, you know,” said Humpty Dumpty, stretching out one of his
    great hands, “_I_ can repeat poetry as well as other folk, if it comes
    to that—”

    “Oh, it needn’t come to that!” Alice hastily said, hoping to keep him
    from beginning.

    “The piece I’m going to repeat,” he went on without noticing her
    remark, “was written entirely for your amusement.”

    Alice felt that in that case she really _ought_ to listen to it, so she
    sat down, and said “Thank you” rather sadly.

    “In winter, when the fields are white,
    I sing this song for your delight—

    only I don’t sing it,” he added, as an explanation.

    “I see you don’t,” said Alice.

    “If you can _see_ whether I’m singing or not, you’ve sharper eyes than
    most.” Humpty Dumpty remarked severely. Alice was silent.

    “In spring, when woods are getting green,
    I’ll try and tell you what I mean.”

    “Thank you very much,” said Alice.

    “In summer, when the days are long,
    Perhaps you’ll understand the song:

    In autumn, when the leaves are brown,
    Take pen and ink, and write it down.”

    “I will, if I can remember it so long,” said Alice.

    “You needn’t go on making remarks like that,” Humpty Dumpty said:
    “they’re not sensible, and they put me out.”

    “I sent a message to the fish:
    I told them ‘This is what I wish.’

    The little fishes of the sea,
    They sent an answer back to me.

    The little fishes’ answer was
    ‘We cannot do it, Sir, because—’”

    “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Alice.

    “It gets easier further on,” Humpty Dumpty replied.

    “I sent to them again to say
    ‘It will be better to obey.’

    The fishes answered with a grin,
    ‘Why, what a temper you are in!’

    I told them once, I told them twice:
    They would not listen to advice.

    I took a kettle large and new,
    Fit for the deed I had to do.

    My heart went hop, my heart went thump;
    I filled the kettle at the pump.

    Then some one came to me and said,
    ‘The little fishes are in bed.’

    I said to him, I said it plain,
    ‘Then you must wake them up again.’

    I said it very loud and clear;
    I went and shouted in his ear.”

    Humpty Dumpty raised his voice almost to a scream as he repeated this
    verse, and Alice thought with a shudder, “I wouldn’t have been the
    messenger for _anything_!”

    “But he was very stiff and proud;
    He said ‘You needn’t shout so loud!’

    And he was very proud and stiff;
    He said ‘I’d go and wake them, if—’

    I took a corkscrew from the shelf:
    I went to wake them up myself.

    And when I found the door was locked,
    I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.

    And when I found the door was shut,
    I tried to turn the handle, but—”

    There was a long pause.

    “Is that all?” Alice timidly asked.

    “That’s all,” said Humpty Dumpty. “Good-bye.”

    This was rather sudden, Alice thought: but, after such a _very_ strong
    hint that she ought to be going, she felt that it would hardly be civil
    to stay. So she got up, and held out her hand. “Good-bye, till we meet
    again!” she said as cheerfully as she could.

    “I shouldn’t know you again if we _did_ meet,” Humpty Dumpty replied in
    a discontented tone, giving her one of his fingers to shake; “you’re so
    exactly like other people.”

    “The face is what one goes by, generally,” Alice remarked in a
    thoughtful tone.

    “That’s just what I complain of,” said Humpty Dumpty. “Your face is the
    same as everybody has—the two eyes, so—” (marking their places in the
    air with this thumb) “nose in the middle, mouth under. It’s always the
    same. Now if you had the two eyes on the same side of the nose, for
    instance—or the mouth at the top—that would be _some_ help.”

    “It wouldn’t look nice,” Alice objected. But Humpty Dumpty only shut
    his eyes and said “Wait till you’ve tried.”

    Alice waited a minute to see if he would speak again, but as he never
    opened his eyes or took any further notice of her, she said “Good-bye!”
    once more, and, getting no answer to this, she quietly walked away: but
    she couldn’t help saying to herself as she went, “Of all the
    unsatisfactory—” (she repeated this aloud, as it was a great comfort to
    have such a long word to say) “of all the unsatisfactory people I
    _ever_ met—” She never finished the sentence, for at this moment a
    heavy crash shook the forest from end to end.

    CHAPTER VII.
    The Lion and the Unicorn

    The next moment soldiers came running through the wood, at first in
    twos and threes, then ten or twenty together, and at last in such
    crowds that they seemed to fill the whole forest. Alice got behind a
    tree, for fear of being run over, and watched them go by.

    She thought that in all her life she had never seen soldiers so
    uncertain on their feet: they were always tripping over something or
    other, and whenever one went down, several more always fell over him,
    so that the ground was soon covered with little heaps of men.

    Then came the horses. Having four feet, these managed rather better
    than the foot-soldiers: but even _they_ stumbled now and then; and it
    seemed to be a regular rule that, whenever a horse stumbled the rider
    fell off instantly. The confusion got worse every moment, and Alice was
    very glad to get out of the wood into an open place, where she found
    the White King seated on the ground, busily writing in his
    memorandum-book.

    “I’ve sent them all!” the King cried in a tone of delight, on seeing
    Alice. “Did you happen to meet any soldiers, my dear, as you came
    through the wood?”

    “Yes, I did,” said Alice: “several thousand, I should think.”

    “Four thousand two hundred and seven, that’s the exact number,” the
    King said, referring to his book. “I couldn’t send all the horses, you
    know, because two of them are wanted in the game. And I haven’t sent
    the two Messengers, either. They’re both gone to the town. Just look
    along the road, and tell me if you can see either of them.”

    “I see nobody on the road,” said Alice.

    “I only wish _I_ had such eyes,” the King remarked in a fretful tone.
    “To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance, too! Why, it’s as much
    as _I_ can do to see real people, by this light!”

    All this was lost on Alice, who was still looking intently along the
    road, shading her eyes with one hand. “I see somebody now!” she
    exclaimed at last. “But he’s coming very slowly—and what curious
    attitudes he goes into!” (For the messenger kept skipping up and down,
    and wriggling like an eel, as he came along, with his great hands
    spread out like fans on each side.)

    “Not at all,” said the King. “He’s an Anglo-Saxon Messenger—and those
    are Anglo-Saxon attitudes. He only does them when he’s happy. His name
    is Haigha.” (He pronounced it so as to rhyme with “mayor.”)

    “I love my love with an H,” Alice couldn’t help beginning, “because he
    is Happy. I hate him with an H, because he is Hideous. I fed him
    with—with—with Ham-sandwiches and Hay. His name is Haigha, and he
    lives—”

    “He lives on the Hill,” the King remarked simply, without the least
    idea that he was joining in the game, while Alice was still hesitating
    for the name of a town beginning with H. “The other Messenger’s called
    Hatta. I must have _two_, you know—to come and go. One to come, and one
    to go.”

    “I beg your pardon?” said Alice.

    “It isn’t respectable to beg,” said the King.

    “I only meant that I didn’t understand,” said Alice. “Why one to come
    and one to go?”

    “Didn’t I tell you?” the King repeated impatiently. “I must have
    _two_—to fetch and carry. One to fetch, and one to carry.”

    At this moment the Messenger arrived: he was far too much out of breath
    to say a word, and could only wave his hands about, and make the most
    fearful faces at the poor King.

    “This young lady loves you with an H,” the King said, introducing Alice
    in the hope of turning off the Messenger’s attention from himself—but
    it was no use—the Anglo-Saxon attitudes only got more extraordinary
    every moment, while the great eyes rolled wildly from side to side.

    “You alarm me!” said the King. “I feel faint—Give me a ham sandwich!”

    On which the Messenger, to Alice’s great amusement, opened a bag that
    hung round his neck, and handed a sandwich to the King, who devoured it
    greedily.

    “Another sandwich!” said the King.

    “There’s nothing but hay left now,” the Messenger said, peeping into
    the bag.

    “Hay, then,” the King murmured in a faint whisper.

    Alice was glad to see that it revived him a good deal. “There’s nothing
    like eating hay when you’re faint,” he remarked to her, as he munched
    away.

    “I should think throwing cold water over you would be better,” Alice
    suggested: “or some sal-volatile.”

    “I didn’t say there was nothing _better_,” the King replied. “I said
    there was nothing _like_ it.” Which Alice did not venture to deny.

    “Who did you pass on the road?” the King went on, holding out his hand
    to the Messenger for some more hay.

    “Nobody,” said the Messenger.

    “Quite right,” said the King: “this young lady saw him too. So of
    course Nobody walks slower than you.”

    “I do my best,” the Messenger said in a sulky tone. “I’m sure nobody
    walks much faster than I do!”

    “He can’t do that,” said the King, “or else he’d have been here first.
    However, now you’ve got your breath, you may tell us what’s happened in
    the town.”

    “I’ll whisper it,” said the Messenger, putting his hands to his mouth
    in the shape of a trumpet, and stooping so as to get close to the
    King’s ear. Alice was sorry for this, as she wanted to hear the news
    too. However, instead of whispering, he simply shouted at the top of
    his voice “They’re at it again!”

    “Do you call _that_ a whisper?” cried the poor King, jumping up and
    shaking himself. “If you do such a thing again, I’ll have you buttered!
    It went through and through my head like an earthquake!”

    “It would have to be a very tiny earthquake!” thought Alice. “Who are
    at it again?” she ventured to ask.

    “Why the Lion and the Unicorn, of course,” said the King.

    “Fighting for the crown?”

    “Yes, to be sure,” said the King: “and the best of the joke is, that
    it’s _my_ crown all the while! Let’s run and see them.” And they
    trotted off, Alice repeating to herself, as she ran, the words of the
    old song:—

    “The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown:
    The Lion beat the Unicorn all round the town.
    Some gave them white bread, some gave them brown;
    Some gave them plum-cake and drummed them out of town.”

    “Does—the one—that wins—get the crown?” she asked, as well as she
    could, for the run was putting her quite out of breath.

    “Dear me, no!” said the King. “What an idea!”

    “Would you—be good enough,” Alice panted out, after running a little
    further, “to stop a minute—just to get—one’s breath again?”

    “I’m _good_ enough,” the King said, “only I’m not strong enough. You
    see, a minute goes by so fearfully quick. You might as well try to stop
    a Bandersnatch!”

    Alice had no more breath for talking, so they trotted on in silence,
    till they came in sight of a great crowd, in the middle of which the
    Lion and Unicorn were fighting. They were in such a cloud of dust, that
    at first Alice could not make out which was which: but she soon managed
    to distinguish the Unicorn by his horn.

    They placed themselves close to where Hatta, the other messenger, was
    standing watching the fight, with a cup of tea in one hand and a piece
    of bread-and-butter in the other.

    “He’s only just out of prison, and he hadn’t finished his tea when he
    was sent in,” Haigha whispered to Alice: “and they only give them
    oyster-shells in there—so you see he’s very hungry and thirsty. How are
    you, dear child?” he went on, putting his arm affectionately round
    Hatta’s neck.

    Hatta looked round and nodded, and went on with his bread and butter.

    “Were you happy in prison, dear child?” said Haigha.

    Hatta looked round once more, and this time a tear or two trickled down
    his cheek: but not a word would he say.

    “Speak, can’t you!” Haigha cried impatiently. But Hatta only munched
    away, and drank some more tea.

    “Speak, won’t you!” cried the King. “How are they getting on with the
    fight?”

    Hatta made a desperate effort, and swallowed a large piece of
    bread-and-butter. “They’re getting on very well,” he said in a choking
    voice: “each of them has been down about eighty-seven times.”

    “Then I suppose they’ll soon bring the white bread and the brown?”
    Alice ventured to remark.

    “It’s waiting for ’em now,” said Hatta: “this is a bit of it as I’m
    eating.”

    There was a pause in the fight just then, and the Lion and the Unicorn
    sat down, panting, while the King called out “Ten minutes allowed for
    refreshments!” Haigha and Hatta set to work at once, carrying rough
    trays of white and brown bread. Alice took a piece to taste, but it was
    _very_ dry.

    “I don’t think they’ll fight any more to-day,” the King said to Hatta:
    “go and order the drums to begin.” And Hatta went bounding away like a
    grasshopper.

    For a minute or two Alice stood silent, watching him. Suddenly she
    brightened up. “Look, look!” she cried, pointing eagerly. “There’s the
    White Queen running across the country! She came flying out of the wood
    over yonder—How fast those Queens _can_ run!”

    “There’s some enemy after her, no doubt,” the King said, without even
    looking round. “That wood’s full of them.”

    “But aren’t you going to run and help her?” Alice asked, very much
    surprised at his taking it so quietly.

    “No use, no use!” said the King. “She runs so fearfully quick. You
    might as well try to catch a Bandersnatch! But I’ll make a memorandum
    about her, if you like—She’s a dear good creature,” he repeated softly
    to himself, as he opened his memorandum-book. “Do you spell ‘creature’
    with a double ‘e’?”

    At this moment the Unicorn sauntered by them, with his hands in his
    pockets. “I had the best of it this time?” he said to the King, just
    glancing at him as he passed.

    “A little—a little,” the King replied, rather nervously. “You shouldn’t
    have run him through with your horn, you know.”

    “It didn’t hurt him,” the Unicorn said carelessly, and he was going on,
    when his eye happened to fall upon Alice: he turned round rather
    instantly, and stood for some time looking at her with an air of the
    deepest disgust.

    “What—is—this?” he said at last.

    “This is a child!” Haigha replied eagerly, coming in front of Alice to
    introduce her, and spreading out both his hands towards her in an
    Anglo-Saxon attitude. “We only found it to-day. It’s as large as life,
    and twice as natural!”

    “I always thought they were fabulous monsters!” said the Unicorn. “Is
    it alive?”

    “It can talk,” said Haigha, solemnly.

    The Unicorn looked dreamily at Alice, and said “Talk, child.”

    Alice could not help her lips curling up into a smile as she began: “Do
    you know, I always thought Unicorns were fabulous monsters, too! I
    never saw one alive before!”

    “Well, now that we _have_ seen each other,” said the Unicorn, “if
    you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you. Is that a bargain?”

    “Yes, if you like,” said Alice.

    “Come, fetch out the plum-cake, old man!” the Unicorn went on, turning
    from her to the King. “None of your brown bread for me!”

    “Certainly—certainly!” the King muttered, and beckoned to Haigha. “Open
    the bag!” he whispered. “Quick! Not that one—that’s full of hay!”

    Haigha took a large cake out of the bag, and gave it to Alice to hold,
    while he got out a dish and carving-knife. How they all came out of it
    Alice couldn’t guess. It was just like a conjuring-trick, she thought.

    The Lion had joined them while this was going on: he looked very tired
    and sleepy, and his eyes were half shut. “What’s this!” he said,
    blinking lazily at Alice, and speaking in a deep hollow tone that
    sounded like the tolling of a great bell.

    “Ah, what _is_ it, now?” the Unicorn cried eagerly. “You’ll never
    guess! _I_ couldn’t.”

    The Lion looked at Alice wearily. “Are you animal—vegetable—or
    mineral?” he said, yawning at every other word.

    “It’s a fabulous monster!” the Unicorn cried out, before Alice could
    reply.

    “Then hand round the plum-cake, Monster,” the Lion said, lying down and
    putting his chin on his paws. “And sit down, both of you,” (to the King
    and the Unicorn): “fair play with the cake, you know!”

    The King was evidently very uncomfortable at having to sit down between
    the two great creatures; but there was no other place for him.

    “What a fight we might have for the crown, _now_!” the Unicorn said,
    looking slyly up at the crown, which the poor King was nearly shaking
    off his head, he trembled so much.

    “I should win easy,” said the Lion.

    “I’m not so sure of that,” said the Unicorn.

    “Why, I beat you all round the town, you chicken!” the Lion replied
    angrily, half getting up as he spoke.

    Here the King interrupted, to prevent the quarrel going on: he was very
    nervous, and his voice quite quivered. “All round the town?” he said.
    “That’s a good long way. Did you go by the old bridge, or the
    market-place? You get the best view by the old bridge.”

    “I’m sure I don’t know,” the Lion growled out as he lay down again.
    “There was too much dust to see anything. What a time the Monster is,
    cutting up that cake!”

    Alice had seated herself on the bank of a little brook, with the great
    dish on her knees, and was sawing away diligently with the knife. “It’s
    very provoking!” she said, in reply to the Lion (she was getting quite
    used to being called “the Monster”). “I’ve cut several slices already,
    but they always join on again!”

    “You don’t know how to manage Looking-glass cakes,” the Unicorn
    remarked. “Hand it round first, and cut it afterwards.”

    This sounded nonsense, but Alice very obediently got up, and carried
    the dish round, and the cake divided itself into three pieces as she
    did so. “_Now_ cut it up,” said the Lion, as she returned to her place
    with the empty dish.

    “I say, this isn’t fair!” cried the Unicorn, as Alice sat with the
    knife in her hand, very much puzzled how to begin. “The Monster has
    given the Lion twice as much as me!”

    “She’s kept none for herself, anyhow,” said the Lion. “Do you like
    plum-cake, Monster?”

    But before Alice could answer him, the drums began.

    Where the noise came from, she couldn’t make out: the air seemed full
    of it, and it rang through and through her head till she felt quite
    deafened. She started to her feet and sprang across the little brook in
    her terror,

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    and had just time to see the Lion and the Unicorn rise to their feet,
    with angry looks at being interrupted in their feast, before she
    dropped to her knees, and put her hands over her ears, vainly trying to
    shut out the dreadful uproar.

    “If _that_ doesn’t ‘drum them out of town,’” she thought to herself,
    “nothing ever will!”

    CHAPTER VIII.
    “It’s my own Invention”

    After a while the noise seemed gradually to die away, till all was dead
    silence, and Alice lifted up her head in some alarm. There was no one
    to be seen, and her first thought was that she must have been dreaming
    about the Lion and the Unicorn and those queer Anglo-Saxon Messengers.
    However, there was the great dish still lying at her feet, on which she
    had tried to cut the plum-cake, “So I wasn’t dreaming, after all,” she
    said to herself, “unless—unless we’re all part of the same dream. Only
    I do hope it’s _my_ dream, and not the Red King’s! I don’t like
    belonging to another person’s dream,” she went on in a rather
    complaining tone: “I’ve a great mind to go and wake him, and see what
    happens!”

    At this moment her thoughts were interrupted by a loud shouting of
    “Ahoy! Ahoy! Check!” and a Knight dressed in crimson armour came
    galloping down upon her, brandishing a great club. Just as he reached
    her, the horse stopped suddenly: “You’re my prisoner!” the Knight
    cried, as he tumbled off his horse.

    Startled as she was, Alice was more frightened for him than for herself
    at the moment, and watched him with some anxiety as he mounted again.
    As soon as he was comfortably in the saddle, he began once more “You’re
    my—” but here another voice broke in “Ahoy! Ahoy! Check!” and Alice
    looked round in some surprise for the new enemy.

    This time it was a White Knight. He drew up at Alice’s side, and
    tumbled off his horse just as the Red Knight had done: then he got on
    again, and the two Knights sat and looked at each other for some time
    without speaking. Alice looked from one to the other in some
    bewilderment.

    “She’s _my_ prisoner, you know!” the Red Knight said at last.

    “Yes, but then _I_ came and rescued her!” the White Knight replied.

    “Well, we must fight for her, then,” said the Red Knight, as he took up
    his helmet (which hung from the saddle, and was something the shape of
    a horse’s head), and put it on.

    “You will observe the Rules of Battle, of course?” the White Knight
    remarked, putting on his helmet too.

    “I always do,” said the Red Knight, and they began banging away at each
    other with such fury that Alice got behind a tree to be out of the way
    of the blows.

    “I wonder, now, what the Rules of Battle are,” she said to herself, as
    she watched the fight, timidly peeping out from her hiding-place: “one
    Rule seems to be, that if one Knight hits the other, he knocks him off
    his horse, and if he misses, he tumbles off himself—and another Rule
    seems to be that they hold their clubs with their arms, as if they were
    Punch and Judy—What a noise they make when they tumble! Just like a
    whole set of fire-irons falling into the fender! And how quiet the
    horses are! They let them get on and off them just as if they were
    tables!”

    Another Rule of Battle, that Alice had not noticed, seemed to be that
    they always fell on their heads, and the battle ended with their both
    falling off in this way, side by side: when they got up again, they
    shook hands, and then the Red Knight mounted and galloped off.

    “It was a glorious victory, wasn’t it?” said the White Knight, as he
    came up panting.

    “I don’t know,” Alice said doubtfully. “I don’t want to be anybody’s
    prisoner. I want to be a Queen.”

    “So you will, when you’ve crossed the next brook,” said the White
    Knight. “I’ll see you safe to the end of the wood—and then I must go
    back, you know. That’s the end of my move.”

    “Thank you very much,” said Alice. “May I help you off with your
    helmet?” It was evidently more than he could manage by himself;
    however, she managed to shake him out of it at last.

    “Now one can breathe more easily,” said the Knight, putting back his
    shaggy hair with both hands, and turning his gentle face and large mild
    eyes to Alice. She thought she had never seen such a strange-looking
    soldier in all her life.

    He was dressed in tin armour, which seemed to fit him very badly, and
    he had a queer-shaped little deal box fastened across his shoulder,
    upside-down, and with the lid hanging open. Alice looked at it with
    great curiosity.

    “I see you’re admiring my little box.” the Knight said in a friendly
    tone. “It’s my own invention—to keep clothes and sandwiches in. You see
    I carry it upside-down, so that the rain can’t get in.”

    “But the things can get _out_,” Alice gently remarked. “Do you know the
    lid’s open?”

    “I didn’t know it,” the Knight said, a shade of vexation passing over
    his face. “Then all the things must have fallen out! And the box is no
    use without them.” He unfastened it as he spoke, and was just going to
    throw it into the bushes, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him,
    and he hung it carefully on a tree. “Can you guess why I did that?” he
    said to Alice.

    Alice shook her head.

    “In hopes some bees may make a nest in it—then I should get the honey.”

    “But you’ve got a bee-hive—or something like one—fastened to the
    saddle,” said Alice.

    “Yes, it’s a very good bee-hive,” the Knight said in a discontented
    tone, “one of the best kind. But not a single bee has come near it yet.
    And the other thing is a mouse-trap. I suppose the mice keep the bees
    out—or the bees keep the mice out, I don’t know which.”

    “I was wondering what the mouse-trap was for,” said Alice. “It isn’t
    very likely there would be any mice on the horse’s back.”

    “Not very likely, perhaps,” said the Knight: “but if they _do_ come, I
    don’t choose to have them running all about.”

    “You see,” he went on after a pause, “it’s as well to be provided for
    _everything_. That’s the reason the horse has all those anklets round
    his feet.”

    “But what are they for?” Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

    “To guard against the bites of sharks,” the Knight replied. “It’s an
    invention of my own. And now help me on. I’ll go with you to the end of
    the wood—What’s the dish for?”

    “It’s meant for plum-cake,” said Alice.

    “We’d better take it with us,” the Knight said. “It’ll come in handy if
    we find any plum-cake. Help me to get it into this bag.”

    This took a very long time to manage, though Alice held the bag open
    very carefully, because the Knight was so _very_ awkward in putting in
    the dish: the first two or three times that he tried he fell in himself
    instead. “It’s rather a tight fit, you see,” he said, as they got it in
    a last; “There are so many candlesticks in the bag.” And he hung it to
    the saddle, which was already loaded with bunches of carrots, and
    fire-irons, and many other things.

    “I hope you’ve got your hair well fastened on?” he continued, as they
    set off.

    “Only in the usual way,” Alice said, smiling.

    “That’s hardly enough,” he said, anxiously. “You see the wind is so
    _very_ strong here. It’s as strong as soup.”

    “Have you invented a plan for keeping the hair from being blown off?”
    Alice enquired.

    “Not yet,” said the Knight. “But I’ve got a plan for keeping it from
    _falling_ off.”

    “I should like to hear it, very much.”

    “First you take an upright stick,” said the Knight. “Then you make your
    hair creep up it, like a fruit-tree. Now the reason hair falls off is
    because it hangs _down_—things never fall _upwards_, you know. It’s a
    plan of my own invention. You may try it if you like.”

    It didn’t sound a comfortable plan, Alice thought, and for a few
    minutes she walked on in silence, puzzling over the idea, and every now
    and then stopping to help the poor Knight, who certainly was _not_ a
    good rider.

    Whenever the horse stopped (which it did very often), he fell off in
    front; and whenever it went on again (which it generally did rather
    suddenly), he fell off behind. Otherwise he kept on pretty well, except
    that he had a habit of now and then falling off sideways; and as he
    generally did this on the side on which Alice was walking, she soon
    found that it was the best plan not to walk _quite_ close to the horse.

    “I’m afraid you’ve not had much practice in riding,” she ventured to
    say, as she was helping him up from his fifth tumble.

    The Knight looked very much surprised, and a little offended at the
    remark. “What makes you say that?” he asked, as he scrambled back into
    the saddle, keeping hold of Alice’s hair with one hand, to save himself
    from falling over on the other side.

    “Because people don’t fall off quite so often, when they’ve had much
    practice.”

    “I’ve had plenty of practice,” the Knight said very gravely: “plenty of
    practice!”

    Alice could think of nothing better to say than “Indeed?” but she said
    it as heartily as she could. They went on a little way in silence after
    this, the Knight with his eyes shut, muttering to himself, and Alice
    watching anxiously for the next tumble.

    “The great art of riding,” the Knight suddenly began in a loud voice,
    waving his right arm as he spoke, “is to keep—” Here the sentence ended
    as suddenly as it had begun, as the Knight fell heavily on the top of
    his head exactly in the path where Alice was walking. She was quite
    frightened this time, and said in an anxious tone, as she picked him
    up, “I hope no bones are broken?”

    “None to speak of,” the Knight said, as if he didn’t mind breaking two
    or three of them. “The great art of riding, as I was saying, is—to keep
    your balance properly. Like this, you know—”

    He let go the bridle, and stretched out both his arms to show Alice
    what he meant, and this time he fell flat on his back, right under the
    horse’s feet.

    “Plenty of practice!” he went on repeating, all the time that Alice was
    getting him on his feet again. “Plenty of practice!”

    “It’s too ridiculous!” cried Alice, losing all her patience this time.
    “You ought to have a wooden horse on wheels, that you ought!”

    “Does that kind go smoothly?” the Knight asked in a tone of great
    interest, clasping his arms round the horse’s neck as he spoke, just in
    time to save himself from tumbling off again.

    “Much more smoothly than a live horse,” Alice said, with a little
    scream of laughter, in spite of all she could do to prevent it.

    “I’ll get one,” the Knight said thoughtfully to himself. “One or
    two—several.”

    There was a short silence after this, and then the Knight went on
    again. “I’m a great hand at inventing things. Now, I daresay you
    noticed, that last time you picked me up, that I was looking rather
    thoughtful?”

    “You _were_ a little grave,” said Alice.

    “Well, just then I was inventing a new way of getting over a gate—would
    you like to hear it?”

    “Very much indeed,” Alice said politely.

    “I’ll tell you how I came to think of it,” said the Knight. “You see, I
    said to myself, ‘The only difficulty is with the feet: the _head_ is
    high enough already.’ Now, first I put my head on the top of the
    gate—then I stand on my head—then the feet are high enough, you
    see—then I’m over, you see.”

    “Yes, I suppose you’d be over when that was done,” Alice said
    thoughtfully: “but don’t you think it would be rather hard?”

    “I haven’t tried it yet,” the Knight said, gravely: “so I can’t tell
    for certain—but I’m afraid it _would_ be a little hard.”

    He looked so vexed at the idea, that Alice changed the subject hastily.
    “What a curious helmet you’ve got!” she said cheerfully. “Is that your
    invention too?”

    The Knight looked down proudly at his helmet, which hung from the
    saddle. “Yes,” he said, “but I’ve invented a better one than that—like
    a sugar loaf. When I used to wear it, if I fell off the horse, it
    always touched the ground directly. So I had a _very_ little way to
    fall, you see—But there _was_ the danger of falling _into_ it, to be
    sure. That happened to me once—and the worst of it was, before I could
    get out again, the other White Knight came and put it on. He thought it
    was his own helmet.”

    The knight looked so solemn about it that Alice did not dare to laugh.
    “I’m afraid you must have hurt him,” she said in a trembling voice,
    “being on the top of his head.”

    “I had to kick him, of course,” the Knight said, very seriously. “And
    then he took the helmet off again—but it took hours and hours to get me
    out. I was as fast as—as lightning, you know.”

    “But that’s a different kind of fastness,” Alice objected.

    The Knight shook his head. “It was all kinds of fastness with me, I can
    assure you!” he said. He raised his hands in some excitement as he said
    this, and instantly rolled out of the saddle, and fell headlong into a
    deep ditch.

    Alice ran to the side of the ditch to look for him. She was rather
    startled by the fall, as for some time he had kept on very well, and
    she was afraid that he really _was_ hurt this time. However, though she
    could see nothing but the soles of his feet, she was much relieved to
    hear that he was talking on in his usual tone. “All kinds of fastness,”
    he repeated: “but it was careless of him to put another man’s helmet
    on—with the man in it, too.”

    “How _can_ you go on talking so quietly, head downwards?” Alice asked,
    as she dragged him out by the feet, and laid him in a heap on the bank.

    The Knight looked surprised at the question. “What does it matter where
    my body happens to be?” he said. “My mind goes on working all the same.
    In fact, the more head downwards I am, the more I keep inventing new
    things.”

    “Now the cleverest thing of the sort that I ever did,” he went on after
    a pause, “was inventing a new pudding during the meat-course.”

    “In time to have it cooked for the next course?” said Alice.

    “Well, not the _next_ course,” the Knight said in a slow thoughtful
    tone: “no, certainly not the next _course_.”

    “Then it would have to be the next day. I suppose you wouldn’t have two
    pudding-courses in one dinner?”

    “Well, not the _next_ day,” the Knight repeated as before: “not the
    next _day_. In fact,” he went on, holding his head down, and his voice
    getting lower and lower, “I don’t believe that pudding ever _was_
    cooked! In fact, I don’t believe that pudding ever _will_ be cooked!
    And yet it was a very clever pudding to invent.”

    “What did you mean it to be made of?” Alice asked, hoping to cheer him
    up, for the poor Knight seemed quite low-spirited about it.

    “It began with blotting paper,” the Knight answered with a groan.

    “That wouldn’t be very nice, I’m afraid—”

    “Not very nice _alone_,” he interrupted, quite eagerly: “but you’ve no
    idea what a difference it makes mixing it with other things—such as
    gunpowder and sealing-wax. And here I must leave you.” They had just
    come to the end of the wood.

    Alice could only look puzzled: she was thinking of the pudding.

    “You are sad,” the Knight said in an anxious tone: “let me sing you a
    song to comfort you.”

    “Is it very long?” Alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry
    that day.

    “It’s long,” said the Knight, “but very, _very_ beautiful. Everybody
    that hears me sing it—either it brings the _tears_ into their eyes, or
    else—”

    “Or else what?” said Alice, for the Knight had made a sudden pause.

    “Or else it doesn’t, you know. The name of the song is called
    ‘_Haddocks’ Eyes_.’”

    “Oh, that’s the name of the song, is it?” Alice said, trying to feel
    interested.

    “No, you don’t understand,” the Knight said, looking a little vexed.
    “That’s what the name is _called_. The name really _is_ ‘_The Aged Aged
    Man_.’”

    “Then I ought to have said ‘That’s what the _song_ is called’?” Alice
    corrected herself.

    “No, you oughtn’t: that’s quite another thing! The _song_ is called
    ‘_Ways and Means_’: but that’s only what it’s _called_, you know!”

    “Well, what _is_ the song, then?” said Alice, who was by this time
    completely bewildered.

    “I was coming to that,” the Knight said. “The song really _is_
    ‘_A-sitting On A Gate_’: and the tune’s my own invention.”

    So saying, he stopped his horse and let the reins fall on its neck:
    then, slowly beating time with one hand, and with a faint smile
    lighting up his gentle foolish face, as if he enjoyed the music of his
    song, he began.

    Of all the strange things that Alice saw in her journey Through The
    Looking-Glass, this was the one that she always remembered most
    clearly. Years afterwards she could bring the whole scene back again,
    as if it had been only yesterday—the mild blue eyes and kindly smile of
    the Knight—the setting sun gleaming through his hair, and shining on
    his armour in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her—the horse quietly
    moving about, with the reins hanging loose on his neck, cropping the
    grass at her feet—and the black shadows of the forest behind—all this
    she took in like a picture, as, with one hand shading her eyes, she
    leant against a tree, watching the strange pair, and listening, in a
    half dream, to the melancholy music of the song.

    “But the tune _isn’t_ his own invention,” she said to herself: “it’s
    ‘_I give thee all, I can no more_.’” She stood and listened very
    attentively, but no tears came into her eyes.

    “I’ll tell thee everything I can;
    There’s little to relate.
    I saw an aged aged man,
    A-sitting on a gate.
    ‘Who are you, aged man?’ I said,
    ‘and how is it you live?’
    And his answer trickled through my head
    Like water through a sieve.

    He said ‘I look for butterflies
    That sleep among the wheat:
    I make them into mutton-pies,
    And sell them in the street.
    I sell them unto men,’ he said,
    ‘Who sail on stormy seas;
    And that’s the way I get my bread—
    A trifle, if you please.’

    But I was thinking of a plan
    To dye one’s whiskers green,
    And always use so large a fan
    That they could not be seen.
    So, having no reply to give
    To what the old man said,
    I cried, ‘Come, tell me how you live!’
    And thumped him on the head.

    His accents mild took up the tale:
    He said ‘I go my ways,
    And when I find a mountain-rill,
    I set it in a blaze;
    And thence they make a stuff they call
    Rolands’ Macassar Oil—
    Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
    They give me for my toil.’

    But I was thinking of a way
    To feed oneself on batter,
    And so go on from day to day
    Getting a little fatter.
    I shook him well from side to side,
    Until his face was blue:
    ‘Come, tell me how you live,’ I cried,
    ‘And what it is you do!’

    He said ‘I hunt for haddocks’ eyes
    Among the heather bright,
    And work them into waistcoat-buttons
    In the silent night.
    And these I do not sell for gold
    Or coin of silvery shine
    But for a copper halfpenny,
    And that will purchase nine.

    ‘I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
    Or set limed twigs for crabs;
    I sometimes search the grassy knolls
    For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
    And that’s the way’ (he gave a wink)
    ‘By which I get my wealth—
    And very gladly will I drink
    Your Honour’s noble health.’

    I heard him then, for I had just
    Completed my design
    To keep the Menai bridge from rust
    By boiling it in wine.
    I thanked him much for telling me
    The way he got his wealth,
    But chiefly for his wish that he
    Might drink my noble health.

    And now, if e’er by chance I put
    My fingers into glue
    Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
    Into a left-hand shoe,
    Or if I drop upon my toe
    A very heavy weight,
    I weep, for it reminds me so,
    Of that old man I used to know—
    Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
    Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
    Whose face was very like a crow,
    With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
    Who seemed distracted with his woe,
    Who rocked his body to and fro,
    And muttered mumblingly and low,
    As if his mouth were full of dough,
    Who snorted like a buffalo—
    That summer evening, long ago,
    A-sitting on a gate.”

    As the Knight sang the last words of the ballad, he gathered up the
    reins, and turned his horse’s head along the road by which they had
    come. “You’ve only a few yards to go,” he said, “down the hill and over
    that little brook, and then you’ll be a Queen—But you’ll stay and see
    me off first?” he added as Alice turned with an eager look in the
    direction to which he pointed. “I shan’t be long. You’ll wait and wave
    your handkerchief when I get to that turn in the road? I think it’ll
    encourage me, you see.”

    “Of course I’ll wait,” said Alice: “and thank you very much for coming
    so far—and for the song—I liked it very much.”

    “I hope so,” the Knight said doubtfully: “but you didn’t cry so much as
    I thought you would.”

    So they shook hands, and then the Knight rode slowly away into the
    forest. “It won’t take long to see him _off_, I expect,” Alice said to
    herself, as she stood watching him. “There he goes! Right on his head
    as usual! However, he gets on again pretty easily—that comes of having
    so many things hung round the horse—” So she went on talking to
    herself, as she watched the horse walking leisurely along the road, and
    the Knight tumbling off, first on one side and then on the other. After
    the fourth or fifth tumble he reached the turn, and then she waved her
    handkerchief to him, and waited till he was out of sight.

    “I hope it encouraged him,” she said, as she turned to run down the
    hill: “and now for the last brook, and to be a Queen! How grand it
    sounds!” A very few steps brought her to the edge of the brook. “The
    Eighth Square at last!” she cried as she bounded across,

    * * * * * * *

    * * * * * *

    * * * * * * *

    and threw herself down to rest on a lawn as soft as moss, with little
    flower-beds dotted about it here and there. “Oh, how glad I am to get
    here! And what _is_ this on my head?” she exclaimed in a tone of
    dismay, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, and fitted
    tight all round her head.

    “But how _can_ it have got there without my knowing it?” she said to
    herself, as she lifted it off, and set it on her lap to make out what
    it could possibly be.

    It was a golden crown.

    CHAPTER IX.
    Queen Alice

    “Well, this _is_ grand!” said Alice. “I never expected I should be a
    Queen so soon—and I’ll tell you what it is, your majesty,” she went on
    in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding herself),
    “it’ll never do for you to be lolling about on the grass like that!
    Queens have to be dignified, you know!”

    So she got up and walked about—rather stiffly just at first, as she was
    afraid that the crown might come off: but she comforted herself with
    the thought that there was nobody to see her, “and if I really am a
    Queen,” she said as she sat down again, “I shall be able to manage it
    quite well in time.”

    Everything was happening so oddly that she didn’t feel a bit surprised
    at finding the Red Queen and the White Queen sitting close to her, one
    on each side: she would have liked very much to ask them how they came
    there, but she feared it would not be quite civil. However, there would
    be no harm, she thought, in asking if the game was over. “Please, would
    you tell me—” she began, looking timidly at the Red Queen.

    “Speak when you’re spoken to!” The Queen sharply interrupted her.

    “But if everybody obeyed that rule,” said Alice, who was always ready
    for a little argument, “and if you only spoke when you were spoken to,
    and the other person always waited for _you_ to begin, you see nobody
    would ever say anything, so that—”

    “Ridiculous!” cried the Queen. “Why, don’t you see, child—” here she
    broke off with a frown, and, after thinking for a minute, suddenly
    changed the subject of the conversation. “What do you mean by ‘If you
    really are a Queen’? What right have you to call yourself so? You can’t
    be a Queen, you know, till you’ve passed the proper examination. And
    the sooner we begin it, the better.”

    “I only said ‘if’!” poor Alice pleaded in a piteous tone.

    The two Queens looked at each other, and the Red Queen remarked, with a
    little shudder, “She _says_ she only said ‘if’—”

    “But she said a great deal more than that!” the White Queen moaned,
    wringing her hands. “Oh, ever so much more than that!”

    “So you did, you know,” the Red Queen said to Alice. “Always speak the
    truth—think before you speak—and write it down afterwards.”

    “I’m sure I didn’t mean—” Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen
    interrupted her impatiently.

    “That’s just what I complain of! You _should_ have meant! What do you
    suppose is the use of child without any meaning? Even a joke should
    have some meaning—and a child’s more important than a joke, I hope. You
    couldn’t deny that, even if you tried with both hands.”

    “I don’t deny things with my _hands_,” Alice objected.

    “Nobody said you did,” said the Red Queen. “I said you couldn’t if you
    tried.”

    “She’s in that state of mind,” said the White Queen, “that she wants to
    deny _something_—only she doesn’t know what to deny!”

    “A nasty, vicious temper,” the Red Queen remarked; and then there was
    an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two.

    The Red Queen broke the silence by saying to the White Queen, “I invite
    you to Alice’s dinner-party this afternoon.”

    The White Queen smiled feebly, and said “And I invite _you_.”

    “I didn’t know I was to have a party at all,” said Alice; “but if there
    is to be one, I think _I_ ought to invite the guests.”

    “We gave you the opportunity of doing it,” the Red Queen remarked: “but
    I daresay you’ve not had many lessons in manners yet?”

    “Manners are not taught in lessons,” said Alice. “Lessons teach you to
    do sums, and things of that sort.”

    “And you do Addition?” the White Queen asked. “What’s one and one and
    one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one?”

    “I don’t know,” said Alice. “I lost count.”

    “She can’t do Addition,” the Red Queen interrupted. “Can you do
    Subtraction? Take nine from eight.”

    “Nine from eight I can’t, you know,” Alice replied very readily: “but—”

    “She can’t do Subtraction,” said the White Queen. “Can you do Division?
    Divide a loaf by a knife—what’s the answer to that?”

    “I suppose—” Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen answered for her.
    “Bread-and-butter, of course. Try another Subtraction sum. Take a bone
    from a dog: what remains?”

    Alice considered. “The bone wouldn’t remain, of course, if I took
    it—and the dog wouldn’t remain; it would come to bite me—and I’m sure
    _I_ shouldn’t remain!”

    “Then you think nothing would remain?” said the Red Queen.

    “I think that’s the answer.”

    “Wrong, as usual,” said the Red Queen: “the dog’s temper would remain.”

    “But I don’t see how—”

    “Why, look here!” the Red Queen cried. “The dog would lose its temper,
    wouldn’t it?”

    “Perhaps it would,” Alice replied cautiously.

    “Then if the dog went away, its temper would remain!” the Queen
    exclaimed triumphantly.

    Alice said, as gravely as she could, “They might go different ways.”
    But she couldn’t help thinking to herself, “What dreadful nonsense we
    _are_ talking!”

    “She can’t do sums a _bit_!” the Queens said together, with great
    emphasis.

    “Can _you_ do sums?” Alice said, turning suddenly on the White Queen,
    for she didn’t like being found fault with so much.

    The Queen gasped and shut her eyes. “I can do Addition, if you give me
    time—but I can’t do Subtraction, under _any_ circumstances!”

    “Of course you know your A B C?” said the Red Queen.

    “To be sure I do.” said Alice.

    “So do I,” the White Queen whispered: “we’ll often say it over
    together, dear. And I’ll tell you a secret—I can read words of one
    letter! Isn’t _that_ grand! However, don’t be discouraged. You’ll come
    to it in time.”

    Here the Red Queen began again. “Can you answer useful questions?” she
    said. “How is bread made?”

    “I know _that_!” Alice cried eagerly. “You take some flour—”

    “Where do you pick the flower?” the White Queen asked. “In a garden, or
    in the hedges?”

    “Well, it isn’t _picked_ at all,” Alice explained: “it’s _ground_—”

    “How many acres of ground?” said the White Queen. “You mustn’t leave
    out so many things.”

    “Fan her head!” the Red Queen anxiously interrupted. “She’ll be
    feverish after so much thinking.” So they set to work and fanned her
    with bunches of leaves, till she had to beg them to leave off, it blew
    her hair about so.

    “She’s all right again now,” said the Red Queen. “Do you know
    Languages? What’s the French for fiddle-de-dee?”

    “Fiddle-de-dee’s not English,” Alice replied gravely.

    “Who ever said it was?” said the Red Queen.

    Alice thought she saw a way out of the difficulty this time. “If you’ll
    tell me what language ‘fiddle-de-dee’ is, I’ll tell you the French for
    it!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

    But the Red Queen drew herself up rather stiffly, and said “Queens
    never make bargains.”

    “I wish Queens never asked questions,” Alice thought to herself.

    “Don’t let us quarrel,” the White Queen said in an anxious tone. “What
    is the cause of lightning?”

    “The cause of lightning,” Alice said very decidedly, for she felt quite
    certain about this, “is the thunder—no, no!” she hastily corrected
    herself. “I meant the other way.”

    “It’s too late to correct it,” said the Red Queen: “when you’ve once
    said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences.”

    “Which reminds me—” the White Queen said, looking down and nervously
    clasping and unclasping her hands, “we had _such_ a thunderstorm last
    Tuesday—I mean one of the last set of Tuesdays, you know.”

    Alice was puzzled. “In _our_ country,” she remarked, “there’s only one
    day at a time.”

    The Red Queen said, “That’s a poor thin way of doing things. Now
    _here_, we mostly have days and nights two or three at a time, and
    sometimes in the winter we take as many as five nights together—for
    warmth, you know.”

    “Are five nights warmer than one night, then?” Alice ventured to ask.

    “Five times as warm, of course.”

    “But they should be five times as _cold_, by the same rule—”

    “Just so!” cried the Red Queen. “Five times as warm, _and_ five times
    as cold—just as I’m five times as rich as you are, _and_ five times as
    clever!”

    Alice sighed and gave it up. “It’s exactly like a riddle with no
    answer!” she thought.

    “Humpty Dumpty saw it too,” the White Queen went on in a low voice,
    more as if she were talking to herself. “He came to the door with a
    corkscrew in his hand—”

    “What did he want?” said the Red Queen.

    “He said he _would_ come in,” the White Queen went on, “because he was
    looking for a hippopotamus. Now, as it happened, there wasn’t such a
    thing in the house, that morning.”

    “Is there generally?” Alice asked in an astonished tone.

    “Well, only on Thursdays,” said the Queen.

    “I know what he came for,” said Alice: “he wanted to punish the fish,
    because—”

    Here the White Queen began again. “It was _such_ a thunderstorm, you
    can’t think!” (“She _never_ could, you know,” said the Red Queen.) “And
    part of the roof came off, and ever so much thunder got in—and it went
    rolling round the room in great lumps—and knocking over the tables and
    things—till I was so frightened, I couldn’t remember my own name!”

    Alice thought to herself, “I never should _try_ to remember my name in
    the middle of an accident! Where would be the use of it?” but she did
    not say this aloud, for fear of hurting the poor Queen’s feeling.

    “Your Majesty must excuse her,” the Red Queen said to Alice, taking one
    of the White Queen’s hands in her own, and gently stroking it: “she
    means well, but she can’t help saying foolish things, as a general
    rule.”

    The White Queen looked timidly at Alice, who felt she _ought_ to say
    something kind, but really couldn’t think of anything at the moment.

    “She never was really well brought up,” the Red Queen went on: “but
    it’s amazing how good-tempered she is! Pat her on the head, and see how
    pleased she’ll be!” But this was more than Alice had courage to do.

    “A little kindness—and putting her hair in papers—would do wonders with
    her—”

    The White Queen gave a deep sigh, and laid her head on Alice’s
    shoulder. “I _am_ so sleepy!” she moaned.

    “She’s tired, poor thing!” said the Red Queen. “Smooth her hair—lend
    her your nightcap—and sing her a soothing lullaby.”

    “I haven’t got a nightcap with me,” said Alice, as she tried to obey
    the first direction: “and I don’t know any soothing lullabies.”

    “I must do it myself, then,” said the Red Queen, and she began:

    “Hush-a-by lady, in Alice’s lap!
    Till the feast’s ready, we’ve time for a nap:
    When the feast’s over, we’ll go to the ball—
    Red Queen, and White Queen, and Alice, and all!

    “And now you know the words,” she added, as she put her head down on
    Alice’s other shoulder, “just sing it through to _me_. I’m getting
    sleepy, too.” In another moment both Queens were fast asleep, and
    snoring loud.

    “What _am_ I to do?” exclaimed Alice, looking about in great
    perplexity, as first one round head, and then the other, rolled down
    from her shoulder, and lay like a heavy lump in her lap. “I don’t think
    it _ever_ happened before, that any one had to take care of two Queens
    asleep at once! No, not in all the History of England—it couldn’t, you
    know, because there never was more than one Queen at a time. Do wake
    up, you heavy things!” she went on in an impatient tone; but there was
    no answer but a gentle snoring.

    The snoring got more distinct every minute, and sounded more like a
    tune: at last she could even make out the words, and she listened so
    eagerly that, when the two great heads vanished from her lap, she
    hardly missed them.

    She was standing before an arched doorway over which were the words
    QUEEN ALICE in large letters, and on each side of the arch there was a
    bell-handle; one was marked “Visitors’ Bell,” and the other “Servants’
    Bell.”

    “I’ll wait till the song’s over,” thought Alice, “and then I’ll
    ring—the—_which_ bell must I ring?” she went on, very much puzzled by
    the names. “I’m not a visitor, and I’m not a servant. There _ought_ to
    be one marked ‘Queen,’ you know—”

    Just then the door opened a little way, and a creature with a long beak
    put its head out for a moment and said “No admittance till the week
    after next!” and shut the door again with a bang.

    Alice knocked and rang in vain for a long time, but at last, a very old
    Frog, who was sitting under a tree, got up and hobbled slowly towards
    her: he was dressed in bright yellow, and had enormous boots on.

    “What is it, now?” the Frog said in a deep hoarse whisper.

    Alice turned round, ready to find fault with anybody. “Where’s the
    servant whose business it is to answer the door?” she began angrily.

    “Which door?” said the Frog.

    Alice almost stamped with irritation at the slow drawl in which he
    spoke. “_This_ door, of course!”

    The Frog looked at the door with his large dull eyes for a minute: then
    he went nearer and rubbed it with his thumb, as if he were trying
    whether the paint would come off; then he looked at Alice.

    “To answer the door?” he said. “What’s it been asking of?” He was so
    hoarse that Alice could scarcely hear him.

    “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

    “I talks English, doesn’t I?” the Frog went on. “Or are you deaf? What
    did it ask you?”

    “Nothing!” Alice said impatiently. “I’ve been knocking at it!”

    “Shouldn’t do that—shouldn’t do that—” the Frog muttered. “Vexes it,
    you know.” Then he went up and gave the door a kick with one of his
    great feet. “You let _it_ alone,” he panted out, as he hobbled back to
    his tree, “and it’ll let _you_ alone, you know.”

    At this moment the door was flung open, and a shrill voice was heard
    singing:

    “To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said,
    ‘I’ve a sceptre in hand, I’ve a crown on my head;
    Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be,
    Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me.’”

    And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus:

    “Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
    And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
    Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea—
    And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!”

    Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to
    herself, “Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one’s
    counting?” In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill
    voice sang another verse;

    “‘O Looking-Glass creatures,’ quoth Alice, ‘draw near!
    ’Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
    ’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
    Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!’”

    Then came the chorus again:—

    “Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,
    Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
    Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine—
    And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!”

    “Ninety times nine!” Alice repeated in despair, “Oh, that’ll never be
    done! I’d better go in at once—” and there was a dead silence the
    moment she appeared.

    Alice glanced nervously along the table, as she walked up the large
    hall, and noticed that there were about fifty guests, of all kinds:
    some were animals, some birds, and there were even a few flowers among
    them. “I’m glad they’ve come without waiting to be asked,” she thought:
    “I should never have known who were the right people to invite!”

    There were three chairs at the head of the table; the Red and White
    Queens had already taken two of them, but the middle one was empty.
    Alice sat down in it, rather uncomfortable in the silence, and longing
    for some one to speak.

    At last the Red Queen began. “You’ve missed the soup and fish,” she
    said. “Put on the joint!” And the waiters set a leg of mutton before
    Alice, who looked at it rather anxiously, as she had never had to carve
    a joint before.

    “You look a little shy; let me introduce you to that leg of mutton,”
    said the Red Queen. “Alice—Mutton; Mutton—Alice.” The leg of mutton got
    up in the dish and made a little bow to Alice; and Alice returned the
    bow, not knowing whether to be frightened or amused.

    “May I give you a slice?” she said, taking up the knife and fork, and
    looking from one Queen to the other.

    “Certainly not,” the Red Queen said, very decidedly: “it isn’t
    etiquette to cut any one you’ve been introduced to. Remove the joint!”
    And the waiters carried it off, and brought a large plum-pudding in its
    place.

    “I won’t be introduced to the pudding, please,” Alice said rather
    hastily, “or we shall get no dinner at all. May I give you some?”

    But the Red Queen looked sulky, and growled “Pudding—Alice;
    Alice—Pudding. Remove the pudding!” and the waiters took it away so
    quickly that Alice couldn’t return its bow.

    However, she didn’t see why the Red Queen should be the only one to
    give orders, so, as an experiment, she called out “Waiter! Bring back
    the pudding!” and there it was again in a moment like a
    conjuring-trick. It was so large that she couldn’t help feeling a
    _little_ shy with it, as she had been with the mutton; however, she
    conquered her shyness by a great effort and cut a slice and handed it
    to the Red Queen.

    “What impertinence!” said the Pudding. “I wonder how you’d like it, if
    I were to cut a slice out of _you_, you creature!”

    It spoke in a thick, suety sort of voice, and Alice hadn’t a word to
    say in reply: she could only sit and look at it and gasp.

    “Make a remark,” said the Red Queen: “it’s ridiculous to leave all the
    conversation to the pudding!”

    “Do you know, I’ve had such a quantity of poetry repeated to me
    to-day,” Alice began, a little frightened at finding that, the moment
    she opened her lips, there was dead silence, and all eyes were fixed
    upon her; “and it’s a very curious thing, I think—every poem was about
    fishes in some way. Do you know why they’re so fond of fishes, all
    about here?”

    She spoke to the Red Queen, whose answer was a little wide of the mark.
    “As to fishes,” she said, very slowly and solemnly, putting her mouth
    close to Alice’s ear, “her White Majesty knows a lovely riddle—all in
    poetry—all about fishes. Shall she repeat it?”

    “Her Red Majesty’s very kind to mention it,” the White Queen murmured
    into Alice’s other ear, in a voice like the cooing of a pigeon. “It
    would be _such_ a treat! May I?”

    “Please do,” Alice said very politely.

    The White Queen laughed with delight, and stroked Alice’s cheek. Then
    she began:

    “‘First, the fish must be caught.’
    That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it.
    ‘Next, the fish must be bought.’
    That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it.

    ‘Now cook me the fish!’
    That is easy, and will not take more than a minute.
    ‘Let it lie in a dish!’
    That is easy, because it already is in it.

    ‘Bring it here! Let me sup!’
    It is easy to set such a dish on the table.
    ‘Take the dish-cover up!’
    Ah, that is so hard that I fear I’m unable!

    For it holds it like glue—
    Holds the lid to the dish, while it lies in the middle:
    Which is easiest to do,
    Un-dish-cover the fish, or dishcover the riddle?”

    “Take a minute to think about it, and then guess,” said the Red Queen.
    “Meanwhile, we’ll drink your health—Queen Alice’s health!” she screamed
    at the top of her voice, and all the guests began drinking it directly,
    and very queerly they managed it: some of them put their glasses upon
    their heads like extinguishers, and drank all that trickled down their
    faces—others upset the decanters, and drank the wine as it ran off the
    edges of the table—and three of them (who looked like kangaroos)
    scrambled into the dish of roast mutton, and began eagerly lapping up
    the gravy, “just like pigs in a trough!” thought Alice.

    “You ought to return thanks in a neat speech,” the Red Queen said,
    frowning at Alice as she spoke.

    “We must support you, you know,” the White Queen whispered, as Alice
    got up to do it, very obediently, but a little frightened.

    “Thank you very much,” she whispered in reply, “but I can do quite well
    without.”

    “That wouldn’t be at all the thing,” the Red Queen said very decidedly:
    so Alice tried to submit to it with a good grace.

    (“And they _did_ push so!” she said afterwards, when she was telling
    her sister the history of the feast. “You would have thought they
    wanted to squeeze me flat!”)

    In fact it was rather difficult for her to keep in her place while she
    made her speech: the two Queens pushed her so, one on each side, that
    they nearly lifted her up into the air: “I rise to return thanks—”
    Alice began: and she really _did_ rise as she spoke, several inches;
    but she got hold of the edge of the table, and managed to pull herself
    down again.

    “Take care of yourself!” screamed the White Queen, seizing Alice’s hair
    with both her hands. “Something’s going to happen!”

    And then (as Alice afterwards described it) all sorts of things
    happened in a moment. The candles all grew up to the ceiling, looking
    something like a bed of rushes with fireworks at the top. As to the
    bottles, they each took a pair of plates, which they hastily fitted on
    as wings, and so, with forks for legs, went fluttering about in all
    directions: “and very like birds they look,” Alice thought to herself,
    as well as she could in the dreadful confusion that was beginning.

    At this moment she heard a hoarse laugh at her side, and turned to see
    what was the matter with the White Queen; but, instead of the Queen,
    there was the leg of mutton sitting in the chair. “Here I am!” cried a
    voice from the soup tureen, and Alice turned again, just in time to see
    the Queen’s broad good-natured face grinning at her for a moment over
    the edge of the tureen, before she disappeared into the soup.

    There was not a moment to be lost. Already several of the guests were
    lying down in the dishes, and the soup ladle was walking up the table
    towards Alice’s chair, and beckoning to her impatiently to get out of
    its way.

    “I can’t stand this any longer!” she cried as she jumped up and seized
    the table-cloth with both hands: one good pull, and plates, dishes,
    guests, and candles came crashing down together in a heap on the floor.

    “And as for _you_,” she went on, turning fiercely upon the Red Queen,
    whom she considered as the cause of all the mischief—but the Queen was
    no longer at her side—she had suddenly dwindled down to the size of a
    little doll, and was now on the table, merrily running round and round
    after her own shawl, which was trailing behind her.

    At any other time, Alice would have felt surprised at this, but she was
    far too much excited to be surprised at anything _now_. “As for _you_,”
    she repeated, catching hold of the little creature in the very act of
    jumping over a bottle which had just lighted upon the table, “I’ll
    shake you into a kitten, that I will!”

    CHAPTER X.
    Shaking

    She took her off the table as she spoke, and shook her backwards and
    forwards with all her might.

    The Red Queen made no resistance whatever; only her face grew very
    small, and her eyes got large and green: and still, as Alice went on
    shaking her, she kept on growing shorter—and fatter—and softer—and
    rounder—and—

    CHAPTER XI.
    Waking

    —and it really _was_ a kitten, after all.

    CHAPTER XII.
    Which Dreamed it?

    “Your majesty shouldn’t purr so loud,” Alice said, rubbing her eyes,
    and addressing the kitten, respectfully, yet with some severity. “You
    woke me out of oh! such a nice dream! And you’ve been along with me,
    Kitty—all through the Looking-Glass world. Did you know it, dear?”

    It is a very inconvenient habit of kittens (Alice had once made the
    remark) that, whatever you say to them, they _always_ purr. “If they
    would only purr for ‘yes’ and mew for ‘no,’ or any rule of that sort,”
    she had said, “so that one could keep up a conversation! But how _can_
    you talk with a person if they always say the same thing?”

    On this occasion the kitten only purred: and it was impossible to guess
    whether it meant “yes” or “no.”

    So Alice hunted among the chessmen on the table till she had found the
    Red Queen: then she went down on her knees on the hearth-rug, and put
    the kitten and the Queen to look at each other. “Now, Kitty!” she
    cried, clapping her hands triumphantly. “Confess that was what you
    turned into!”

    (“But it wouldn’t look at it,” she said, when she was explaining the
    thing afterwards to her sister: “it turned away its head, and pretended
    not to see it: but it looked a _little_ ashamed of itself, so I think
    it _must_ have been the Red Queen.”)

    “Sit up a little more stiffly, dear!” Alice cried with a merry laugh.
    “And curtsey while you’re thinking what to—what to purr. It saves time,
    remember!” And she caught it up and gave it one little kiss, “just in
    honour of having been a Red Queen.”

    “Snowdrop, my pet!” she went on, looking over her shoulder at the White
    Kitten, which was still patiently undergoing its toilet, “when _will_
    Dinah have finished with your White Majesty, I wonder? That must be the
    reason you were so untidy in my dream—Dinah! do you know that you’re
    scrubbing a White Queen? Really, it’s most disrespectful of you!

    “And what did _Dinah_ turn to, I wonder?” she prattled on, as she
    settled comfortably down, with one elbow in the rug, and her chin in
    her hand, to watch the kittens. “Tell me, Dinah, did you turn to Humpty
    Dumpty? I _think_ you did—however, you’d better not mention it to your
    friends just yet, for I’m not sure.

    “By the way, Kitty, if only you’d been really with me in my dream,
    there was one thing you _would_ have enjoyed—I had such a quantity of
    poetry said to me, all about fishes! To-morrow morning you shall have a
    real treat. All the time you’re eating your breakfast, I’ll repeat ‘The
    Walrus and the Carpenter’ to you; and then you can make believe it’s
    oysters, dear!

    “Now, Kitty, let’s consider who it was that dreamed it all. This is a
    serious question, my dear, and you should _not_ go on licking your paw
    like that—as if Dinah hadn’t washed you this morning! You see, Kitty,
    it _must_ have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream,
    of course—but then I was part of his dream, too! _Was_ it the Red King,
    Kitty? You were his wife, my dear, so you ought to know—Oh, Kitty, _do_
    help to settle it! I’m sure your paw can wait!” But the provoking
    kitten only began on the other paw, and pretended it hadn’t heard the
    question.

    Which do _you_ think it was?

    A boat beneath a sunny sky,
    Lingering onward dreamily
    In an evening of July—

    Children three that nestle near,
    Eager eye and willing ear,
    Pleased a simple tale to hear—

    Long has paled that sunny sky:
    Echoes fade and memories die.
    Autumn frosts have slain July.

    Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
    Alice moving under skies
    Never seen by waking eyes.

    Children yet, the tale to hear,
    Eager eye and willing ear,
    Lovingly shall nestle near.

    In a Wonderland they lie,
    Dreaming as the days go by,
    Dreaming as the summers die:

    Ever drifting down the stream—
    Lingering in the golden gleam—
    Life, what is it but a dream?

    THE END

  • Three hundred Aesop’s fables

    Three hundred Aesop’s fables

    Aproximadamente 45.066 palavras.

    THREE HUNDRED
    ÆSOP’S FABLES

    LITERALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK

    By the
    Rev. George Fyler Townsend, M.A.

    LONDON
    GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

    THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE
    NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET

    CONTENTS

    PREFACE
    LIFE OF AESOP
    AESOP’S FABLES
    The Lion And The Mouse
    The Wolf And The Lamb
    The Ass And The Grasshopper
    The Wolf and the Crane
    The Father And His Sons
    The Bat And The Weasels
    The Cock and the Jewel
    The Swallow and the Crow
    The Kingdom of the Lion
    The Traveler and His Dog
    The Ants and the Grasshopper
    The Hare and the Tortoise
    The Charcoal-Burner And The Fuller
    The Boy Hunting Locusts
    The Fisherman Piping
    The Dog and the Shadow
    Hercules and the Wagoner
    The Mole and His Mother
    The Herdsman and the Lost Bull
    The Fawn and His Mother
    The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion
    The Flies and the Honey-Pot
    The Lioness
    The Farmer and the Snake
    The Man and the Lion
    The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble
    The Farmer and the Stork
    The Mountain in Labor
    The Bear and the Fox
    The Tortoise and the Eagle
    The Fox and the Goat
    The Raven and the Swan
    The Thirsty Pigeon
    The Dog in the Manger
    The Oxen and the Axle-Trees
    The Farmer and the Cranes
    The Sick Lion
    The Bear and the Two Travelers
    The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail
    The Cat and the Cock
    The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
    The Goat and the Goatherd
    The Boasting Traveler
    The Lion in Love
    The Miser
    The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat
    The Boy and the Filberts
    The Frogs Asking for a King
    The Laborer and the Snake
    The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox
    The Horse and Groom
    The Ass and the Mule
    The Ass and the Lapdog
    The Oxen and the Butchers
    The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf
    The Boys and the Frogs
    The Salt Merchant and His Ass
    The Mischievous Dog
    The Goatherd and the Wild Goats
    The Man and His Two Sweethearts
    The Sick Stag
    The Boy and the Nettles
    The Astronomer
    The Wolves and the Sheep
    The Cat and the Birds
    The Vain Jackdaw
    The Kid and the Wolf
    The Old Woman and the Physician
    The Ox and the Frog
    The Farmer and His Sons
    The Heifer and the Ox
    The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle
    The Charger and the Miller
    The Fox and the Monkey
    The Horse and His Rider
    The Belly and the Members
    The Widow and Her Little Maidens
    The Vine and the Goat
    Jupiter and the Monkey
    The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons
    The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat
    The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice
    The Two Pots
    The Shepherd and the Wolf
    The Crab and Its Mother
    The Father and His Two Daughters
    The Thief and His Mother
    The Old Man and Death
    The Fir-Tree and the Bramble
    The Æthiop
    The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk
    The Fisherman and His Nets
    The Wolf and the Sheep
    The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar
    The Man Bitten by a Dog
    The Huntsman and the Fisherman
    The Fox and the Crow
    The Widow and the Sheep
    The Playful Ass
    The Stag in the Ox-Stall
    The Two Dogs
    The Wild Ass and the Lion
    The Lion and the Dolphin
    The Eagle and the Arrow
    The Sick Kite
    The Lion and the Boar
    The Mice in Council
    The One-Eyed Doe
    The Mice and the Weasels
    The Shepherd and the Sea
    The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion
    The Rivers and the Sea
    The Wild Boar and the Fox
    The Milk-Woman and Her Pail
    The Bee and Jupiter
    The Wolf and the Housedog
    The Three Tradesmen
    The Ass Carrying the Image
    The Master and His Dogs
    The Old Hound
    The Two Travelers and the Axe
    The Old Lion
    The Wolf and the Shepherds
    The Seaside Travelers
    The Ass and His Shadow
    The Ass and His Masters
    Mercury and the Sculptor
    The Fox and the Woodcutter
    The Oak and the Reeds
    The Lion in a Farmyard
    The Wolf and the Lion
    The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock
    The Ant and the Dove
    The Hares and the Frogs
    The Monkey and the Fishermen
    The Swan and the Goose
    The Doe and the Lion
    The Fisherman and the Little Fish
    The Hunter and the Woodman
    The Swollen Fox
    The Two Frogs
    The Lamp
    The Camel and the Arab
    The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass
    The Cat and the Mice
    The Mouse and the Bull
    The Dog and the Cook
    The Thieves and the Cock
    The Dancing Monkeys
    The Farmer and the Fox
    The Traveler and Fortune
    The Seagull and the Kite
    The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox
    The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury
    The Peasant and the Eagle
    The Fox and the Leopard
    The Lion and the Hare
    The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter
    The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass
    The Bull and the Goat
    The Bald Knight
    The Oaks and Jupiter
    The Monkeys and Their Mother
    The Hare and the Hound
    The Shepherd and the Dog
    The Oak and the Woodcutters
    The Wasp and the Snake
    The Peacock and the Crane
    The Hen and the Golden Eggs
    The Ass and the Frogs
    The Crow and the Raven
    The Trees and the Axe
    The Wolves and the Sheepdogs
    The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter
    The Bowman and Lion
    The Camel
    The Crab and the Fox
    The Ass and the Old Shepherd
    The Fox and the Hedgehog
    The Woman and Her Hen
    The Kites and the Swans
    The Dog and the Hare
    The Hares and the Foxes
    The Bull and the Calf
    The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep
    The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow
    The Wolf and the Fox
    The Mule
    The Prophet
    The Two Frogs
    The Serpent and the Eagle
    The Crow and the Pitcher
    The Thief and the Innkeeper
    The Hart and the Vine
    The Gnat and the Lion
    The Fox and the Grapes
    The Walnut-Tree
    The Kid and the Wolf
    The Monkey and the Dolphin
    The Horse and the Stag
    The Jackdaw and the Doves
    The Fox and the Monkey
    The Man and His Wife
    The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog
    The Thief and the Housedog
    The Apes and the Two Travelers
    The Fox and the Lion
    The Weasel and the Mice
    The Boy Bathing
    The Peacock and Juno
    The Wolf and the Shepherd
    The Hares and the Lions
    The Seller of Images
    The Hawk and the Nightingale
    The Lark and Her Young Ones
    The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox
    The Geese and the Cranes
    The Ass and the Wolf
    The Goat and the Ass
    The Lion and the Bull
    The Fox and the Mask
    The Grasshopper and the Owl
    The Fowler and the Viper
    The Horse and the Ass
    The Lion and the Three Bulls
    The Wolf and the Goat
    The Fly and the Draught-Mule
    The Fishermen
    The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse
    The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape
    The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer
    The Brother and the Sister
    The Dogs and the Fox
    The Blind Man and the Whelp
    The Cobbler Turned Doctor
    The Wolf and the Horse
    The Two Men Who Were Enemies
    The Gamecocks and the Partridge
    The Fox and the Lion
    The Quack Frog
    The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
    The Dog’s House
    The North Wind and the Sun
    The Crow and Mercury
    The Fox and the Crane
    The Wolf and the Lion
    The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat
    The Spendthrift and the Swallow
    The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
    The Owl and the Birds
    The Goods and the Ills
    The Ass in the Lion’s Skin
    The Sparrow and the Hare
    The Flea and the Ox
    The Ass and His Purchaser
    The Dove and the Crow
    The Man and the Satyr
    Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus
    The Eagle and the Jackdaw
    The Eagle and the Fox
    The Two Bags
    The Bitch and Her Whelps
    The Stag at the Pool
    The Lark Burying Her Father
    The Gnat and the Bull
    The Monkey and the Camel
    The Dogs and the Hides
    The Jackdaw and the Fox
    Mercury and the Workmen
    The Peasant and the Apple-Tree
    The Two Soldiers and the Robber
    The Shepherd and the Sheep
    The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods
    The Flea and the Wrestler
    The Lion and the Fox
    Truth and the Traveler
    The Manslayer
    The Lion and the Eagle
    The Ass and His Driver
    The Thrush and the Fowler
    The Mother and the Wolf
    The Hen and the Swallow
    The Rose and the Amaranth
    The Travelers and the Plane-Tree
    The Ass and the Horse
    The Crow and the Sheep
    The Fox and the Bramble
    The Ass and the Charger
    The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant
    The Dog and the Oyster
    The Mules and the Robbers
    The Lamb and the Wolf
    The Partridge and the Fowler
    The Flea and the Man
    The Rich Man and the Tanner
    The Viper and the File
    The Lion and the Shepherd
    The Camel and Jupiter
    The Panther and the Shepherds
    The Eagle and the Kite
    The Eagle and His Captor
    The King’s Son and the Painted Lion
    The Cat and Venus
    The Eagle and the Beetle
    The She-Goats and Their Beards
    The Bald Man and the Fly
    The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea
    The Buffoon and the Countryman
    The Crow and the Serpent
    The Hunter and the Horseman
    The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree
    The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun
    The Brazier and His Dog
    FOOTNOTES
    INDEX

    PREFACE

    The Tale, the Parable, and the Fable are all common and popular modes
    of conveying instruction. Each is distinguished by its own special
    characteristics. The Tale consists simply in the narration of a story
    either founded on facts, or created solely by the imagination, and not
    necessarily associated with the teaching of any moral lesson. The
    Parable is the designed use of language purposely intended to convey a
    hidden and secret meaning other than that contained in the words
    themselves; and which may or may not bear a special reference to the
    hearer, or reader. The Fable partly agrees with, and partly differs
    from both of these. It will contain, like the Tale, a short but real
    narrative; it will seek, like the Parable, to convey a hidden meaning,
    and that not so much by the use of language, as by the skilful
    introduction of fictitious characters; and yet, unlike to either Tale
    or Parable, it will ever keep in view, as its high prerogative, and
    inseparable attribute, the great purpose of instruction, and will
    necessarily seek to inculcate some moral maxim, social duty, or
    political truth. The true Fable, if it rise to its high requirements,
    ever aims at one great end and purpose—the representation of human
    motive, and the improvement of human conduct, and yet it so conceals
    its design under the disguise of fictitious characters, by clothing
    with speech the animals of the field, the birds of the air, the trees
    of the wood, or the beasts of the forest, that the reader shall receive
    advice without perceiving the presence of the adviser. Thus the
    superiority of the counsellor, which often renders counsel unpalatable,
    is kept out of view, and the lesson comes with the greater acceptance
    when the reader is led, unconsciously to himself, to have his
    sympathies enlisted in behalf of what is pure, honourable, and
    praiseworthy, and to have his indignation excited against what is low,
    ignoble, and unworthy. The true fabulist, therefore, discharges a most
    important function. He is neither a narrator, nor an allegorist. He is
    a great teacher, a corrector of morals, a censor of vice, and a
    commender of virtue. In this consists the superiority of the Fable over
    the Tale or the Parable. The fabulist is to create a laugh, but yet,
    under a merry guise, to convey instruction. Phædrus, the great imitator
    of Æsop, plainly indicates this double purpose to be the true office of
    the writer of fables.

    Duplex libelli dos est: quod risum movet,
    Et quod prudenti vitam consilio monet.

    The continual observance of this twofold aim creates the charm, and
    accounts for the universal favour, of the fables of Æsop. “The fable,”
    says Professor K. O. Mueller, “originated in Greece in an intentional
    travestie of human affairs. The ‘ainos,’ as its name denotes, is an
    admonition, or rather a reproof, veiled, either from fear of an excess
    of frankness, or from a love of fun and jest, beneath the fiction of an
    occurrence happening among beasts; and wherever we have any ancient and
    authentic account of the Æsopian fables, we find it to be the same.”[1]

    The construction of a fable involves a minute attention to (1), the
    narration itself; (2), the deduction of the moral; and (3), a careful
    maintenance of the individual characteristics of the fictitious
    personages introduced into it. The narration should relate to one
    simple action, consistent with itself, and neither be overladen with a
    multiplicity of details, nor distracted by a variety of circumstances.
    The moral or lesson should be so plain, and so intimately interwoven
    with, and so necessarily dependent on, the narration, that every reader
    should be compelled to give to it the same undeniable interpretation.
    The introduction of the animals or fictitious characters should be
    marked with an unexceptionable care and attention to their natural
    attributes, and to the qualities attributed to them by universal
    popular consent. The Fox should be always cunning, the Hare timid, the
    Lion bold, the Wolf cruel, the Bull strong, the Horse proud, and the
    Ass patient. Many of these fables are characterized by the strictest
    observance of these rules. They are occupied with one short narrative,
    from which the moral naturally flows, and with which it is intimately
    associated. “’Tis the simple manner,” says Dodsley,[2] “in which the
    morals of Æsop are interwoven with his fables that distinguishes him,
    and gives him the preference over all other mythologists. His ‘Mountain
    delivered of a Mouse,’ produces the moral of his fable in ridicule of
    pompous pretenders; and his Crow, when she drops her cheese, lets fall,
    as it were by accident, the strongest admonition against the power of
    flattery. There is no need of a separate sentence to explain it; no
    possibility of impressing it deeper, by that load we too often see of
    accumulated reflections.”[3] An equal amount of praise is due for the
    consistency with which the characters of the animals, fictitiously
    introduced, are marked. While they are made to depict the motives and
    passions of men, they retain, in an eminent degree, their own special
    features of craft or counsel, of cowardice or courage, of generosity or
    rapacity.

    These terms of praise, it must be confessed, cannot be bestowed on all
    the fables in this collection. Many of them lack that unity of design,
    that close connection of the moral with the narrative, that wise choice
    in the introduction of the animals, which constitute the charm and
    excellency of true Æsopian fable. This inferiority of some to others is
    sufficiently accounted for in the history of the origin and descent of
    these fables. The great bulk of them are not the immediate work of
    Æsop. Many are obtained from ancient authors prior to the time in which
    he lived. Thus, the fable of the “Hawk and the Nightingale” is related
    by Hesiod;[4] the “Eagle wounded by an Arrow, winged with its own
    feathers,” by Æschylus;[5] the “Fox avenging his wrongs on the Eagle,”
    by Archilochus.[6] Many of them again are of later origin, and are to
    be traced to the monks of the middle ages: and yet this collection,
    though thus made up of fables both earlier and later than the era of
    Æsop, rightfully bears his name, because he composed so large a number
    (all framed in the same mould, and conformed to the same fashion, and
    stamped with the same lineaments, image, and superscription) as to
    secure to himself the right to be considered the father of Greek
    fables, and the founder of this class of writing, which has ever since
    borne his name, and has secured for him, through all succeeding ages,
    the position of the first of moralists.[7]

    The fables were in the first instance only narrated by Æsop, and for a
    long time were handed down by the uncertain channel of oral tradition.
    Socrates is mentioned by Plato[8] as having employed his time while in
    prison, awaiting the return of the sacred ship from Delphos which was
    to be the signal of his death, in turning some of these fables into
    verse, but he thus versified only such as he remembered. Demetrius
    Phalereus, a philosopher at Athens about 300 B.C., is said to have made
    the first collection of these fables. Phædrus, a slave by birth or by
    subsequent misfortunes, and admitted by Augustus to the honours of a
    freedman, imitated many of these fables in Latin iambics about the
    commencement of the Christian era. Aphthonius, a rhetorician of
    Antioch, A.D. 315, wrote a treatise on, and converted into Latin prose,
    some of these fables. This translation is the more worthy of notice, as
    it illustrates a custom of common use, both in these and in later
    times. The rhetoricians and philosophers were accustomed to give the
    Fables of Æsop as an exercise to their scholars, not only inviting them
    to discuss the moral of the tale, but also to practice and to perfect
    themselves thereby in style and rules of grammar, by making for
    themselves new and various versions of the fables. Ausonius,[9] the
    friend of the Emperor Valentinian, and the latest poet of eminence in
    the Western Empire, has handed down some of these fables in verse,
    which Julianus Titianus, a contemporary writer of no great name,
    translated into prose. Avienus, also a contemporary of Ausonius, put
    some of these fables into Latin elegiacs, which are given by Nevelet
    (in a book we shall refer to hereafter), and are occasionally
    incorporated with the editions of Phædrus.

    Seven centuries elapsed before the next notice is found of the Fables
    of Æsop. During this long period these fables seem to have suffered an
    eclipse, to have disappeared and to have been forgotten; and it is at
    the commencement of the fourteenth century, when the Byzantine emperors
    were the great patrons of learning, and amidst the splendors of an
    Asiatic court, that we next find honours paid to the name and memory of
    Æsop. Maximus Planudes, a learned monk of Constantinople, made a
    collection of about a hundred and fifty of these fables. Little is
    known of his history. Planudes, however, was no mere recluse, shut up
    in his monastery. He took an active part in public affairs. In 1327
    A.D. he was sent on a diplomatic mission to Venice by the Emperor
    Andronicus the Elder. This brought him into immediate contact with the
    Western Patriarch, whose interests he henceforth advocated with so much
    zeal as to bring on him suspicion and persecution from the rulers of
    the Eastern Church. Planudes has been exposed to a two-fold accusation.
    He is charged on the one hand with having had before him a copy of
    Babrias (to whom we shall have occasion to refer at greater length in
    the end of this Preface), and to have had the bad taste “to transpose,”
    or to turn his poetical version into prose: and he is asserted, on the
    other hand, never to have seen the Fables of Æsop at all, but to have
    himself invented and made the fables which he palmed off under the name
    of the famous Greek fabulist. The truth lies between these two
    extremes. Planudes may have invented some few fables, or have inserted
    some that were current in his day; but there is an abundance of
    unanswerable internal evidence to prove that he had an acquaintance
    with the veritable fables of Æsop, although the versions he had access
    to were probably corrupt, as contained in the various translations and
    disquisitional exercises of the rhetoricians and philosophers. His
    collection is interesting and important, not only as the parent source
    or foundation of the earlier printed versions of Æsop, but as the
    direct channel of attracting to these fables the attention of the
    learned.

    The eventual re-introduction, however, of these Fables of Æsop to their
    high place in the general literature of Christendom, is to be looked
    for in the West rather than in the East. The calamities gradually
    thickening round the Eastern Empire, and the fall of Constantinople,
    1453 A.D. combined with other events to promote the rapid restoration
    of learning in Italy; and with that recovery of learning the revival of
    an interest in the Fables of Æsop is closely identified. These fables,
    indeed, were among the first writings of an earlier antiquity that
    attracted attention. They took their place beside the Holy Scriptures
    and the ancient classic authors, in the minds of the great students of
    that day. Lorenzo Valla, one of the most famous promoters of Italian
    learning, not only translated into Latin the Iliad of Homer and the
    Histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, but also the Fables of Æsop.

    These fables, again, were among the books brought into an extended
    circulation by the agency of the printing press. Bonus Accursius, as
    early as 1475–1480, printed the collection of these fables, made by
    Planudes, which, within five years afterwards, Caxton translated into
    English, and printed at his press in Westminster Abbey, 1485.[10] It
    must be mentioned also that the learning of this age has left permanent
    traces of its influence on these fables,[11] by causing the
    interpolation with them (as a κτῆμα εἰς ἰει) of some of those amusing
    stories which were so frequently introduced into the public discourses
    of the great preachers of those days, and of which specimens are yet to
    be found in the extant sermons of Jean Raulin, Meffreth, and Gabriel
    Barlette.[12] The publication of this era which most probably has
    influenced these fables, is the “Liber Facetiarum,”[13] a book
    consisting of a hundred jests and stories, by the celebrated Poggio
    Bracciolini, published A.D. 1471, from which the two fables of the
    “Miller, his Son, and the Ass,” and the “Fox and the Woodcutter,” are
    undoubtedly selected.

    The knowledge of these fables rapidly spread from Italy into Germany,
    and their popularity was increased by the favour and sanction given to
    them by the great fathers of the Reformation, who frequently used them
    as vehicles for satire and protest against the tricks and abuses of the
    Romish ecclesiastics. The zealous and renowned Camerarius, who took an
    active part in the preparation of the Confession of Augsburgh, found
    time, amidst his numerous avocations, to prepare a version for the
    students in the University of Tübingen, in which he was a professor.
    Martin Luther translated twenty of these fables, and was urged by
    Melancthon to complete the whole; while Gottfried Arnold, the
    celebrated Lutheran theologian, and librarian to Frederick I., king of
    Prussia, mentions that the great Reformer valued the Fables of Æsop
    next after the Holy Scriptures. In 1546 A.D. the second printed edition
    of the collection of the Fables made by Planudes, was issued from the
    printing-press of Robert Stephens, in which were inserted some
    additional fables from a MS. in the Bibliothêque du Roy at Paris.

    The greatest advance, however, towards a re-introduction of the Fables
    of Æsop to a place in the literature of the world, was made in the
    early part of the seventeenth century. In the year 1610, a learned
    Swiss, Isaac Nicholas Nevelet, sent forth the third printed edition of
    these fables, in a work entitled “Mythologia Æsopica.” This was a noble
    effort to do honour to the great fabulist, and was the most perfect
    collection of Æsopian fables ever yet published. It consisted, in
    addition to the collection of fables given by Planudes and reprinted in
    the various earlier editions, of one hundred and thirty-six new fables
    (never before published) from MSS. in the Library of the Vatican, of
    forty fables attributed to Aphthonius, and of forty-three from Babrias.
    It also contained the Latin versions of the same fables by Phædrus,
    Avienus, and other authors. This volume of Nevelet forms a complete
    “Corpus Fabularum Æsopicarum;” and to his labours Æsop owes his
    restoration to universal favour as one of the wise moralists and great
    teachers of mankind. During the interval of three centuries which has
    elapsed since the publication of this volume of Nevelet’s, no book,
    with the exception of the Holy Scriptures, has had a wider circulation
    than Æsop’s Fables. They have been translated into the greater number
    of the languages both of Europe and of the East, and have been read,
    and will be read, for generations, alike by Jew, Heathen, Mohammedan,
    and Christian. They are, at the present time, not only engrafted into
    the literature of the civilized world, but are familiar as household
    words in the common intercourse and daily conversation of the
    inhabitants of all countries.

    This collection of Nevelet’s is the great culminating point in the
    history of the revival of the fame and reputation of Æsopian Fables. It
    is remarkable, also, as containing in its preface the germ of an idea,
    which has been since proved to have been correct by a strange chain of
    circumstances. Nevelet intimates an opinion, that a writer named
    Babrias would be found to be the veritable author of the existing form
    of Æsopian Fables. This intimation has since given rise to a series of
    inquiries, the knowledge of which is necessary, in the present day, to
    a full understanding of the true position of Æsop in connection with
    the writings that bear his name.

    The history of Babrias is so strange and interesting, that it might not
    unfitly be enumerated among the curiosities of literature. He is
    generally supposed to have been a Greek of Asia Minor, of one of the
    Ionic Colonies, but the exact period in which he lived and wrote is yet
    unsettled. He is placed, by one critic,[14] as far back as the
    institution of the Achaian League, B.C. 250; by another as late as the
    Emperor Severus, who died A.D. 235; while others make him a
    contemporary with Phædrus in the time of Augustus. At whatever time he
    wrote his version of Æsop, by some strange accident it seems to have
    entirely disappeared, and to have been lost sight of. His name is
    mentioned by Avienus; by Suidas, a celebrated critic, at the close of
    the eleventh century, who gives in his lexicon several isolated verses
    of his version of the fables; and by John Tzetzes, a grammarian and
    poet of Constantinople, who lived during the latter half of the twelfth
    century. Nevelet, in the preface to the volume which we have described,
    points out that the Fables of Planudes could not be the work of Æsop,
    as they contain a reference in two places to “Holy monks,” and give a
    verse from the Epistle of St. James as an “Epimith” to one of the
    fables, and suggests Babrias as their author. Francis Vavassor,[15] a
    learned French jesuit, entered at greater length on this subject, and
    produced further proofs from internal evidence, from the use of the
    word Piræus in describing the harbour of Athens, a name which was not
    given till two hundred years after Æsop, and from the introduction of
    other modern words, that many of these fables must have been at least
    committed to writing posterior to the time of Æsop, and more boldly
    suggests Babrias as their author or collector.[16] These various
    references to Babrias induced Dr. Richard Bentley, at the close of the
    seventeenth century, to examine more minutely the existing versions of
    Æsop’s Fables, and he maintained that many of them could, with a slight
    change of words, be resolved into the Scazonic[17] iambics, in which
    Babrias is known to have written: and, with a greater freedom than the
    evidence then justified, he put forth, in behalf of Babrias, a claim to
    the exclusive authorship of these fables. Such a seemingly extravagant
    theory, thus roundly asserted, excited much opposition. Dr. Bentley[18]
    met with an able antagonist in a member of the University of Oxford,
    the Hon. Mr. Charles Boyle,[19] afterwards Earl of Orrery. Their
    letters and disputations on this subject, enlivened on both sides with
    much wit and learning, will ever bear a conspicuous place in the
    literary history of the seventeenth century. The arguments of Dr.
    Bentley were yet further defended a few years later by Mr. Thomas
    Tyrwhitt, a well-read scholar, who gave up high civil distinctions that
    he might devote himself the more unreservedly to literary pursuits. Mr.
    Tyrwhitt published, A.D. 1776, a Dissertation on Babrias, and a
    collection of his fables in choliambic metre found in a MS. in the
    Bodleian Library at Oxford. Francesco de Furia, a learned Italian,
    contributed further testimony to the correctness of the supposition
    that Babrias had made a veritable collection of fables by printing from
    a MS. contained in the Vatican library several fables never before
    published. In the year 1844, however, new and unexpected light was
    thrown upon this subject. A veritable copy of Babrias was found in a
    manner as singular as were the MSS. of Quinctilian’s Institutes, and of
    Cicero’s Orations by Poggio in the monastery of St. Gall A.D. 1416. M.
    Menoides, at the suggestion of M. Villemain, Minister of Public
    Instruction to King Louis Philippe, had been entrusted with a
    commission to search for ancient MSS., and in carrying out his
    instructions he found a MS. at the convent of St. Laura, on Mount
    Athos, which proved to be a copy of the long suspected and wished-for
    choliambic version of Babrias. This MS. was found to be divided into
    two books, the one containing a hundred and twenty-five, and the other
    ninety-five fables. This discovery attracted very general attention,
    not only as confirming, in a singular manner, the conjectures so boldly
    made by a long chain of critics, but as bringing to light valuable
    literary treasures tending to establish the reputation, and to confirm
    the antiquity and authenticity of the great mass of Æsopian Fable. The
    Fables thus recovered were soon published. They found a most worthy
    editor in the late distinguished Sir George Cornewall Lewis, and a
    translator equally qualified for his task, in the Reverend James
    Davies, M.A., sometime a scholar of Lincoln College, Oxford, and
    himself a relation of their English editor. Thus, after an eclipse of
    many centuries, Babrias shines out as the earliest, and most reliable
    collector of veritable Æsopian Fables.

    Having thus given a complete synopsis of the origin, descent, and
    history of these fables, it only remains to explain the reasons which
    have induced the Publishers to prepare a new edition of Æsop, and to
    state the grounds on which they hope to establish a claim for support
    and public approval in their undertaking. They boldly assert that the
    new light thrown upon these fables by the discovery of the metrical
    version by Babrias, renders a new translation an inevitable necessity.
    The two chief existing English versions of Æsop are those by Archdeacon
    Croxall, and by the late Rev. Thomas James, canon of Peterborough. The
    first of these deviates so very far from the text, that it degenerates
    into a parody. The fables are so padded, diluted, and altered, as to
    give very little idea to the reader either of the terseness or the
    meaning of the original. The second of these is an improvement on its
    predecessor, but Mr. James, either out of compliance with the wishes of
    the publishers, or in condescension to the taste prevalent some twenty
    years ago, has so freely introduced as the point of the fable
    conventional English sayings which are not sanctioned by the Greek, and
    which in many instances are scarcely equivalent to it, that his version
    frequently approaches a paraphrase rather than a translation.

    The Publishers therefore ground their first claim for public approval
    on the necessity of a new translation. They trust further that their
    present work will have met that necessity in a satisfactory manner.
    They have sought to give as nearly a literal translation as possible of
    the Greek text; and they hope that if the reader should miss the
    smoothness and thoroughly English tone which characterized the previous
    version of these fables, he will be more than repaid by gaining a
    nearer approach to the spirit, thoughts, and (in some cases) to the
    epigrammatic terseness of the original. The Publishers trust to
    vindicate, on another ground, their claims to a share of public
    patronage. They have inserted a hundred new fables, and they have the
    satisfaction of knowing that this edition, on which they have spared no
    pains nor cost, will afford a larger choice, and greater variety, to
    the numerous and increasing circle of the admirers of Æsopian Fables.
    Whatever be the result of their labours, they will be content to have
    contributed towards promoting a wider acquaintance with fables, the
    wisdom, excellency, and wonderful suitableness of which to every
    condition of humanity has been attested and confirmed by the experience
    of so many generations; and which in all ages, amidst the ever changing
    fluctuations of human opinion, are adapted alike to amuse the young,
    and to instruct the thoughtful, and are well fitted to teach all who
    study them lessons useful for their guidance in every position of
    political, social, civil, or domestic life.

    The Editor must claim the privilege of adding a few words on a matter
    personal to himself. He has already within the last few months been
    connected with one edition of Æsop, and it may seem strange that he
    should be willing to undertake the superintendence of another. His
    answer is, that the two works on which he has been engaged were totally
    distinct, and entirely independent of each other. The first was a
    request to furnish new morals and applications to a definite number of
    fables; Ihe other was a commission to add a large number of additional
    fables and to make a wholly new translation. The necessity of a new and
    improved translation the Editor then recognized, and would have
    willingly undertaken. It was a wish he had much at heart, and when the
    proposal was voluntarily made to him by the present Publishers, to
    undertake the task of a new translation of an enlarged number of Æsop’s
    Fables, he saw no reason for refusing the offer because of his prior
    discharge of a totally different design; and he resolved to comply with
    the request submitted to him, and to do his best towards the attainment
    of so desirable an object as a purer translation and more literal
    rendering of fables so justly celebrated.

    The following are the sources from which the present translation has
    been prepared:—

    Babrii Fabulæ Æsopeæ. George Cornewall Lewis. Oxford, 1846.

    Babrii Fabulæ Æsopeæ. E codice manuscripto partem secundam edidit.
    George Cornewall Lewis. London: Parker, 1857.

    Mythologica Æsopica. Opera et studia Isaaci Nicholai Neveleti.
    Frankfort, 1610.

    Fabulæ Æsopiacæ, quales ante Planudem ferebantur cura et studio
    Francisci de Furia. Lipsiæ, 1810.

    Αἰσωπεὶων Μυθῶν Συναγωγή. Ex recognitione Caroli Halmii. Lipsiæ, 1851

    Phædri Fabulæ Esopiæ. Delphin Classics. 1822.

    GEORGE FYLER TOWNSEND

    LIFE OF AESOP

    The Life and History of Æsop is involved, like that of Homer, the most
    famous of Greek poets, in much obscurity. Sardis, the capital of Lydia;
    Samos, a Greek island; Mesembria, an ancient colony in Thrace; and
    Cotiæum, the chief city of a province of Phrygia, contend for the
    distinction of being the birthplace of Æsop. Although the honour thus
    claimed cannot be definitely assigned to any one of these places, yet
    there are a few incidents now generally accepted by scholars as
    established facts, relating to the birth, life, and death of Æsop. He
    is, by an almost universal consent, allowed to have been born about the
    year 620 B.C., and to have been by birth a slave. He was owned by two
    masters in succession, both inhabitants of Samos, Xanthus and Jadmon,
    the latter of whom gave him his liberty as a reward for his learning
    and wit. One of the privileges of a freedman in the ancient republics
    of Greece, was the permission to take an active interest in public
    affairs; and Æsop, like the philosophers Phædo, Menippus, and
    Epictetus, in later times, raised himself from the indignity of a
    servile condition to a position of high renown. In his desire alike to
    instruct and to be instructed, he travelled through many countries, and
    among others came to Sardis, the capital of the famous king of Lydia,
    the great patron, in that day, of learning and of learned men. He met
    at the court of Crœsus with Solon, Thales, and other sages, and is
    related so to have pleased his royal master by the part he took in the
    conversations held with these philosophers, that he applied to him an
    expression which has since passed into a proverb, “μᾶλλον ὁ Φρύξ.” “The
    Phrygian has spoken better than all.”

    On the invitation of Crœsus he fixed his residence at Sardis, and was
    employed by that monarch in various difficult and delicate affairs of
    State. In his discharge of these commissions he visited the different
    petty republics of Greece. At one time he is found in Corinth, and at
    another in Athens, endeavouring, by the narration of some of his wise
    fables, to reconcile the inhabitants of those cities to the
    administration of their respective rulers Periander and Pisistratus.
    One of these ambassadorial missions, undertaken at the command of
    Crœsus, was the occasion of his death. Having been sent to Delphi with
    a large sum of gold for distribution among the citizens, he was so
    provoked at their covetousness that he refused to divide the money, and
    sent it back to his master. The Delphians, enraged at this treatment,
    accused him of impiety, and, in spite of his sacred character as
    ambassador, executed him as a public criminal. This cruel death of Æsop
    was not unavenged. The citizens of Delphi were visited with a series of
    calamities, until they made a public reparation of their crime; and,
    “The blood of Æsop” became a well-known adage, bearing witness to the
    truth that deeds of wrong would not pass unpunished. Neither did the
    great fabulist lack posthumous honours; for a statue was erected to his
    memory at Athens, the work of Lysippus, one of the most famous of Greek
    sculptors. Phædrus thus immortalizes the event:—

    Æsopo ingentem statuam posuere Attici,
    Servumque collocarunt æternâ in basi:
    Patere honoris scirent ut cuncti viam;
    Nec generi tribui sed virtuti gloriam.

    These few facts are all that can be relied on with any degree of
    certainty, in reference to the birth, life, and death of Æsop. They
    were first brought to light, after a patient search and diligent
    perusal of ancient authors, by a Frenchman, M. Claude Gaspard Bachet de
    Mezeriac, who declined the honour of being tutor to Louis XIII. of
    France, from his desire to devote himself exclusively to literature. He
    published his Life of Æsop, Anno Domini 1632. The later investigations
    of a host of English and German scholars have added very little to the
    facts given by M. Mezeriac. The substantial truth of his statements has
    been confirmed by later criticism and inquiry. It remains to state,
    that prior to this publication of M. Mezeriac, the life of Æsop was
    from the pen of Maximus Planudes, a monk of Constantinople, who was
    sent on an embassy to Venice by the Byzantine Emperor Andronicus the
    elder, and who wrote in the early part of the fourteenth century. His
    life was prefixed to all the early editions of these fables, and was
    republished as late as 1727 by Archdeacon Croxall as the introduction
    to his edition of Æsop. This life by Planudes contains, however, so
    small an amount of truth, and is so full of absurd pictures of the
    grotesque deformity of Æsop, of wondrous apocryphal stories, of lying
    legends, and gross anachronisms, that it is now universally condemned
    as false, puerile, and unauthentic.[20] It is given up in the present
    day, by general consent, as unworthy of the slightest credit.

    AESOP’S FABLES

    The Lion And The Mouse

    A LION was awakened from sleep by a Mouse running over his face. Rising
    up angrily, he caught him and was about to kill him, when the Mouse
    piteously entreated, saying: “If you would only spare my life, I would
    be sure to repay your kindness.” The Lion laughed and let him go. It
    happened shortly after this that the Lion was caught by some hunters,
    who bound him by strong ropes to the ground. The Mouse, recognizing his
    roar, came and gnawed the rope with his teeth, and set him free,
    exclaiming:

    “You ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, not
    expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favour; now you know
    that it is possible for even a Mouse to confer benefits on a Lion.”

    The Wolf And The Lamb

    WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay
    violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the
    Wolf’s right to eat him. He thus addressed him: “Sirrah, last year you
    grossly insulted me.” “Indeed,” bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of
    voice, “I was not then born.” Then said the Wolf, “You feed in my
    pasture.” “No, good sir,” replied the Lamb, “I have not yet tasted
    grass.” Again said the Wolf, “You drink of my well.” “No,” exclaimed
    the Lamb, “I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother’s milk is both
    food and drink to me.” Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up,
    saying, “Well! I won’t remain supperless, even though you refute every
    one of my imputations.” The tyrant will always find a pretext for his
    tyranny.

    The Ass And The Grasshopper

    AN ASS having heard some Grasshoppers chirping, was highly enchanted;
    and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort
    of food they lived on to give them such beautiful voices. They replied,
    “The dew.” The Ass resolved that he would live only upon dew, and in a
    short time died of hunger.

    The Wolf and the Crane

    A WOLF who had a bone stuck in his throat hired a Crane, for a large
    sum, to put her head into his mouth and draw out the bone. When the
    Crane had extracted the bone and demanded the promised payment, the
    Wolf, grinning and grinding his teeth, exclaimed: “Why, you have surely
    already had a sufficient recompense, in having been permitted to draw
    out your head in safety from the mouth and jaws of a wolf.”

    In serving the wicked, expect no reward, and be thankful if you escape
    injury for your pains.

    The Father And His Sons

    A FATHER had a family of sons who were perpetually quarreling among
    themselves. When he failed to heal their disputes by his exhortations,
    he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of
    disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a
    bundle of sticks. When they had done so, he placed the faggot into the
    hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in
    pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it.
    He next opened the faggot, took the sticks separately, one by one, and
    again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
    He then addressed them in these words: “My sons, if you are of one
    mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this faggot,
    uninjured by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided
    among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”

    The Bat And The Weasels

    A BAT who fell upon the ground and was caught by a Weasel pleaded to be
    spared his life. The Weasel refused, saying that he was by nature the
    enemy of all birds. The Bat assured him that he was not a bird, but a
    mouse, and thus was set free. Shortly afterwards the Bat again fell to
    the ground and was caught by another Weasel, whom he likewise entreated
    not to eat him. The Weasel said that he had a special hostility to
    mice. The Bat assured him that he was not a mouse, but a bat, and thus
    a second time escaped.

    It is wise to turn circumstances to good account.

    The Cock and the Jewel

    A COCK, scratching for food for himself and his hens, found a precious
    stone and exclaimed: “If your owner had found thee, and not I, he would
    have taken thee up, and have set thee in thy first estate; but I have
    found thee for no purpose. I would rather have one barleycorn than all
    the jewels in the world.”

    The Swallow and the Crow

    THE SWALLOW and the Crow had a contention about their plumage. The Crow
    put an end to the dispute by saying, “Your feathers are all very well
    in the spring, but mine protect me against the winter.”

    Fair weather friends are not worth much.

    The Kingdom of the Lion

    THE BEASTS of the field and forest had a Lion as their king. He was
    neither wrathful, cruel, nor tyrannical, but just and gentle as a king
    could be. During his reign he made a royal proclamation for a general
    assembly of all the birds and beasts, and drew up conditions for a
    universal league, in which the Wolf and the Lamb, the Panther and the
    Kid, the Tiger and the Stag, the Dog and the Hare, should live together
    in perfect peace and amity. The Hare said, “Oh, how I have longed to
    see this day, in which the weak shall take their place with impunity by
    the side of the strong.” And after the Hare said this, he ran for his
    life.

    The Traveler and His Dog

    A TRAVELER about to set out on a journey saw his Dog stand at the door
    stretching himself. He asked him sharply: “Why do you stand there
    gaping? Everything is ready but you, so come with me instantly.” The
    Dog, wagging his tail, replied: “O, master! I am quite ready; it is you
    for whom I am waiting.”

    The loiterer often blames delay on his more active friend.

    The Ants and the Grasshopper

    THE ANTS were spending a fine winter’s day drying grain collected in
    the summertime. A Grasshopper, perishing with famine, passed by and
    earnestly begged for a little food. The Ants inquired of him, “Why did
    you not treasure up food during the summer?” He replied, “I had not
    leisure enough. I passed the days in singing.” They then said in
    derision: “If you were foolish enough to sing all the summer, you must
    dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

    The Hare and the Tortoise

    A HARE one day ridiculed the short feet and slow pace of the Tortoise,
    who replied, laughing: “Though you be swift as the wind, I will beat
    you in a race.” The Hare, believing her assertion to be simply
    impossible, assented to the proposal; and they agreed that the Fox
    should choose the course and fix the goal. On the day appointed for the
    race the two started together. The Tortoise never for a moment stopped,
    but went on with a slow but steady pace straight to the end of the
    course. The Hare, lying down by the wayside, fell fast asleep. At last
    waking up, and moving as fast as he could, he saw the Tortoise had
    reached the goal, and was comfortably dozing after her fatigue.

    Slow but steady wins the race.

    The Charcoal-Burner And The Fuller

    A CHARCOAL-BURNER carried on his trade in his own house. One day he met
    a friend, a Fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying
    that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping
    expenses would be lessened. The Fuller replied, “The arrangement is
    impossible as far as I am concerned, for whatever I should whiten, you
    would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.”

    Like will draw like.

    The Boy Hunting Locusts

    A BOY was hunting for locusts. He had caught a goodly number, when he
    saw a Scorpion, and mistaking him for a locust, reached out his hand to
    take him. The Scorpion, showing his sting, said: “If you had but
    touched me, my friend, you would have lost me, and all your locusts
    too!”

    The Fisherman Piping

    A FISHERMAN skilled in music took his flute and his nets to the
    seashore. Standing on a projecting rock, he played several tunes in the
    hope that the fish, attracted by his melody, would of their own accord
    dance into his net, which he had placed below. At last, having long
    waited in vain, he laid aside his flute, and casting his net into the
    sea, made an excellent haul of fish. When he saw them leaping about in
    the net upon the rock he said: “O you most perverse creatures, when I
    piped you would not dance, but now that I have ceased you do so
    merrily.”

    The Dog and the Shadow

    A DOG, crossing a bridge over a stream with a piece of flesh in his
    mouth, saw his own shadow in the water and took it for that of another
    Dog, with a piece of meat double his own in size. He immediately let go
    of his own, and fiercely attacked the other Dog to get his larger piece
    from him. He thus lost both: that which he grasped at in the water,
    because it was a shadow; and his own, because the stream swept it away.

    Hercules and the Wagoner

    A CARTER was driving a wagon along a country lane, when the wheels sank
    down deep into a rut. The rustic driver, stupefied and aghast, stood
    looking at the wagon, and did nothing but utter loud cries to Hercules
    to come and help him. Hercules, it is said, appeared and thus addressed
    him: “Put your shoulders to the wheels, my man. Goad on your bullocks,
    and never more pray to me for help, until you have done your best to
    help yourself, or depend upon it you will henceforth pray in vain.”

    Self-help is the best help.

    The Mole and His Mother

    A MOLE, a creature blind from birth, once said to his Mother: “I am
    sure than I can see, Mother!” In the desire to prove to him his
    mistake, his Mother placed before him a few grains of frankincense, and
    asked, “What is it?” The young Mole said, “It is a pebble.” His Mother
    exclaimed: “My son, I am afraid that you are not only blind, but that
    you have lost your sense of smell.”

    The Herdsman and the Lost Bull

    A HERDSMAN tending his flock in a forest lost a Bull-calf from the
    fold. After a long and fruitless search, he made a vow that, if he
    could only discover the thief who had stolen the Calf, he would offer a
    lamb in sacrifice to Hermes, Pan, and the Guardian Deities of the
    forest. Not long afterwards, as he ascended a small hillock, he saw at
    its foot a Lion feeding on the Calf. Terrified at the sight, he lifted
    his eyes and his hands to heaven, and said: “Just now I vowed to offer
    a lamb to the Guardian Deities of the forest if I could only find out
    who had robbed me; but now that I have discovered the thief, I would
    willingly add a full-grown Bull to the Calf I have lost, if I may only
    secure my own escape from him in safety.”

    The Fawn and His Mother

    A YOUNG FAWN once said to his Mother, “You are larger than a dog, and
    swifter, and more used to running, and you have your horns as a
    defense; why, then, O Mother! do the hounds frighten you so?” She
    smiled, and said: “I know full well, my son, that all you say is true.
    I have the advantages you mention, but when I hear even the bark of a
    single dog I feel ready to faint, and fly away as fast as I can.”

    No arguments will give courage to the coward.

    The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion

    THE ASS and the Fox, having entered into partnership together for their
    mutual protection, went out into the forest to hunt. They had not
    proceeded far when they met a Lion. The Fox, seeing imminent danger,
    approached the Lion and promised to contrive for him the capture of the
    Ass if the Lion would pledge his word not to harm the Fox. Then, upon
    assuring the Ass that he would not be injured, the Fox led him to a
    deep pit and arranged that he should fall into it. The Lion, seeing
    that the Ass was secured, immediately clutched the Fox, and attacked
    the Ass at his leisure.

    The Flies and the Honey-Pot

    A NUMBER of Flies were attracted to a jar of honey which had been
    overturned in a housekeeper’s room, and placing their feet in it, ate
    greedily. Their feet, however, became so smeared with the honey that
    they could not use their wings, nor release themselves, and were
    suffocated. Just as they were expiring, they exclaimed, “O foolish
    creatures that we are, for the sake of a little pleasure we have
    destroyed ourselves.”

    Pleasure bought with pains, hurts.

    The Lioness

    A CONTROVERSY prevailed among the beasts of the field as to which of
    the animals deserved the most credit for producing the greatest number
    of whelps at a birth. They rushed clamorously into the presence of the
    Lioness and demanded of her the settlement of the dispute. “And you,”
    they said, “how many sons have you at a birth?” The Lioness laughed at
    them, and said: “Why! I have only one; but that one is altogether a
    thoroughbred Lion.”

    The value is in the worth, not in the number.

    The Farmer and the Snake

    ONE WINTER a Farmer found a Snake stiff and frozen with cold. He had
    compassion on it, and taking it up, placed it in his bosom. The Snake
    was quickly revived by the warmth, and resuming its natural instincts,
    bit its benefactor, inflicting on him a mortal wound. “Oh,” cried the
    Farmer with his last breath, “I am rightly served for pitying a
    scoundrel.”

    The greatest kindness will not bind the ungrateful.

    The Man and the Lion

    A MAN and a Lion traveled together through the forest. They soon began
    to boast of their respective superiority to each other in strength and
    prowess. As they were disputing, they passed a statue carved in stone,
    which represented “a Lion strangled by a Man.” The traveler pointed to
    it and said: “See there! How strong we are, and how we prevail over
    even the king of beasts.” The Lion replied: “This statue was made by
    one of you men. If we Lions knew how to erect statues, you would see
    the Man placed under the paw of the Lion.”

    One story is good, till another is told.

    The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble

    THE POMEGRANATE and Apple-Tree disputed as to which was the most
    beautiful. When their strife was at its height, a Bramble from the
    neighboring hedge lifted up its voice, and said in a boastful tone:
    “Pray, my dear friends, in my presence at least cease from such vain
    disputings.”

    The Farmer and the Stork

    A FARMER placed nets on his newly-sown plowlands and caught a number of
    Cranes, which came to pick up his seed. With them he trapped a Stork
    that had fractured his leg in the net and was earnestly beseeching the
    Farmer to spare his life. “Pray save me, Master,” he said, “and let me
    go free this once. My broken limb should excite your pity. Besides, I
    am no Crane, I am a Stork, a bird of excellent character; and see how I
    love and slave for my father and mother. Look too, at my feathers—they
    are not the least like those of a Crane.” The Farmer laughed aloud and
    said, “It may be all as you say, I only know this: I have taken you
    with these robbers, the Cranes, and you must die in their company.”

    Birds of a feather flock together.

    The Mountain in Labor

    A MOUNTAIN was once greatly agitated. Loud groans and noises were
    heard, and crowds of people came from all parts to see what was the
    matter. While they were assembled in anxious expectation of some
    terrible calamity, out came a Mouse.

    Don’t make much ado about nothing.

    The Bear and the Fox

    A BEAR boasted very much of his philanthropy, saying that of all
    animals he was the most tender in his regard for man, for he had such
    respect for him that he would not even touch his dead body. A Fox
    hearing these words said with a smile to the Bear, “Oh! that you would
    eat the dead and not the living.”

    The Tortoise and the Eagle

    A TORTOISE, lazily basking in the sun, complained to the sea-birds of
    her hard fate, that no one would teach her to fly. An Eagle, hovering
    near, heard her lamentation and demanded what reward she would give him
    if he would take her aloft and float her in the air. “I will give you,”
    she said, “all the riches of the Red Sea.” “I will teach you to fly
    then,” said the Eagle; and taking her up in his talons he carried her
    almost to the clouds suddenly he let her go, and she fell on a lofty
    mountain, dashing her shell to pieces. The Tortoise exclaimed in the
    moment of death: “I have deserved my present fate; for what had I to do
    with wings and clouds, who can with difficulty move about on the
    earth?”

    If men had all they wished, they would be often ruined.

    The Fox and the Goat

    A FOX one day fell into a deep well and could find no means of escape.
    A Goat, overcome with thirst, came to the same well, and seeing the
    Fox, inquired if the water was good. Concealing his sad plight under a
    merry guise, the Fox indulged in a lavish praise of the water, saying
    it was excellent beyond measure, and encouraging him to descend. The
    Goat, mindful only of his thirst, thoughtlessly jumped down, but just
    as he drank, the Fox informed him of the difficulty they were both in
    and suggested a scheme for their common escape. “If,” said he, “you
    will place your forefeet upon the wall and bend your head, I will run
    up your back and escape, and will help you out afterwards.” The Goat
    readily assented and the Fox leaped upon his back. Steadying himself
    with the Goat’s horns, he safely reached the mouth of the well and made
    off as fast as he could. When the Goat upbraided him for breaking his
    promise, he turned around and cried out, “You foolish old fellow! If
    you had as many brains in your head as you have hairs in your beard,
    you would never have gone down before you had inspected the way up, nor
    have exposed yourself to dangers from which you had no means of
    escape.”

    Look before you leap.

    The Raven and the Swan

    A RAVEN saw a Swan and desired to secure for himself the same beautiful
    plumage. Supposing that the Swan’s splendid white color arose from his
    washing in the water in which he swam, the Raven left the altars in the
    neighborhood where he picked up his living, and took up residence in
    the lakes and pools. But cleansing his feathers as often as he would,
    he could not change their color, while through want of food he
    perished.

    Change of habit cannot alter Nature.

    The Thirsty Pigeon

    A PIGEON, oppressed by excessive thirst, saw a goblet of water painted
    on a signboard. Not supposing it to be only a picture, she flew towards
    it with a loud whir and unwittingly dashed against the signboard,
    jarring herself terribly. Having broken her wings by the blow, she fell
    to the ground, and was caught by one of the bystanders.

    Zeal should not outrun discretion.

    The Dog in the Manger

    A DOG lay in a manger, and by his growling and snapping prevented the
    oxen from eating the hay which had been placed for them. “What a
    selfish Dog!” said one of them to his companions; “he cannot eat the
    hay himself, and yet refuses to allow those to eat who can.”

    The Oxen and the Axle-Trees

    A HEAVY WAGON was being dragged along a country lane by a team of Oxen.
    The Axle-trees groaned and creaked terribly; whereupon the Oxen,
    turning round, thus addressed the wheels: “Hullo there! why do you make
    so much noise? We bear all the labor, and we, not you, ought to cry
    out.”

    Those who suffer most cry out the least.

    The Farmer and the Cranes

    SOME CRANES made their feeding grounds on some plowlands newly sown
    with wheat. For a long time the Farmer, brandishing an empty sling,
    chased them away by the terror he inspired; but when the birds found
    that the sling was only swung in the air, they ceased to take any
    notice of it and would not move. The Farmer, on seeing this, charged
    his sling with stones, and killed a great number. The remaining birds
    at once forsook his fields, crying to each other, “It is time for us to
    be off to Liliput: for this man is no longer content to scare us, but
    begins to show us in earnest what he can do.”

    If words suffice not, blows must follow.

    The Sick Lion

    A LION, unable from old age and infirmities to provide himself with
    food by force, resolved to do so by artifice. He returned to his den,
    and lying down there, pretended to be sick, taking care that his
    sickness should be publicly known. The beasts expressed their sorrow,
    and came one by one to his den, where the Lion devoured them. After
    many of the beasts had thus disappeared, the Fox discovered the trick
    and presenting himself to the Lion, stood on the outside of the cave,
    at a respectful distance, and asked him how he was. “I am very
    middling,” replied the Lion, “but why do you stand without? Pray enter
    within to talk with me.” “No, thank you,” said the Fox. “I notice that
    there are many prints of feet entering your cave, but I see no trace of
    any returning.”

    He is wise who is warned by the misfortunes of others.

    The Bear and the Two Travelers

    TWO MEN were traveling together, when a Bear suddenly met them on their
    path. One of them climbed up quickly into a tree and concealed himself
    in the branches. The other, seeing that he must be attacked, fell flat
    on the ground, and when the Bear came up and felt him with his snout,
    and smelt him all over, he held his breath, and feigned the appearance
    of death as much as he could. The Bear soon left him, for it is said he
    will not touch a dead body. When he was quite gone, the other Traveler
    descended from the tree, and jocularly inquired of his friend what it
    was the Bear had whispered in his ear. “He gave me this advice,” his
    companion replied. “Never travel with a friend who deserts you at the
    approach of danger.”

    Misfortune tests the sincerity of friends.

    The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail

    A FOX caught in a trap escaped, but in so doing lost his tail.
    Thereafter, feeling his life a burden from the shame and ridicule to
    which he was exposed, he schemed to convince all the other Foxes that
    being tailless was much more attractive, thus making up for his own
    deprivation. He assembled a good many Foxes and publicly advised them
    to cut off their tails, saying that they would not only look much
    better without them, but that they would get rid of the weight of the
    brush, which was a very great inconvenience. One of them interrupting
    him said, “If you had not yourself lost your tail, my friend, you would
    not thus counsel us.”

    The Cat and the Cock

    A CAT caught a Cock, and pondered how he might find a reasonable excuse
    for eating him. He accused him of being a nuisance to men by crowing in
    the nighttime and not permitting them to sleep. The Cock defended
    himself by saying that he did this for the benefit of men, that they
    might rise in time for their labours. The Cat replied, “Although you
    abound in specious apologies, I shall not remain supperless;” and he
    made a meal of him.

    The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

    ONCE UPON A TIME a Wolf resolved to disguise his appearance in order to
    secure food more easily. Encased in the skin of a sheep, he pastured
    with the flock deceiving the shepherd by his costume. In the evening he
    was shut up by the shepherd in the fold; the gate was closed, and the
    entrance made thoroughly secure. But the shepherd, returning to the
    fold during the night to obtain meat for the next day, mistakenly
    caught up the Wolf instead of a sheep, and killed him instantly.

    Harm seek, harm find.

    The Goat and the Goatherd

    A GOATHERD had sought to bring back a stray goat to his flock. He
    whistled and sounded his horn in vain; the straggler paid no attention
    to the summons. At last the Goatherd threw a stone, and breaking its
    horn, begged the Goat not to tell his master. The Goat replied, “Why,
    you silly fellow, the horn will speak though I be silent.”

    Do not attempt to hide things which cannot be hid.

    The Boasting Traveler

    A MAN who had traveled in foreign lands boasted very much, on returning
    to his own country, of the many wonderful and heroic feats he had
    performed in the different places he had visited. Among other things,
    he said that when he was at Rhodes he had leaped to such a distance
    that no man of his day could leap anywhere near him as to that, there
    were in Rhodes many persons who saw him do it and whom he could call as
    witnesses. One of the bystanders interrupted him, saying: “Now, my good
    man, if this be all true there is no need of witnesses. Suppose this to
    be Rhodes, and leap for us.”

    The Lion in Love

    A LION demanded the daughter of a woodcutter in marriage. The Father,
    unwilling to grant, and yet afraid to refuse his request, hit upon this
    expedient to rid himself of his importunities. He expressed his
    willingness to accept the Lion as the suitor of his daughter on one
    condition: that he should allow him to extract his teeth, and cut off
    his claws, as his daughter was fearfully afraid of both. The Lion
    cheerfully assented to the proposal. But when the toothless, clawless
    Lion returned to repeat his request, the Woodman, no longer afraid, set
    upon him with his club, and drove him away into the forest.

    The Miser

    A MISER sold all that he had and bought a lump of gold, which he buried
    in a hole in the ground by the side of an old wall and went to look at
    daily. One of his workmen observed his frequent visits to the spot and
    decided to watch his movements. He soon discovered the secret of the
    hidden treasure, and digging down, came to the lump of gold, and stole
    it. The Miser, on his next visit, found the hole empty and began to
    tear his hair and to make loud lamentations. A neighbor, seeing him
    overcome with grief and learning the cause, said, “Pray do not grieve
    so; but go and take a stone, and place it in the hole, and fancy that
    the gold is still lying there. It will do you quite the same service;
    for when the gold was there, you had it not, as you did not make the
    slightest use of it.”

    The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat

    A young Pig was shut up in a fold-yard with a Goat and a Sheep. On one
    occasion the shepherd laid hold of him, when he grunted, and squeaked,
    and resisted violently. The Sheep and the Goat complained of his
    distressing cries, and said, “He often handles us, and we do not cry
    out.” To this he replied, “Your handling and mine are very different
    things. He catches you only for your wool, or your milk, but he lays
    hold on me for my very life.”

    The Boy and the Filberts

    A BOY put his hand into a pitcher full of filberts. He grasped as many
    as he could possibly hold, but when he tried to pull out his hand, he
    was prevented from doing so by the neck of the pitcher. Unwilling to
    lose his filberts, and yet unable to withdraw his hand, he burst into
    tears and bitterly lamented his disappointment. A bystander said to
    him, “Be satisfied with half the quantity, and you will readily draw
    out your hand.”

    Do not attempt too much at once.

    The Frogs Asking for a King

    THE FROGS, grieved at having no established Ruler, sent ambassadors to
    Jupiter entreating for a King. Perceiving their simplicity, he cast
    down a huge log into the lake. The Frogs were terrified at the splash
    occasioned by its fall and hid themselves in the depths of the pool.
    But as soon as they realized that the huge log was motionless, they
    swam again to the top of the water, dismissed their fears, climbed up,
    and began squatting on it in contempt. After some time they began to
    think themselves ill-treated in the appointment of so inert a Ruler,
    and sent a second deputation to Jupiter to pray that he would set over
    them another sovereign. He then gave them an Eel to govern them. When
    the Frogs discovered his easy good nature, they sent yet a third time
    to Jupiter to beg him to choose for them still another King. Jupiter,
    displeased with all their complaints, sent a Heron, who preyed upon the
    Frogs day by day till there were none left to croak upon the lake.

    The Laborer and the Snake

    A SNAKE, having made his hole close to the porch of a cottage,
    inflicted a mortal bite on the Cottager’s infant son. Grieving over his
    loss, the Father resolved to kill the Snake. The next day, when it came
    out of its hole for food, he took up his axe, but by swinging too
    hastily, missed its head and cut off only the end of its tail. After
    some time the Cottager, afraid that the Snake would bite him also,
    endeavored to make peace, and placed some bread and salt in the hole.
    The Snake, slightly hissing, said: “There can henceforth be no peace
    between us; for whenever I see you I shall remember the loss of my
    tail, and whenever you see me you will be thinking of the death of your
    son.”

    No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the
    injury.

    The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox

    A LION, fatigued by the heat of a summer’s day, fell fast asleep in his
    den. A Mouse ran over his mane and ears and woke him from his slumbers.
    He rose up and shook himself in great wrath, and searched every corner
    of his den to find the Mouse. A Fox seeing him said: “A fine Lion you
    are, to be frightened of a Mouse.” “’Tis not the Mouse I fear,” said
    the Lion; “I resent his familiarity and ill-breeding.”

    Little liberties are great offenses.

    The Horse and Groom

    A GROOM used to spend whole days in currycombing and rubbing down his
    Horse, but at the same time stole his oats and sold them for his own
    profit. “Alas!” said the Horse, “if you really wish me to be in good
    condition, you should groom me less, and feed me more.”

    The Ass and the Mule

    A MULETEER set forth on a journey, driving before him an Ass and a
    Mule, both well laden. The Ass, as long as he traveled along the plain,
    carried his load with ease, but when he began to ascend the steep path
    of the mountain, felt his load to be more than he could bear. He
    entreated his companion to relieve him of a small portion, that he
    might carry home the rest; but the Mule paid no attention to the
    request. The Ass shortly afterwards fell down dead under his burden.
    Not knowing what else to do in so wild a region, the Muleteer placed
    upon the Mule the load carried by the Ass in addition to his own, and
    at the top of all placed the hide of the Ass, after he had skinned him.
    The Mule, groaning beneath his heavy burden, said to himself: “I am
    treated according to my deserts. If I had only been willing to assist
    the Ass a little in his need, I should not now be bearing, together
    with his burden, himself as well.”

    The Ass and the Lapdog

    A MAN had an Ass, and a Maltese Lapdog, a very great beauty. The Ass
    was left in a stable and had plenty of oats and hay to eat, just as any
    other Ass would. The Lapdog knew many tricks and was a great favourite
    with his master, who often fondled him and seldom went out to dine
    without bringing him home some tidbit to eat. The Ass, on the contrary,
    had much work to do in grinding the corn-mill and in carrying wood from
    the forest or burdens from the farm. He often lamented his own hard
    fate and contrasted it with the luxury and idleness of the Lapdog, till
    at last one day he broke his cords and halter, and galloped into his
    master’s house, kicking up his heels without measure, and frisking and
    fawning as well as he could. He next tried to jump about his master as
    he had seen the Lapdog do, but he broke the table and smashed all the
    dishes upon it to atoms. He then attempted to lick his master, and
    jumped upon his back. The servants, hearing the strange hubbub and
    perceiving the danger of their master, quickly relieved him, and drove
    out the Ass to his stable with kicks and clubs and cuffs. The Ass, as
    he returned to his stall beaten nearly to death, thus lamented: “I have
    brought it all on myself! Why could I not have been contented to labor
    with my companions, and not wish to be idle all the day like that
    useless little Lapdog!”

    The Oxen and the Butchers

    THE OXEN once upon a time sought to destroy the Butchers, who practiced
    a trade destructive to their race. They assembled on a certain day to
    carry out their purpose, and sharpened their horns for the contest. But
    one of them who was exceedingly old (for many a field had he plowed)
    thus spoke: “These Butchers, it is true, slaughter us, but they do so
    with skillful hands, and with no unnecessary pain. If we get rid of
    them, we shall fall into the hands of unskillful operators, and thus
    suffer a double death: for you may be assured, that though all the
    Butchers should perish, yet will men never want beef.”

    Do not be in a hurry to change one evil for another.

    The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf

    A SHEPHERD-BOY, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brought
    out the villagers three or four times by crying out, “Wolf! Wolf!” and
    when his neighbors came to help him, laughed at them for their pains.
    The Wolf, however, did truly come at last. The Shepherd-boy, now really
    alarmed, shouted in an agony of terror: “Pray, do come and help me; the
    Wolf is killing the sheep;” but no one paid any heed to his cries, nor
    rendered any assistance. The Wolf, having no cause of fear, at his
    leisure lacerated or destroyed the whole flock.

    There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.

    The Boys and the Frogs

    SOME BOYS, playing near a pond, saw a number of Frogs in the water and
    began to pelt them with stones. They killed several of them, when one
    of the Frogs, lifting his head out of the water, cried out: “Pray stop,
    my boys: what is sport to you, is death to us.”

    The Salt Merchant and His Ass

    A PEDDLER drove his Ass to the seashore to buy salt. His road home lay
    across a stream into which his Ass, making a false step, fell by
    accident and rose up again with his load considerably lighter, as the
    water melted the sack. The Peddler retraced his steps and refilled his
    panniers with a larger quantity of salt than before. When he came again
    to the stream, the Ass fell down on purpose in the same spot, and,
    regaining his feet with the weight of his load much diminished, brayed
    triumphantly as if he had obtained what he desired. The Peddler saw
    through his trick and drove him for the third time to the coast, where
    he bought a cargo of sponges instead of salt. The Ass, again playing
    the fool, fell down on purpose when he reached the stream, but the
    sponges became swollen with water, greatly increasing his load. And
    thus his trick recoiled on him, for he now carried on his back a double
    burden.

    The Mischievous Dog

    A DOG used to run up quietly to the heels of everyone he met, and to
    bite them without notice. His master suspended a bell about his neck so
    that the Dog might give notice of his presence wherever he went.
    Thinking it a mark of distinction, the Dog grew proud of his bell and
    went tinkling it all over the marketplace. One day an old hound said to
    him: “Why do you make such an exhibition of yourself? That bell that
    you carry is not, believe me, any order of merit, but on the contrary a
    mark of disgrace, a public notice to all men to avoid you as an ill
    mannered dog.”

    Notoriety is often mistaken for fame.

    The Goatherd and the Wild Goats

    A GOATHERD, driving his flock from their pasture at eventide, found
    some Wild Goats mingled among them, and shut them up together with his
    own for the night. The next day it snowed very hard, so that he could
    not take the herd to their usual feeding places, but was obliged to
    keep them in the fold. He gave his own goats just sufficient food to
    keep them alive, but fed the strangers more abundantly in the hope of
    enticing them to stay with him and of making them his own. When the
    thaw set in, he led them all out to feed, and the Wild Goats scampered
    away as fast as they could to the mountains. The Goatherd scolded them
    for their ingratitude in leaving him, when during the storm he had
    taken more care of them than of his own herd. One of them, turning
    about, said to him: “That is the very reason why we are so cautious;
    for if you yesterday treated us better than the Goats you have had so
    long, it is plain also that if others came after us, you would in the
    same manner prefer them to ourselves.”

    Old friends cannot with impunity be sacrificed for new ones.

    The Man and His Two Sweethearts

    A MIDDLE-AGED MAN, whose hair had begun to turn gray, courted two women
    at the same time. One of them was young, and the other well advanced in
    years. The elder woman, ashamed to be courted by a man younger than
    herself, made a point, whenever her admirer visited her, to pull out
    some portion of his black hairs. The younger, on the contrary, not
    wishing to become the wife of an old man, was equally zealous in
    removing every gray hair she could find. Thus it came to pass that
    between them both he very soon found that he had not a hair left on his
    head.

    Those who seek to please everybody please nobody.

    The Sick Stag

    A SICK STAG lay down in a quiet corner of its pasture-ground. His
    companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, and each
    one helped himself to a share of the food which had been placed for his
    use; so that he died, not from his sickness, but from the failure of
    the means of living.

    Evil companions bring more hurt than profit.

    The Boy and the Nettles

    A BOY was stung by a Nettle. He ran home and told his Mother, saying,
    “Although it hurts me very much, I only touched it gently.” “That was
    just why it stung you,” said his Mother. “The next time you touch a
    Nettle, grasp it boldly, and it will be soft as silk to your hand, and
    not in the least hurt you.”

    Whatever you do, do with all your might.

    The Astronomer

    AN ASTRONOMER used to go out at night to observe the stars. One
    evening, as he wandered through the suburbs with his whole attention
    fixed on the sky, he fell accidentally into a deep well. While he
    lamented and bewailed his sores and bruises, and cried loudly for help,
    a neighbor ran to the well, and learning what had happened said: “Hark
    ye, old fellow, why, in striving to pry into what is in heaven, do you
    not manage to see what is on earth?”

    The Wolves and the Sheep

    “WHY SHOULD there always be this fear and slaughter between us?” said
    the Wolves to the Sheep. “Those evil-disposed Dogs have much to answer
    for. They always bark whenever we approach you and attack us before we
    have done any harm. If you would only dismiss them from your heels,
    there might soon be treaties of peace and reconciliation between us.”
    The Sheep, poor silly creatures, were easily beguiled and dismissed the
    Dogs, whereupon the Wolves destroyed the unguarded flock at their own
    pleasure.

    The Cat and the Birds

    A CAT, hearing that the Birds in a certain aviary were ailing dressed
    himself up as a physician, and, taking his cane and a bag of
    instruments becoming his profession, went to call on them. He knocked
    at the door and inquired of the inmates how they all did, saying that
    if they were ill, he would be happy to prescribe for them and cure
    them. They replied, “We are all very well, and shall continue so, if
    you will only be good enough to go away, and leave us as we are.”

    The Vain Jackdaw

    JUPITER DETERMINED, it is said, to create a sovereign over the birds,
    and made proclamation that on a certain day they should all present
    themselves before him, when he would himself choose the most beautiful
    among them to be king. The Jackdaw, knowing his own ugliness, searched
    through the woods and fields, and collected the feathers which had
    fallen from the wings of his companions, and stuck them in all parts of
    his body, hoping thereby to make himself the most beautiful of all.
    When the appointed day arrived, and the birds had assembled before
    Jupiter, the Jackdaw also made his appearance in his many feathered
    finery. But when Jupiter proposed to make him king because of the
    beauty of his plumage, the birds indignantly protested, and each
    plucked from him his own feathers, leaving the Jackdaw nothing but a
    Jackdaw.

    The Kid and the Wolf

    A KID standing on the roof of a house, out of harm’s way, saw a Wolf
    passing by and immediately began to taunt and revile him. The Wolf,
    looking up, said, “Sirrah! I hear thee: yet it is not thou who mockest
    me, but the roof on which thou art standing.”

    Time and place often give the advantage to the weak over the strong.

    The Old Woman and the Physician

    AN OLD WOMAN having lost the use of her eyes, called in a Physician to
    heal them, and made this bargain with him in the presence of witnesses:
    that if he should cure her blindness, he should receive from her a sum
    of money; but if her infirmity remained, she should give him nothing.
    This agreement being made, the Physician, time after time, applied his
    salve to her eyes, and on every visit took something away, stealing all
    her property little by little. And when he had got all she had, he
    healed her and demanded the promised payment. The Old Woman, when she
    recovered her sight and saw none of her goods in her house, would give
    him nothing. The Physician insisted on his claim, and, as she still
    refused, summoned her before the Judge. The Old Woman, standing up in
    the Court, argued: “This man here speaks the truth in what he says; for
    I did promise to give him a sum of money if I should recover my sight:
    but if I continued blind, I was to give him nothing. Now he declares
    that I am healed. I on the contrary affirm that I am still blind; for
    when I lost the use of my eyes, I saw in my house various chattels and
    valuable goods: but now, though he swears I am cured of my blindness, I
    am not able to see a single thing in it.”

    The Ox and the Frog

    AN OX drinking at a pool trod on a brood of young frogs and crushed one
    of them to death. The Mother coming up, and missing one of her sons,
    inquired of his brothers what had become of him. “He is dead, dear
    Mother; for just now a very huge beast with four great feet came to the
    pool and crushed him to death with his cloven heel.” The Frog, puffing
    herself out, inquired, “if the beast was as big as that in size.”
    “Cease, Mother, to puff yourself out,” said her son, “and do not be
    angry; for you would, I assure you, sooner burst than successfully
    imitate the hugeness of that monster.”

    The Farmer and His Sons

    A FATHER, being on the point of death, wished to be sure that his sons
    would give the same attention to his farm as he himself had given it.
    He called them to his bedside and said, “My sons, there is a great
    treasure hid in one of my vineyards.” The sons, after his death, took
    their spades and mattocks and carefully dug over every portion of their
    land. They found no treasure, but the vines repaid their labor by an
    extraordinary and superabundant crop.

    The Heifer and the Ox

    A HEIFER saw an Ox hard at work harnessed to a plow, and tormented him
    with reflections on his unhappy fate in being compelled to labor.
    Shortly afterwards, at the harvest festival, the owner released the Ox
    from his yoke, but bound the Heifer with cords and led him away to the
    altar to be slain in honour of the occasion. The Ox saw what was being
    done, and said with a smile to the Heifer: “For this you were allowed
    to live in idleness, because you were presently to be sacrificed.”

    The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle

    TWO GAME COCKS were fiercely fighting for the mastery of the farmyard.
    One at last put the other to flight. The vanquished Cock skulked away
    and hid himself in a quiet corner, while the conqueror, flying up to a
    high wall, flapped his wings and crowed exultingly with all his might.
    An Eagle sailing through the air pounced upon him and carried him off
    in his talons. The vanquished Cock immediately came out of his corner,
    and ruled henceforth with undisputed mastery.

    Pride goes before destruction.

    The Charger and the Miller

    A CHARGER, feeling the infirmities of age, was sent to work in a mill
    instead of going out to battle. But when he was compelled to grind
    instead of serving in the wars, he bewailed his change of fortune and
    called to mind his former state, saying, “Ah! Miller, I had indeed to
    go campaigning before, but I was barbed from counter to tail, and a man
    went along to groom me; and now I cannot understand what ailed me to
    prefer the mill before the battle.” “Forbear,” said the Miller to him,
    “harping on what was of yore, for it is the common lot of mortals to
    sustain the ups and downs of fortune.”

    The Fox and the Monkey

    A MONKEY once danced in an assembly of the Beasts, and so pleased them
    all by his performance that they elected him their King. A Fox, envying
    him the honour, discovered a piece of meat lying in a trap, and leading
    the Monkey to the place where it was, said that she had found a store,
    but had not used it, she had kept it for him as treasure trove of his
    kingdom, and counseled him to lay hold of it. The Monkey approached
    carelessly and was caught in the trap; and on his accusing the Fox of
    purposely leading him into the snare, she replied, “O Monkey, and are
    you, with such a mind as yours, going to be King over the Beasts?”

    The Horse and His Rider

    A HORSE SOLDIER took the utmost pains with his charger. As long as the
    war lasted, he looked upon him as his fellow-helper in all emergencies
    and fed him carefully with hay and corn. But when the war was over, he
    only allowed him chaff to eat and made him carry heavy loads of wood,
    subjecting him to much slavish drudgery and ill-treatment. War was
    again proclaimed, however, and when the trumpet summoned him to his
    standard, the Soldier put on his charger its military trappings, and
    mounted, being clad in his heavy coat of mail. The Horse fell down
    straightway under the weight, no longer equal to the burden, and said
    to his master, “You must now go to the war on foot, for you have
    transformed me from a Horse into an Ass; and how can you expect that I
    can again turn in a moment from an Ass to a Horse?”

    The Belly and the Members

    THE MEMBERS of the Body rebelled against the Belly, and said, “Why
    should we be perpetually engaged in administering to your wants, while
    you do nothing but take your rest, and enjoy yourself in luxury and
    self-indulgence?” The Members carried out their resolve and refused
    their assistance to the Belly. The whole Body quickly became
    debilitated, and the hands, feet, mouth, and eyes, when too late,
    repented of their folly.

    The Widow and Her Little Maidens

    A WIDOW who was fond of cleaning had two little maidens to wait on her.
    She was in the habit of waking them early in the morning, at cockcrow.
    The maidens, aggravated by such excessive labor, resolved to kill the
    cock who roused their mistress so early. When they had done this, they
    found that they had only prepared for themselves greater troubles, for
    their mistress, no longer hearing the hour from the cock, woke them up
    to their work in the middle of the night.

    The Vine and the Goat

    A VINE was luxuriant in the time of vintage with leaves and grapes. A
    Goat, passing by, nibbled its young tendrils and its leaves. The Vine
    addressed him and said: “Why do you thus injure me without a cause, and
    crop my leaves? Is there no young grass left? But I shall not have to
    wait long for my just revenge; for if you now should crop my leaves,
    and cut me down to my root, I shall provide the wine to pour over you
    when you are led as a victim to the sacrifice.”

    Jupiter and the Monkey

    JUPITER ISSUED a proclamation to all the beasts of the forest and
    promised a royal reward to the one whose offspring should be deemed the
    handsomest. The Monkey came with the rest and presented, with all a
    mother’s tenderness, a flat-nosed, hairless, ill-featured young Monkey
    as a candidate for the promised reward. A general laugh saluted her on
    the presentation of her son. She resolutely said, “I know not whether
    Jupiter will allot the prize to my son, but this I do know, that he is
    at least in the eyes of me his mother, the dearest, handsomest, and
    most beautiful of all.”

    The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons

    THE PIGEONS, terrified by the appearance of a Kite, called upon the
    Hawk to defend them. He at once consented. When they had admitted him
    into the cote, they found that he made more havoc and slew a larger
    number of them in one day than the Kite could pounce upon in a whole
    year.

    Avoid a remedy that is worse than the disease.

    The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat

    THE DOLPHINS and Whales waged a fierce war with each other. When the
    battle was at its height, a Sprat lifted its head out of the waves and
    said that he would reconcile their differences if they would accept him
    as an umpire. One of the Dolphins replied, “We would far rather be
    destroyed in our battle with each other than admit any interference
    from you in our affairs.”

    The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice

    A SWALLOW, returning from abroad and especially fond of dwelling with
    men, built herself a nest in the wall of a Court of Justice and there
    hatched seven young birds. A Serpent gliding past the nest from its
    hole in the wall ate up the young unfledged nestlings. The Swallow,
    finding her nest empty, lamented greatly and exclaimed: “Woe to me a
    stranger! that in this place where all others’ rights are protected, I
    alone should suffer wrong.”

    The Two Pots

    A RIVER carried down in its stream two Pots, one made of earthenware
    and the other of brass. The Earthen Pot said to the Brass Pot, “Pray
    keep at a distance and do not come near me, for if you touch me ever so
    slightly, I shall be broken in pieces, and besides, I by no means wish
    to come near you.”

    Equals make the best friends.

    The Shepherd and the Wolf

    A SHEPHERD once found the whelp of a Wolf and brought it up, and after
    a while taught it to steal lambs from the neighboring flocks. The Wolf,
    having shown himself an apt pupil, said to the Shepherd, “Since you
    have taught me to steal, you must keep a sharp lookout, or you will
    lose some of your own flock.”

    The Crab and Its Mother

    A CRAB said to her son, “Why do you walk so one-sided, my child? It is
    far more becoming to go straight forward.” The young Crab replied:
    “Quite true, dear Mother; and if you will show me the straight way, I
    will promise to walk in it.” The Mother tried in vain, and submitted
    without remonstrance to the reproof of her child.

    Example is more powerful than precept.

    The Father and His Two Daughters

    A MAN had two daughters, the one married to a gardener, and the other
    to a tile-maker. After a time he went to the daughter who had married
    the gardener, and inquired how she was and how all things went with
    her. She said, “All things are prospering with me, and I have only one
    wish, that there may be a heavy fall of rain, in order that the plants
    may be well watered.” Not long after, he went to the daughter who had
    married the tilemaker, and likewise inquired of her how she fared; she
    replied, “I want for nothing, and have only one wish, that the dry
    weather may continue, and the sun shine hot and bright, so that the
    bricks might be dried.” He said to her, “If your sister wishes for
    rain, and you for dry weather, with which of the two am I to join my
    wishes?”

    The Thief and His Mother

    A BOY stole a lesson-book from one of his schoolfellows and took it
    home to his Mother. She not only abstained from beating him, but
    encouraged him. He next time stole a cloak and brought it to her, and
    she again commended him. The Youth, advanced to adulthood, proceeded to
    steal things of still greater value. At last he was caught in the very
    act, and having his hands bound behind him, was led away to the place
    of public execution. His Mother followed in the crowd and violently
    beat her breast in sorrow, whereupon the young man said, “I wish to say
    something to my Mother in her ear.” She came close to him, and he
    quickly seized her ear with his teeth and bit it off. The Mother
    upbraided him as an unnatural child, whereon he replied, “Ah! if you
    had beaten me when I first stole and brought to you that lesson-book, I
    should not have come to this, nor have been thus led to a disgraceful
    death.”

    The Old Man and Death

    AN OLD MAN was employed in cutting wood in the forest, and, in carrying
    the faggots to the city for sale one day, became very wearied with his
    long journey. He sat down by the wayside, and throwing down his load,
    besought “Death” to come. “Death” immediately appeared in answer to his
    summons and asked for what reason he had called him. The Old Man
    hurriedly replied, “That, lifting up the load, you may place it again
    upon my shoulders.”

    The Fir-Tree and the Bramble

    A FIR-TREE said boastingly to the Bramble, “You are useful for nothing
    at all; while I am everywhere used for roofs and houses.” The Bramble
    answered: “You poor creature, if you would only call to mind the axes
    and saws which are about to hew you down, you would have reason to wish
    that you had grown up a Bramble, not a Fir-Tree.”

    Better poverty without care, than riches with.

    The Æthiop

    THE PURCHASER of a black servant was persuaded that the color of his
    skin arose from dirt contracted through the neglect of his former
    masters. On bringing him home he resorted to every means of cleaning,
    and subjected the man to incessant scrubbings. The servant caught a
    severe cold, but he never changed his color or complexion.

    What’s bred in the bone will stick to the flesh.

    The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk

    A MOUSE who always lived on the land, by an unlucky chance formed an
    intimate acquaintance with a Frog, who lived for the most part in the
    water. The Frog, one day intent on mischief, bound the foot of the
    Mouse tightly to his own. Thus joined together, the Frog first of all
    led his friend the Mouse to the meadow where they were accustomed to
    find their food. After this, he gradually led him towards the pool in
    which he lived, until reaching the very brink, he suddenly jumped in,
    dragging the Mouse with him. The Frog enjoyed the water amazingly, and
    swam croaking about, as if he had done a good deed. The unhappy Mouse
    was soon suffocated by the water, and his dead body floated about on
    the surface, tied to the foot of the Frog. A Hawk observed it, and,
    pouncing upon it with his talons, carried it aloft. The Frog, being
    still fastened to the leg of the Mouse, was also carried off a
    prisoner, and was eaten by the Hawk.

    Harm hatch, harm catch.

    The Fisherman and His Nets

    A FISHERMAN, engaged in his calling, made a very successful cast and
    captured a great haul of fish. He managed by a skillful handling of his
    net to retain all the large fish and to draw them to the shore; but he
    could not prevent the smaller fish from falling back through the meshes
    of the net into the sea.

    The Wolf and the Sheep

    A WOLF, sorely wounded and bitten by dogs, lay sick and maimed in his
    lair. Being in want of food, he called to a Sheep who was passing, and
    asked him to fetch some water from a stream flowing close beside him.
    “For,” he said, “if you will bring me drink, I will find means to
    provide myself with meat.” “Yes,” said the Sheep, “if I should bring
    you the draught, you would doubtless make me provide the meat also.”

    Hypocritical speeches are easily seen through.

    The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar

    AN OLD WOMAN found an empty jar which had lately been full of prime old
    wine and which still retained the fragrant smell of its former
    contents. She greedily placed it several times to her nose, and drawing
    it backwards and forwards said, “O most delicious! How nice must the
    Wine itself have been, when it leaves behind in the very vessel which
    contained it so sweet a perfume!”

    The memory of a good deed lives.

    The Man Bitten by a Dog

    A MAN who had been bitten by a Dog went about in quest of someone who
    might heal him. A friend, meeting him and learning what he wanted,
    said, “If you would be cured, take a piece of bread, and dip it in the
    blood from your wound, and go and give it to the Dog that bit you.” The
    Man who had been bitten laughed at this advice and said, “Why? If I
    should do so, it would be as if I should beg every Dog in the town to
    bite me.”

    Benefits bestowed upon the evil-disposed increase their means of
    injuring you.

    The Huntsman and the Fisherman

    A HUNTSMAN, returning with his dogs from the field, fell in by chance
    with a Fisherman who was bringing home a basket well laden with fish.
    The Huntsman wished to have the fish, and their owner experienced an
    equal longing for the contents of the game-bag. They quickly agreed to
    exchange the produce of their day’s sport. Each was so well pleased
    with his bargain that they made for some time the same exchange day
    after day. Finally a neighbor said to them, “If you go on in this way,
    you will soon destroy by frequent use the pleasure of your exchange,
    and each will again wish to retain the fruits of his own sport.”

    Abstain and enjoy.

    The Fox and the Crow

    A CROW having stolen a bit of meat, perched in a tree and held it in
    her beak. A Fox, seeing this, longed to possess the meat himself, and
    by a wily stratagem succeeded. “How handsome is the Crow,” he
    exclaimed, “in the beauty of her shape and in the fairness of her
    complexion! Oh, if her voice were only equal to her beauty, she would
    deservedly be considered the Queen of Birds!” This he said deceitfully;
    but the Crow, anxious to refute the reflection cast upon her voice, set
    up a loud caw and dropped the flesh. The Fox quickly picked it up, and
    thus addressed the Crow: “My good Crow, your voice is right enough, but
    your wit is wanting.”

    The Widow and the Sheep

    A CERTAIN poor widow had one solitary Sheep. At shearing time, wishing
    to take his fleece and to avoid expense, she sheared him herself, but
    used the shears so unskillfully that with the fleece she sheared the
    flesh. The Sheep, writhing with pain, said, “Why do you hurt me so,
    Mistress? What weight can my blood add to the wool? If you want my
    flesh, there is the butcher, who will kill me in an instant; but if you
    want my fleece and wool, there is the shearer, who will shear and not
    hurt me.”

    The least outlay is not always the greatest gain.

    The Playful Ass

    AN ASS climbed up to the roof of a building, and frisking about there,
    broke in the tiling. The owner went up after him and quickly drove him
    down, beating him severely with a thick wooden cudgel. The Ass said,
    “Why, I saw the Monkey do this very thing yesterday, and you all
    laughed heartily, as if it afforded you very great amusement.”

    The Stag in the Ox-Stall

    A STAG, roundly chased by the hounds and blinded by fear to the danger
    he was running into, took shelter in a farmyard and hid himself in a
    shed among the oxen. An Ox gave him this kindly warning: “O unhappy
    creature! why should you thus, of your own accord, incur destruction
    and trust yourself in the house of your enemy?” The Stag replied: “Only
    allow me, friend, to stay where I am, and I will undertake to find some
    favourable opportunity of effecting my escape.” At the approach of the
    evening the herdsman came to feed his cattle, but did not see the Stag;
    and even the farm-bailiff with several laborers passed through the shed
    and failed to notice him. The Stag, congratulating himself on his
    safety, began to express his sincere thanks to the Oxen who had kindly
    helped him in the hour of need. One of them again answered him: “We
    indeed wish you well, but the danger is not over. There is one other
    yet to pass through the shed, who has as it were a hundred eyes, and
    until he has come and gone, your life is still in peril.” At that
    moment the master himself entered, and having had to complain that his
    oxen had not been properly fed, he went up to their racks and cried
    out: “Why is there such a scarcity of fodder? There is not half enough
    straw for them to lie on. Those lazy fellows have not even swept the
    cobwebs away.” While he thus examined everything in turn, he spied the
    tips of the antlers of the Stag peeping out of the straw. Then
    summoning his laborers, he ordered that the Stag should be seized and
    killed.

    The Two Dogs

    A MAN had two dogs: a Hound, trained to assist him in his sports, and a
    Housedog, taught to watch the house. When he returned home after a good
    day’s sport, he always gave the Housedog a large share of his spoil.
    The Hound, feeling much aggrieved at this, reproached his companion,
    saying, “It is very hard to have all this labor, while you, who do not
    assist in the chase, luxuriate on the fruits of my exertions.” The
    Housedog replied, “Do not blame me, my friend, but find fault with the
    master, who has not taught me to labor, but to depend for subsistence
    on the labor of others.”

    Children are not to be blamed for the faults of their parents.

    The Wild Ass and the Lion

    A WILD ASS and a Lion entered into an alliance so that they might
    capture the beasts of the forest with greater ease. The Lion agreed to
    assist the Wild Ass with his strength, while the Wild Ass gave the Lion
    the benefit of his greater speed. When they had taken as many beasts as
    their necessities required, the Lion undertook to distribute the prey,
    and for this purpose divided it into three shares. “I will take the
    first share,” he said, “because I am King: and the second share, as a
    partner with you in the chase: and the third share (believe me) will be
    a source of great evil to you, unless you willingly resign it to me,
    and set off as fast as you can.”

    Might makes right.

    The Lion and the Dolphin

    A LION roaming by the seashore saw a Dolphin lift up its head out of
    the waves, and suggested that they contract an alliance, saying that of
    all the animals they ought to be the best friends, since the one was
    the king of beasts on the earth, and the other was the sovereign ruler
    of all the inhabitants of the ocean. The Dolphin gladly consented to
    this request. Not long afterwards the Lion had a combat with a wild
    bull, and called on the Dolphin to help him. The Dolphin, though quite
    willing to give him assistance, was unable to do so, as he could not by
    any means reach the land. The Lion abused him as a traitor. The Dolphin
    replied, “Nay, my friend, blame not me, but Nature, which, while giving
    me the sovereignty of the sea, has quite denied me the power of living
    upon the land.”

    The Eagle and the Arrow

    AN EAGLE sat on a lofty rock, watching the movements of a Hare whom he
    sought to make his prey. An archer, who saw the Eagle from a place of
    concealment, took an accurate aim and wounded him mortally. The Eagle
    gave one look at the arrow that had entered his heart and saw in that
    single glance that its feathers had been furnished by himself. “It is a
    double grief to me,” he exclaimed, “that I should perish by an arrow
    feathered from my own wings.”

    The Sick Kite

    A KITE, sick unto death, said to his mother: “O Mother! do not mourn,
    but at once invoke the gods that my life may be prolonged.” She
    replied, “Alas! my son, which of the gods do you think will pity you?
    Is there one whom you have not outraged by filching from their very
    altars a part of the sacrifice offered up to them?”

    We must make friends in prosperity if we would have their help in
    adversity.

    The Lion and the Boar

    ON A SUMMER DAY, when the great heat induced a general thirst among the
    beasts, a Lion and a Boar came at the same moment to a small well to
    drink. They fiercely disputed which of them should drink first, and
    were soon engaged in the agonies of a mortal combat. When they stopped
    suddenly to catch their breath for a fiercer renewal of the fight, they
    saw some Vultures waiting in the distance to feast on the one that
    should fall first. They at once made up their quarrel, saying, “It is
    better for us to make friends, than to become the food of Crows or
    Vultures.”

    The Mice in Council

    THE MICE summoned a council to decide how they might best devise means
    of warning themselves of the approach of their great enemy the Cat.
    Among the many plans suggested, the one that found most favour was the
    proposal to tie a bell to the neck of the Cat, so that the Mice, being
    warned by the sound of the tinkling, might run away and hide themselves
    in their holes at his approach. But when the Mice further debated who
    among them should thus “bell the Cat,” there was no one found to do it.

    The One-Eyed Doe

    A DOE blind in one eye was accustomed to graze as near to the edge of
    the cliff as she possibly could, in the hope of securing her greater
    safety. She turned her sound eye towards the land that she might get
    the earliest tidings of the approach of hunter or hound, and her
    injured eye towards the sea, from whence she entertained no
    anticipation of danger. Some boatmen sailing by saw her, and taking a
    successful aim, mortally wounded her. Yielding up her last breath, she
    gasped forth this lament: “O wretched creature that I am! to take such
    precaution against the land, and after all to find this seashore, to
    which I had come for safety, so much more perilous.”

    The Mice and the Weasels

    THE WEASELS and the Mice waged a perpetual war with each other, in
    which much blood was shed. The Weasels were always the victors. The
    Mice thought that the cause of their frequent defeats was that they had
    no leaders set apart from the general army to command them, and that
    they were exposed to dangers from lack of discipline. They therefore
    chose as leaders Mice that were most renowned for their family descent,
    strength, and counsel, as well as those most noted for their courage in
    the fight, so that they might be better marshaled in battle array and
    formed into troops, regiments, and battalions. When all this was done,
    and the army disciplined, and the herald Mouse had duly proclaimed war
    by challenging the Weasels, the newly chosen generals bound their heads
    with straws, that they might be more conspicuous to all their troops.
    Scarcely had the battle begun, when a great rout overwhelmed the Mice,
    who scampered off as fast as they could to their holes. The generals,
    not being able to get in on account of the ornaments on their heads,
    were all captured and eaten by the Weasels.

    The more honour the more danger.

    The Shepherd and the Sea

    A SHEPHERD, keeping watch over his sheep near the shore, saw the Sea
    very calm and smooth, and longed to make a voyage with a view to
    commerce. He sold all his flock, invested it in a cargo of dates, and
    set sail. But a very great tempest came on, and the ship being in
    danger of sinking, he threw all his merchandise overboard, and barely
    escaped with his life in the empty ship. Not long afterwards when
    someone passed by and observed the unruffled calm of the Sea, he
    interrupted him and said, “It is again in want of dates, and therefore
    looks quiet.”

    The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion

    AN ASS and a Cock were in a straw-yard together when a Lion, desperate
    from hunger, approached the spot. He was about to spring upon the Ass,
    when the Cock (to the sound of whose voice the Lion, it is said, has a
    singular aversion) crowed loudly, and the Lion fled away as fast as he
    could. The Ass, observing his trepidation at the mere crowing of a Cock
    summoned courage to attack him, and galloped after him for that
    purpose. He had run no long distance, when the Lion, turning about,
    seized him and tore him to pieces.

    False confidence often leads into danger.

    The Rivers and the Sea

    THE RIVERS joined together to complain to the Sea, saying, “Why is it
    that when we flow into your tides so potable and sweet, you work in us
    such a change, and make us salty and unfit to drink?” The Sea,
    perceiving that they intended to throw the blame on him, said, “Pray
    cease to flow into me, and then you will not be made briny.”

    The Wild Boar and the Fox

    A WILD BOAR stood under a tree and rubbed his tusks against the trunk.
    A Fox passing by asked him why he thus sharpened his teeth when there
    was no danger threatening from either huntsman or hound. He replied, “I
    do it advisedly; for it would never do to have to sharpen my weapons
    just at the time I ought to be using them.”

    To be well prepared for war is the best guarantee of peace.

    The Milk-Woman and Her Pail

    A FARMER’S daughter was carrying her Pail of milk from the field to the
    farmhouse, when she fell a-musing. “The money for which this milk will
    be sold, will buy at least three hundred eggs. The eggs, allowing for
    all mishaps, will produce two hundred and fifty chickens. The chickens
    will become ready for the market when poultry will fetch the highest
    price, so that by the end of the year I shall have money enough from my
    share to buy a new gown. In this dress I will go to the Christmas
    parties, where all the young fellows will propose to me, but I will
    toss my head and refuse them every one.” At this moment she tossed her
    head in unison with her thoughts, when down fell the milk pail to the
    ground, and all her imaginary schemes perished in a moment.

    The Bee and Jupiter

    A BEE from Mount Hymettus, the queen of the hive, ascended to Olympus
    to present Jupiter some honey fresh from her combs. Jupiter, delighted
    with the offering of honey, promised to give whatever she should ask.
    She therefore besought him, saying, “Give me, I pray thee, a sting,
    that if any mortal shall approach to take my honey, I may kill him.”
    Jupiter was much displeased, for he loved the race of man, but could
    not refuse the request because of his promise. He thus answered the
    Bee: “You shall have your request, but it will be at the peril of your
    own life. For if you use your sting, it shall remain in the wound you
    make, and then you will die from the loss of it.”

    Evil wishes, like chickens, come home to roost.

    The Wolf and the Housedog

    A WOLF, meeting a big well-fed Mastiff with a wooden collar about his
    neck asked him who it was that fed him so well and yet compelled him to
    drag that heavy log about wherever he went. “The master,” he replied.
    Then said the Wolf: “May no friend of mine ever be in such a plight;
    for the weight of this chain is enough to spoil the appetite.”

    The Three Tradesmen

    A GREAT CITY was besieged, and its inhabitants were called together to
    consider the best means of protecting it from the enemy. A Bricklayer
    earnestly recommended bricks as affording the best material for an
    effective resistance. A Carpenter, with equal enthusiasm, proposed
    timber as a preferable method of defense. Upon which a Currier stood up
    and said, “Sirs, I differ from you altogether: there is no material for
    resistance equal to a covering of hides; and nothing so good as
    leather.”

    Every man for himself.

    The Ass Carrying the Image

    AN ASS once carried through the streets of a city a famous wooden
    Image, to be placed in one of its Temples. As he passed along, the
    crowd made lowly prostration before the Image. The Ass, thinking that
    they bowed their heads in token of respect for himself, bristled up
    with pride, gave himself airs, and refused to move another step. The
    driver, seeing him thus stop, laid his whip lustily about his shoulders
    and said, “O you perverse dull-head! it is not yet come to this, that
    men pay worship to an Ass.”

    They are not wise who give to themselves the credit due to others.

    The Master and His Dogs

    A CERTAIN MAN, detained by a storm in his country house, first of all
    killed his sheep, and then his goats, for the maintenance of his
    household. The storm still continuing, he was obliged to slaughter his
    yoke oxen for food. On seeing this, his Dogs took counsel together, and
    said, “It is time for us to be off, for if the master spare not his
    oxen, who work for his gain, how can we expect him to spare us?”

    He is not to be trusted as a friend who mistreats his own family.

    The Old Hound

    A HOUND, who in the days of his youth and strength had never yielded to
    any beast of the forest, encountered in his old age a boar in the
    chase. He seized him boldly by the ear, but could not retain his hold
    because of the decay of his teeth, so that the boar escaped. His
    master, quickly coming up, was very much disappointed, and fiercely
    abused the dog. The Hound looked up and said, “It was not my fault
    master: my spirit was as good as ever, but I could not help my
    infirmities. I rather deserve to be praised for what I have been, than
    to be blamed for what I am.”

    The Two Travelers and the Axe

    TWO MEN were journeying together. One of them picked up an axe that lay
    upon the path, and said, “I have found an axe.” “Nay, my friend,”
    replied the other, “do not say ‘I,’ but ‘We’ have found an axe.” They
    had not gone far before they saw the owner of the axe pursuing them,
    and he who had picked up the axe said, “We are undone.” “Nay,” replied
    the other, “keep to your first mode of speech, my friend; what you
    thought right then, think right now. Say ‘I,’ not ‘We’ are undone.”

    He who shares the danger ought to share the prize.

    The Old Lion

    A LION, worn out with years and powerless from disease, lay on the
    ground at the point of death. A Boar rushed upon him, and avenged with
    a stroke of his tusks a long-remembered injury. Shortly afterwards the
    Bull with his horns gored him as if he were an enemy. When the Ass saw
    that the huge beast could be assailed with impunity, he let drive at
    his forehead with his heels. The expiring Lion said, “I have
    reluctantly brooked the insults of the brave, but to be compelled to
    endure such treatment from thee, a disgrace to Nature, is indeed to die
    a double death.”

    The Wolf and the Shepherds

    A WOLF, passing by, saw some Shepherds in a hut eating a haunch of
    mutton for their dinner. Approaching them, he said, “What a clamor you
    would raise if I were to do as you are doing!”

    The Seaside Travelers

    SOME TRAVELERS, journeying along the seashore, climbed to the summit of
    a tall cliff, and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they
    thought was a large ship. They waited in the hope of seeing it enter
    the harbor, but as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to
    shore by the wind, they found that it could at the most be a small
    boat, and not a ship. When however it reached the beach, they
    discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks, and one of them
    said to his companions, “We have waited for no purpose, for after all
    there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”

    Our mere anticipations of life outrun its realities.

    The Ass and His Shadow

    A TRAVELER hired an Ass to convey him to a distant place. The day being
    intensely hot, and the sun shining in its strength, the Traveler
    stopped to rest, and sought shelter from the heat under the Shadow of
    the Ass. As this afforded only protection for one, and as the Traveler
    and the owner of the Ass both claimed it, a violent dispute arose
    between them as to which of them had the right to the Shadow. The owner
    maintained that he had let the Ass only, and not his Shadow. The
    Traveler asserted that he had, with the hire of the Ass, hired his
    Shadow also. The quarrel proceeded from words to blows, and while the
    men fought, the Ass galloped off.

    In quarreling about the shadow we often lose the substance.

    The Ass and His Masters

    AN ASS, belonging to an herb-seller who gave him too little food and
    too much work made a petition to Jupiter to be released from his
    present service and provided with another master. Jupiter, after
    warning him that he would repent his request, caused him to be sold to
    a tile-maker. Shortly afterwards, finding that he had heavier loads to
    carry and harder work in the brick-field, he petitioned for another
    change of master. Jupiter, telling him that it would be the last time
    that he could grant his request, ordained that he be sold to a tanner.
    The Ass found that he had fallen into worse hands, and noting his
    master’s occupation, said, groaning: “It would have been better for me
    to have been either starved by the one, or to have been overworked by
    the other of my former masters, than to have been bought by my present
    owner, who will even after I am dead tan my hide, and make me useful to
    him.”

    Mercury and the Sculptor

    MERCURY once determined to learn in what esteem he was held among
    mortals. For this purpose he assumed the character of a man and visited
    in this disguise a Sculptor’s studio having looked at various statues,
    he demanded the price of two figures of Jupiter and Juno. When the sum
    at which they were valued was named, he pointed to a figure of himself,
    saying to the Sculptor, “You will certainly want much more for this, as
    it is the statue of the Messenger of the Gods, and author of all your
    gain.” The Sculptor replied, “Well, if you will buy these, I’ll fling
    you that into the bargain.”

    The Fox and the Woodcutter

    A FOX, running before the hounds, came across a Woodcutter felling an
    oak and begged him to show him a safe hiding-place. The Woodcutter
    advised him to take shelter in his own hut, so the Fox crept in and hid
    himself in a corner. The huntsman soon came up with his hounds and
    inquired of the Woodcutter if he had seen the Fox. He declared that he
    had not seen him, and yet pointed, all the time he was speaking, to the
    hut where the Fox lay hidden. The huntsman took no notice of the signs,
    but believing his word, hastened forward in the chase. As soon as they
    were well away, the Fox departed without taking any notice of the
    Woodcutter: whereon he called to him and reproached him, saying, “You
    ungrateful fellow, you owe your life to me, and yet you leave me
    without a word of thanks.” The Fox replied, “Indeed, I should have
    thanked you fervently if your deeds had been as good as your words, and
    if your hands had not been traitors to your speech.”

    The Oak and the Reeds

    A VERY LARGE OAK was uprooted by the wind and thrown across a stream.
    It fell among some Reeds, which it thus addressed: “I wonder how you,
    who are so light and weak, are not entirely crushed by these strong
    winds.” They replied, “You fight and contend with the wind, and
    consequently you are destroyed; while we on the contrary bend before
    the least breath of air, and therefore remain unbroken, and escape.”

    Stoop to conquer.

    The Lion in a Farmyard

    A LION entered a farmyard. The Farmer, wishing to catch him, shut the
    gate. When the Lion found that he could not escape, he flew upon the
    sheep and killed them, and then attacked the oxen. The Farmer,
    beginning to be alarmed for his own safety, opened the gate and
    released the Lion. On his departure the Farmer grievously lamented the
    destruction of his sheep and oxen, but his wife, who had been a
    spectator to all that took place, said, “On my word, you are rightly
    served, for how could you for a moment think of shutting up a Lion
    along with you in your farmyard when you know that you shake in your
    shoes if you only hear his roar at a distance?”

    The Wolf and the Lion

    A WOLF, having stolen a lamb from a fold, was carrying him off to his
    lair. A Lion met him in the path, and seizing the lamb, took it from
    him. Standing at a safe distance, the Wolf exclaimed, “You have
    unrighteously taken that which was mine from me!” To which the Lion
    jeeringly replied, “It was righteously yours, eh? The gift of a
    friend?”

    The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock

    A BIRDCATCHER was about to sit down to a dinner of herbs when a friend
    unexpectedly came in. The bird-trap was quite empty, as he had caught
    nothing, and he had to kill a pied Partridge, which he had tamed for a
    decoy. The bird entreated earnestly for his life: “What would you do
    without me when next you spread your nets? Who would chirp you to
    sleep, or call for you the covey of answering birds?” The Birdcatcher
    spared his life, and determined to pick out a fine young Cock just
    attaining to his comb. But the Cock expostulated in piteous tones from
    his perch: “If you kill me, who will announce to you the appearance of
    the dawn? Who will wake you to your daily tasks or tell you when it is
    time to visit the bird-trap in the morning?” He replied, “What you say
    is true. You are a capital bird at telling the time of day. But my
    friend and I must have our dinners.”

    Necessity knows no law.

    The Ant and the Dove

    AN ANT went to the bank of a river to quench its thirst, and being
    carried away by the rush of the stream, was on the point of drowning. A
    Dove sitting on a tree overhanging the water plucked a leaf and let it
    fall into the stream close to her. The Ant climbed onto it and floated
    in safety to the bank. Shortly afterwards a birdcatcher came and stood
    under the tree, and laid his lime-twigs for the Dove, which sat in the
    branches. The Ant, perceiving his design, stung him in the foot. In
    pain the birdcatcher threw down the twigs, and the noise made the Dove
    take wing.

    The Hares and the Frogs

    THE HARES, oppressed by their own exceeding timidity and weary of the
    perpetual alarm to which they were exposed, with one accord determined
    to put an end to themselves and their troubles by jumping from a lofty
    precipice into a deep lake below. As they scampered off in large
    numbers to carry out their resolve, the Frogs lying on the banks of the
    lake heard the noise of their feet and rushed helter-skelter to the
    deep water for safety. On seeing the rapid disappearance of the Frogs,
    one of the Hares cried out to his companions: “Stay, my friends, do not
    do as you intended; for you now see that there are creatures who are
    still more timid than ourselves.”

    The Monkey and the Fishermen

    A MONKEY perched upon a lofty tree saw some Fishermen casting their
    nets into a river, and narrowly watched their proceedings. The
    Fishermen after a while gave up fishing, and on going home to dinner
    left their nets upon the bank. The Monkey, who is the most imitative of
    animals, descended from the treetop and endeavored to do as they had
    done. Having handled the net, he threw it into the river, but became
    tangled in the meshes and drowned. With his last breath he said to
    himself, “I am rightly served; for what business had I who had never
    handled a net to try and catch fish?”

    The Swan and the Goose

    A CERTAIN rich man bought in the market a Goose and a Swan. He fed the
    one for his table and kept the other for the sake of its song. When the
    time came for killing the Goose, the cook went to get him at night,
    when it was dark, and he was not able to distinguish one bird from the
    other. By mistake he caught the Swan instead of the Goose. The Swan,
    threatened with death, burst forth into song and thus made himself
    known by his voice, and preserved his life by his melody.

    The Doe and the Lion

    A DOE hard pressed by hunters sought refuge in a cave belonging to a
    Lion. The Lion concealed himself on seeing her approach, but when she
    was safe within the cave, sprang upon her and tore her to pieces. “Woe
    is me,” exclaimed the Doe, “who have escaped from man, only to throw
    myself into the mouth of a wild beast?”

    In avoiding one evil, care must be taken not to fall into another.

    The Fisherman and the Little Fish

    A FISHERMAN who lived on the produce of his nets, one day caught a
    single small Fish as the result of his day’s labor. The Fish, panting
    convulsively, thus entreated for his life: “O Sir, what good can I be
    to you, and how little am I worth? I am not yet come to my full size.
    Pray spare my life, and put me back into the sea. I shall soon become a
    large fish fit for the tables of the rich, and then you can catch me
    again, and make a handsome profit of me.” The Fisherman replied, “I
    should indeed be a very simple fellow if, for the chance of a greater
    uncertain profit, I were to forego my present certain gain.”

    The Hunter and the Woodman

    A HUNTER, not very bold, was searching for the tracks of a Lion. He
    asked a man felling oaks in the forest if he had seen any marks of his
    footsteps or knew where his lair was. “I will,” said the man, “at once
    show you the Lion himself.” The Hunter, turning very pale and
    chattering with his teeth from fear, replied, “No, thank you. I did not
    ask that; it is his track only I am in search of, not the Lion
    himself.”

    The hero is brave in deeds as well as words.

    The Swollen Fox

    A VERY HUNGRY FOX, seeing some bread and meat left by shepherds in the
    hollow of an oak, crept into the hole and made a hearty meal. When he
    finished, he was so full that he was not able to get out, and began to
    groan and lament his fate. Another Fox passing by heard his cries, and
    coming up, inquired the cause of his complaining. On learning what had
    happened, he said to him, “Ah, you will have to remain there, my
    friend, until you become such as you were when you crept in, and then
    you will easily get out.”

    The Two Frogs

    TWO FROGS dwelt in the same pool. When the pool dried up under the
    summer’s heat, they left it and set out together for another home. As
    they went along they chanced to pass a deep well, amply supplied with
    water, and when they saw it, one of the Frogs said to the other, “Let
    us descend and make our abode in this well: it will furnish us with
    shelter and food.” The other replied with greater caution, “But suppose
    the water should fail us. How can we get out again from so great a
    depth?”

    Do nothing without a regard to the consequences.

    The Lamp

    A LAMP, soaked with too much oil and flaring brightly, boasted that it
    gave more light than the sun. Then a sudden puff of wind arose, and the
    Lamp was immediately extinguished. Its owner lit it again, and said:
    “Boast no more, but henceforth be content to give thy light in silence.
    Know that not even the stars need to be relit.”

    The Camel and the Arab

    AN ARAB Camel-driver, after completing the loading of his Camel, asked
    him which he would like best, to go up hill or down. The poor beast
    replied, not without a touch of reason: “Why do you ask me? Is it that
    the level way through the desert is closed?”

    The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass

    A MILLER and his son were driving their Ass to a neighboring fair to
    sell him. They had not gone far when they met with a troop of women
    collected round a well, talking and laughing. “Look there,” cried one
    of them, “did you ever see such fellows, to be trudging along the road
    on foot when they might ride?” The old man hearing this, quickly made
    his son mount the Ass, and continued to walk along merrily by his side.
    Presently they came up to a group of old men in earnest debate.
    “There,” said one of them, “it proves what I was a-saying. What respect
    is shown to old age in these days? Do you see that idle lad riding
    while his old father has to walk? Get down, you young scapegrace, and
    let the old man rest his weary limbs.” Upon this the old man made his
    son dismount, and got up himself. In this manner they had not proceeded
    far when they met a company of women and children: “Why, you lazy old
    fellow,” cried several tongues at once, “how can you ride upon the
    beast, while that poor little lad there can hardly keep pace by the
    side of you?” The good-natured Miller immediately took up his son
    behind him. They had now almost reached the town. “Pray, honest
    friend,” said a citizen, “is that Ass your own?” “Yes,” replied the old
    man. “O, one would not have thought so,” said the other, “by the way
    you load him. Why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor
    beast than he you.” “Anything to please you,” said the old man; “we can
    but try.” So, alighting with his son, they tied the legs of the Ass
    together and with the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their
    shoulders over a bridge near the entrance to the town. This
    entertaining sight brought the people in crowds to laugh at it, till
    the Ass, not liking the noise nor the strange handling that he was
    subject to, broke the cords that bound him and, tumbling off the pole,
    fell into the river. Upon this, the old man, vexed and ashamed, made
    the best of his way home again, convinced that by endeavoring to please
    everybody he had pleased nobody, and lost his Ass in the bargain.

    The Cat and the Mice

    A CERTAIN HOUSE was overrun with Mice. A Cat, discovering this, made
    her way into it and began to catch and eat them one by one. Fearing for
    their lives, the Mice kept themselves close in their holes. The Cat was
    no longer able to get at them and perceived that she must tempt them
    forth by some device. For this purpose she jumped upon a peg, and
    suspending herself from it, pretended to be dead. One of the Mice,
    peeping stealthily out, saw her and said, “Ah, my good madam, even
    though you should turn into a meal-bag, we will not come near you.”

    The Mouse and the Bull

    A BULL was bitten by a Mouse and, angered by the wound, tried to
    capture him. But the Mouse reached his hole in safety. Though the Bull
    dug into the walls with his horns, he tired before he could rout out
    the Mouse, and crouching down, went to sleep outside the hole. The
    Mouse peeped out, crept furtively up his flank, and again biting him,
    retreated to his hole. The Bull rising up, and not knowing what to do,
    was sadly perplexed. At which the Mouse said, “The great do not always
    prevail. There are times when the small and lowly are the strongest to
    do mischief.”

    The Dog and the Cook

    A RICH MAN gave a great feast, to which he invited many friends and
    acquaintances. His Dog availed himself of the occasion to invite a
    stranger Dog, a friend of his, saying, “My master gives a feast, and
    there is always much food remaining; come and sup with me tonight.” The
    Dog thus invited went at the hour appointed, and seeing the
    preparations for so grand an entertainment, said in the joy of his
    heart, “How glad I am that I came! I do not often get such a chance as
    this. I will take care and eat enough to last me both today and
    tomorrow.” While he was congratulating himself and wagging his tail to
    convey his pleasure to his friend, the Cook saw him moving about among
    his dishes and, seizing him by his fore and hind paws, bundled him
    without ceremony out of the window. He fell with force upon the ground
    and limped away, howling dreadfully. His yelling soon attracted other
    street dogs, who came up to him and inquired how he had enjoyed his
    supper. He replied, “Why, to tell you the truth, I drank so much wine
    that I remember nothing. I do not know how I got out of the house.”

    The Thieves and the Cock

    SOME THIEVES broke into a house and found nothing but a Cock, whom they
    stole, and got off as fast as they could. Upon arriving at home they
    prepared to kill the Cock, who thus pleaded for his life: “Pray spare
    me; I am very serviceable to men. I wake them up in the night to their
    work.” “That is the very reason why we must the more kill you,” they
    replied; “for when you wake your neighbors, you entirely put an end to
    our business.”

    The safeguards of virtue are hateful to those with evil intentions.

    The Dancing Monkeys

    A PRINCE had some Monkeys trained to dance. Being naturally great
    mimics of men’s actions, they showed themselves most apt pupils, and
    when arrayed in their rich clothes and masks, they danced as well as
    any of the courtiers. The spectacle was often repeated with great
    applause, till on one occasion a courtier, bent on mischief, took from
    his pocket a handful of nuts and threw them upon the stage. The Monkeys
    at the sight of the nuts forgot their dancing and became (as indeed
    they were) Monkeys instead of actors. Pulling off their masks and
    tearing their robes, they fought with one another for the nuts. The
    dancing spectacle thus came to an end amidst the laughter and ridicule
    of the audience.

    The Farmer and the Fox

    A FARMER, who bore a grudge against a Fox for robbing his poultry yard,
    caught him at last, and being determined to take an ample revenge, tied
    some rope well soaked in oil to his tail, and set it on fire. The Fox
    by a strange fatality rushed to the fields of the Farmer who had
    captured him. It was the time of the wheat harvest; but the Farmer
    reaped nothing that year and returned home grieving sorely.

    The Traveler and Fortune

    A TRAVELER wearied from a long journey lay down, overcome with fatigue,
    on the very brink of a deep well. Just as he was about to fall into the
    water, Dame Fortune, it is said, appeared to him and waking him from
    his slumber thus addressed him: “Good Sir, pray wake up: for if you
    fall into the well, the blame will be thrown on me, and I shall get an
    ill name among mortals; for I find that men are sure to impute their
    calamities to me, however much by their own folly they have really
    brought them on themselves.”

    Everyone is more or less master of his own fate.

    The Seagull and the Kite

    A SEAGULL having bolted down too large a fish, burst its deep
    gullet-bag and lay down on the shore to die. A Kite saw him and
    exclaimed: “You richly deserve your fate; for a bird of the air has no
    business to seek its food from the sea.”

    Every man should be content to mind his own business.

    The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox

    A LION and a Bear seized a Kid at the same moment, and fought fiercely
    for its possession. When they had fearfully lacerated each other and
    were faint from the long combat, they lay down exhausted with fatigue.
    A Fox, who had gone round them at a distance several times, saw them
    both stretched on the ground with the Kid lying untouched in the
    middle. He ran in between them, and seizing the Kid scampered off as
    fast as he could. The Lion and the Bear saw him, but not being able to
    get up, said, “Woe be to us, that we should have fought and belabored
    ourselves only to serve the turn of a Fox.”

    It sometimes happens that one man has all the toil, and another all the
    profit.

    The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury

    A PHILOSOPHER witnessed from the shore the shipwreck of a vessel, of
    which the crew and passengers were all drowned. He inveighed against
    the injustice of Providence, which would for the sake of one criminal
    perchance sailing in the ship allow so many innocent persons to perish.
    As he was indulging in these reflections, he found himself surrounded
    by a whole army of Ants, near whose nest he was standing. One of them
    climbed up and stung him, and he immediately trampled them all to death
    with his foot. Mercury presented himself, and striking the Philosopher
    with his wand, said, “And are you indeed to make yourself a judge of
    the dealings of Providence, who hast thyself in a similar manner
    treated these poor Ants?”

    The Peasant and the Eagle

    A PEASANT found an Eagle captured in a trap, and much admiring the
    bird, set him free. The Eagle did not prove ungrateful to his
    deliverer, for seeing the Peasant sitting under a wall which was not
    safe, he flew toward him and with his talons snatched a bundle from his
    head. When the Peasant rose in pursuit, the Eagle let the bundle fall
    again. Taking it up, the man returned to the same place, to find that
    the wall under which he had been sitting had fallen to pieces; and he
    marveled at the service rendered him by the Eagle.

    The Fox and the Leopard

    THE FOX and the Leopard disputed which was the more beautiful of the
    two. The Leopard exhibited one by one the various spots which decorated
    his skin. But the Fox, interrupting him, said, “And how much more
    beautiful than you am I, who am decorated, not in body, but in mind.”

    The Lion and the Hare

    A LION came across a Hare, who was fast asleep. He was just in the act
    of seizing her, when a fine young Hart trotted by, and he left the Hare
    to follow him. The Hare, scared by the noise, awoke and scudded away.
    The Lion was unable after a long chase to catch the Hart, and returned
    to feed upon the Hare. On finding that the Hare also had run off, he
    said, “I am rightly served, for having let go of the food that I had in
    my hand for the chance of obtaining more.”

    The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter

    A VERY POOR MAN, a Carpenter by trade, had a wooden image of Mercury,
    before which he made offerings day by day, and begged the idol to make
    him rich, but in spite of his entreaties he became poorer and poorer.
    At last, being very angry, he took his image down from its pedestal and
    dashed it against the wall. When its head was knocked off, out came a
    stream of gold, which the Carpenter quickly picked up and said, “Well,
    I think thou art altogether contradictory and unreasonable; for when I
    paid you honour, I reaped no benefits: but now that I maltreat you I am
    loaded with an abundance of riches.”

    The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass

    THE LION, the Fox and the Ass entered into an agreement to assist each
    other in the chase. Having secured a large booty, the Lion on their
    return from the forest asked the Ass to allot his due portion to each
    of the three partners in the treaty. The Ass carefully divided the
    spoil into three equal shares and modestly requested the two others to
    make the first choice. The Lion, bursting out into a great rage,
    devoured the Ass. Then he requested the Fox to do him the favour to
    make a division. The Fox accumulated all that they had killed into one
    large heap and left to himself the smallest possible morsel. The Lion
    said, “Who has taught you, my very excellent fellow, the art of
    division? You are perfect to a fraction.” He replied, “I learned it
    from the Ass, by witnessing his fate.”

    Happy is the man who learns from the misfortunes of others.

    The Bull and the Goat

    A BULL, escaping from a Lion, hid in a cave which some shepherds had
    recently occupied. As soon as he entered, a He-Goat left in the cave
    sharply attacked him with his horns. The Bull quietly addressed him:
    “Butt away as much as you will. I have no fear of you, but of the Lion.
    Let that monster go away and I will soon let you know what is the
    respective strength of a Goat and a Bull.”

    It shows an evil disposition to take advantage of a friend in distress.

    The Bald Knight

    A BALD KNIGHT, who wore a wig, went out to hunt. A sudden puff of wind
    blew off his hat and wig, at which a loud laugh rang forth from his
    companions. He pulled up his horse, and with great glee joined in the
    joke by saying, “What a marvel it is that hairs which are not mine
    should fly from me, when they have forsaken even the man on whose head
    they grew.”

    The Oaks and Jupiter

    THE OAKS presented a complaint to Jupiter, saying, “We bear for no
    purpose the burden of life, as of all the trees that grow we are the
    most continually in peril of the axe.” Jupiter made answer: “You have
    only to thank yourselves for the misfortunes to which you are exposed:
    for if you did not make such excellent pillars and posts, and prove
    yourselves so serviceable to the carpenters and the farmers, the axe
    would not so frequently be laid to your roots.”

    The Monkeys and Their Mother

    THE MONKEY, it is said, has two young ones at each birth. The Mother
    fondles one and nurtures it with the greatest affection and care, but
    hates and neglects the other. It happened once that the young one which
    was caressed and loved was smothered by the too great affection of the
    Mother, while the despised one was nurtured and reared in spite of the
    neglect to which it was exposed.

    The best intentions will not always ensure success.

    The Hare and the Hound

    A HOUND started a Hare from his lair, but after a long run, gave up the
    chase. A goat-herd seeing him stop, mocked him, saying “The little one
    is the best runner of the two.” The Hound replied, “You do not see the
    difference between us: I was only running for a dinner, but he for his
    life.”

    The Shepherd and the Dog

    A SHEPHERD penning his sheep in the fold for the night was about to
    shut up a wolf with them, when his Dog perceiving the wolf said,
    “Master, how can you expect the sheep to be safe if you admit a wolf
    into the fold?”

    The Oak and the Woodcutters

    THE WOODCUTTER cut down a Mountain Oak and split it in pieces, making
    wedges of its own branches for dividing the trunk. The Oak said with a
    sigh, “I do not care about the blows of the axe aimed at my roots, but
    I do grieve at being torn in pieces by these wedges made from my own
    branches.”

    Misfortunes springing from ourselves are the hardest to bear.

    The Wasp and the Snake

    A WASP seated himself upon the head of a Snake and, striking him
    unceasingly with his stings, wounded him to death. The Snake, being in
    great torment and not knowing how to rid himself of his enemy, saw a
    wagon heavily laden with wood, and went and purposely placed his head
    under the wheels, saying, “At least my enemy and I shall perish
    together.”

    The Peacock and the Crane

    A PEACOCK spreading its gorgeous tail mocked a Crane that passed by,
    ridiculing the ashen hue of its plumage and saying, “I am robed, like a
    king, in gold and purple and all the colors of the rainbow; while you
    have not a bit of color on your wings.” “True,” replied the Crane; “but
    I soar to the heights of heaven and lift up my voice to the stars,
    while you walk below, like a cock, among the birds of the dunghill.”

    Fine feathers don’t make fine birds.

    The Hen and the Golden Eggs

    A COTTAGER and his wife had a Hen that laid a golden egg every day.
    They supposed that the Hen must contain a great lump of gold in its
    inside, and in order to get the gold they killed it. Having done so,
    they found to their surprise that the Hen differed in no respect from
    their other hens. The foolish pair, thus hoping to become rich all at
    once, deprived themselves of the gain of which they were assured day by
    day.

    The Ass and the Frogs

    AN ASS, carrying a load of wood, passed through a pond. As he was
    crossing through the water he lost his footing, stumbled and fell, and
    not being able to rise on account of his load, groaned heavily. Some
    Frogs frequenting the pool heard his lamentation, and said, “What would
    you do if you had to live here always as we do, when you make such a
    fuss about a mere fall into the water?”

    Men often bear little grievances with less courage than they do large
    misfortunes.

    The Crow and the Raven

    A CROW was jealous of the Raven, because he was considered a bird of
    good omen and always attracted the attention of men, who noted by his
    flight the good or evil course of future events. Seeing some travelers
    approaching, the Crow flew up into a tree, and perching herself on one
    of the branches, cawed as loudly as she could. The travelers turned
    towards the sound and wondered what it foreboded, when one of them said
    to his companion, “Let us proceed on our journey, my friend, for it is
    only the caw of a crow, and her cry, you know, is no omen.”

    Those who assume a character which does not belong to them, only make
    themselves ridiculous.

    The Trees and the Axe

    A MAN came into a forest and asked the Trees to provide him a handle
    for his axe. The Trees consented to his request and gave him a young
    ash-tree. No sooner had the man fitted a new handle to his axe from it,
    than he began to use it and quickly felled with his strokes the noblest
    giants of the forest. An old oak, lamenting when too late the
    destruction of his companions, said to a neighboring cedar, “The first
    step has lost us all. If we had not given up the rights of the ash, we
    might yet have retained our own privileges and have stood for ages.”

    The Wolves and the Sheepdogs

    THE WOLVES thus addressed the Sheepdogs: “Why should you, who are like
    us in so many things, not be entirely of one mind with us, and live
    with us as brothers should? We differ from you in one point only. We
    live in freedom, but you bow down to and slave for men, who in return
    for your services flog you with whips and put collars on your necks.
    They make you also guard their sheep, and while they eat the mutton
    throw only the bones to you. If you will be persuaded by us, you will
    give us the sheep, and we will enjoy them in common, till we all are
    surfeited.” The Dogs listened favourably to these proposals, and,
    entering the den of the Wolves, they were set upon and torn to pieces.

    The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter

    A BULL finding a lion’s cub asleep gored him to death with his horns.
    The Lioness came up, and bitterly lamented the death of her whelp. A
    wild-boar Hunter, seeing her distress, stood at a distance and said to
    her, “Think how many men there are who have reason to lament the loss
    of their children, whose deaths have been caused by you.”

    The Bowman and Lion

    A VERY SKILLFUL BOWMAN went to the mountains in search of game, but all
    the beasts of the forest fled at his approach. The Lion alone
    challenged him to combat. The Bowman immediately shot out an arrow and
    said to the Lion: “I send thee my messenger, that from him thou mayest
    learn what I myself shall be when I assail thee.” The wounded Lion
    rushed away in great fear, and when a Fox who had seen it all happen
    told him to be of good courage and not to back off at the first attack
    he replied: “You counsel me in vain; for if he sends so fearful a
    messenger, how shall I abide the attack of the man himself?”

    Be on guard against men who can strike from a distance.

    The Camel

    WHEN MAN first saw the Camel, he was so frightened at his vast size
    that he ran away. After a time, perceiving the meekness and gentleness
    of the beast’s temper, he summoned courage enough to approach him. Soon
    afterwards, observing that he was an animal altogether deficient in
    spirit, he assumed such boldness as to put a bridle in his mouth, and
    to let a child drive him.

    Use serves to overcome dread.

    The Crab and the Fox

    A CRAB, forsaking the seashore, chose a neighboring green meadow as its
    feeding ground. A Fox came across him, and being very hungry ate him
    up. Just as he was on the point of being eaten, the Crab said, “I well
    deserve my fate, for what business had I on the land, when by my nature
    and habits I am only adapted for the sea?”

    Contentment with our lot is an element of happiness.

    The Ass and the Old Shepherd

    A SHEPHERD, watching his Ass feeding in a meadow, was alarmed all of a
    sudden by the cries of the enemy. He appealed to the Ass to fly with
    him, lest they should both be captured, but the animal lazily replied,
    “Why should I, pray? Do you think it likely the conqueror will place on
    me two sets of panniers?” “No,” rejoined the Shepherd. “Then,” said the
    Ass, “as long as I carry the panniers, what matters it to me whom I
    serve?”

    In a change of government the poor change nothing beyond the name of
    their master.

    The Fox and the Hedgehog

    A FOX swimming across a rapid river was carried by the force of the
    current into a very deep ravine, where he lay for a long time very much
    bruised, sick, and unable to move. A swarm of hungry blood-sucking
    flies settled upon him. A Hedgehog, passing by, saw his anguish and
    inquired if he should drive away the flies that were tormenting him.
    “By no means,” replied the Fox; “pray do not molest them.” “How is
    this?” said the Hedgehog; “do you not want to be rid of them?” “No,”
    returned the Fox, “for these flies which you see are full of blood, and
    sting me but little, and if you rid me of these which are already
    satiated, others more hungry will come in their place, and will drink
    up all the blood I have left.”

    The Woman and Her Hen

    A WOMAN possessed a Hen that gave her an egg every day. She often
    pondered how she might obtain two eggs daily instead of one, and at
    last, to gain her purpose, determined to give the Hen a double
    allowance of barley. From that day the Hen became fat and sleek, and
    never once laid another egg.

    The Kites and the Swans

    TEE KITES of olden times, as well as the Swans, had the privilege of
    song. But having heard the neigh of the horse, they were so enchanted
    with the sound, that they tried to imitate it; and, in trying to neigh,
    they forgot how to sing.

    The desire for imaginary benefits often involves the loss of present
    blessings.

    The Dog and the Hare

    A HOUND having started a Hare on the hillside pursued her for some
    distance, at one time biting her with his teeth as if he would take her
    life, and at another fawning upon her, as if in play with another dog.
    The Hare said to him, “I wish you would act sincerely by me, and show
    yourself in your true colors. If you are a friend, why do you bite me
    so hard? If an enemy, why do you fawn on me?”

    No one can be a friend if you know not whether to trust or distrust
    him.

    The Hares and the Foxes

    THE HARES waged war with the Eagles, and called upon the Foxes to help
    them. They replied, “We would willingly have helped you, if we had not
    known who you were, and with whom you were fighting.”

    Count the cost before you commit yourselves.

    The Bull and the Calf

    A BULL was striving with all his might to squeeze himself through a
    narrow passage which led to his stall. A young Calf came up, and
    offered to go before and show him the way by which he could manage to
    pass. “Save yourself the trouble,” said the Bull; “I knew that way long
    before you were born.”

    The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep

    A STAG asked a Sheep to lend him a measure of wheat, and said that the
    Wolf would be his surety. The Sheep, fearing some fraud was intended,
    excused herself, saying, “The Wolf is accustomed to seize what he wants
    and to run off; and you, too, can quickly outstrip me in your rapid
    flight. How then shall I be able to find you, when the day of payment
    comes?”

    Two blacks do not make one white.

    The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow

    AN EAGLE made her nest at the top of a lofty oak; a Cat, having found a
    convenient hole, moved into the middle of the trunk; and a Wild Sow,
    with her young, took shelter in a hollow at its foot. The Cat cunningly
    resolved to destroy this chance-made colony. To carry out her design,
    she climbed to the nest of the Eagle, and said, “Destruction is
    preparing for you, and for me too, unfortunately. The Wild Sow, whom
    you see daily digging up the earth, wishes to uproot the oak, so she
    may on its fall seize our families as food for her young.” Having thus
    frightened the Eagle out of her senses, she crept down to the cave of
    the Sow, and said, “Your children are in great danger; for as soon as
    you go out with your litter to find food, the Eagle is prepared to
    pounce upon one of your little pigs.” Having instilled these fears into
    the Sow, she went and pretended to hide herself in the hollow of the
    tree. When night came she went forth with silent foot and obtained food
    for herself and her kittens, but feigning to be afraid, she kept a
    lookout all through the day. Meanwhile, the Eagle, full of fear of the
    Sow, sat still on the branches, and the Sow, terrified by the Eagle,
    did not dare to go out from her cave. And thus they both, along with
    their families, perished from hunger, and afforded ample provision for
    the Cat and her kittens.

    The Wolf and the Fox

    AT ONE TIME a very large and strong Wolf was born among the wolves, who
    exceeded all his fellow-wolves in strength, size, and swiftness, so
    that they unanimously decided to call him “Lion.” The Wolf, with a lack
    of sense proportioned to his enormous size, thought that they gave him
    this name in earnest, and, leaving his own race, consorted exclusively
    with the lions. An old sly Fox, seeing this, said, “May I never make
    myself so ridiculous as you do in your pride and self-conceit; for even
    though you have the size of a lion among wolves, in a herd of lions you
    are definitely a wolf.”

    The Mule

    A MULE, frolicsome from lack of work and from too much corn, galloped
    about in a very extravagant manner, and said to himself: “My father
    surely was a high-mettled racer, and I am his own child in speed and
    spirit.” On the next day, being driven a long journey, and feeling very
    wearied, he exclaimed in a disconsolate tone: “I must have made a
    mistake; my father, after all, could have been only an ass.”

    The Prophet

    A WIZARD, sitting in the marketplace, was telling the fortunes of the
    passers-by when a person ran up in great haste, and announced to him
    that the doors of his house had been broken open and that all his goods
    were being stolen. He sighed heavily and hastened away as fast as he
    could run. A neighbor saw him running and said, “Oh! you fellow there!
    you say you can foretell the fortunes of others; how is it you did not
    foresee your own?”

    The Two Frogs

    TWO FROGS were neighbors. One inhabited a deep pond, far removed from
    public view; the other lived in a gully containing little water, and
    traversed by a country road. The Frog that lived in the pond warned his
    friend to change his residence and entreated him to come and live with
    him, saying that he would enjoy greater safety from danger and more
    abundant food. The other refused, saying that he felt it so very hard
    to leave a place to which he had become accustomed. A few days
    afterwards a heavy wagon passed through the gully and crushed him to
    death under its wheels.

    A willful man will have his way to his own hurt.

    The Serpent and the Eagle

    A SERPENT and an Eagle were struggling with each other in deadly
    conflict. The Serpent had the advantage, and was about to strangle the
    bird. A countryman saw them, and running up, loosed the coil of the
    Serpent and let the Eagle go free. The Serpent, irritated at the escape
    of his prey, injected his poison into the drinking horn of the
    countryman. The rustic, ignorant of his danger, was about to drink,
    when the Eagle struck his hand with his wing, and, seizing the drinking
    horn in his talons, carried it aloft.

    The Crow and the Pitcher

    A CROW perishing with thirst saw a pitcher, and hoping to find water,
    flew to it with delight. When he reached it, he discovered to his grief
    that it contained so little water that he could not possibly get at it.
    He tried everything he could think of to reach the water, but all his
    efforts were in vain. At last he collected as many stones as he could
    carry and dropped them one by one with his beak into the pitcher, until
    he brought the water within his reach and thus saved his life.

    Necessity is the mother of invention.

    The Thief and the Innkeeper

    A THIEF hired a room in a tavern and stayed a while in the hope of
    stealing something which should enable him to pay his reckoning. When
    he had waited some days in vain, he saw the Innkeeper dressed in a new
    and handsome coat and sitting before his door. The Thief sat down
    beside him and talked with him. As the conversation began to flag, the
    Thief yawned terribly and at the same time howled like a wolf. The
    Innkeeper said, “Why do you howl so fearfully?” “I will tell you,” said
    the Thief, “but first let me ask you to hold my clothes, or I shall
    tear them to pieces. I know not, sir, when I got this habit of yawning,
    nor whether these attacks of howling were inflicted on me as a judgment
    for my crimes, or for any other cause; but this I do know, that when I
    yawn for the third time, I actually turn into a wolf and attack men.”
    With this speech he commenced a second fit of yawning and again howled
    like a wolf, as he had at first. The Innkeeper, hearing his tale and
    believing what he said, became greatly alarmed and, rising from his
    seat, attempted to run away. The Thief laid hold of his coat and
    entreated him to stop, saying, “Pray wait, sir, and hold my clothes, or
    I shall tear them to pieces in my fury, when I turn into a wolf.” At
    the same moment he yawned the third time and set up a terrible howl.
    The Innkeeper, frightened lest he should be attacked, left his new coat
    in the Thief’s hand and ran as fast as he could into the inn for
    safety. The Thief made off with the coat and did not return again to
    the inn.

    Every tale is not to be believed.

    The Hart and the Vine

    A HART, hard pressed in the chase, hid himself beneath the large leaves
    of a Vine. The huntsmen, in their haste, overshot the place of his
    concealment. Supposing all danger to have passed, the Hart began to
    nibble the tendrils of the Vine. One of the huntsmen, attracted by the
    rustling of the leaves, looked back, and seeing the Hart, shot an arrow
    from his bow and struck it. The Hart, at the point of death, groaned:
    “I am rightly served, for I should not have maltreated the Vine that
    saved me.”

    The Gnat and the Lion

    A GNAT came and said to a Lion, “I do not in the least fear you, nor
    are you stronger than I am. For in what does your strength consist? You
    can scratch with your claws and bite with your teeth an a woman in her
    quarrels. I repeat that I am altogether more powerful than you; and if
    you doubt it, let us fight and see who will conquer.” The Gnat, having
    sounded his horn, fastened himself upon the Lion and stung him on the
    nostrils and the parts of the face devoid of hair. While trying to
    crush him, the Lion tore himself with his claws, until he punished
    himself severely. The Gnat thus prevailed over the Lion, and, buzzing
    about in a song of triumph, flew away. But shortly afterwards he became
    entangled in the meshes of a cobweb and was eaten by a spider. He
    greatly lamented his fate, saying, “Woe is me! that I, who can wage war
    successfully with the hugest beasts, should perish myself from this
    spider, the most inconsiderable of insects!”

    The Fox and the Grapes

    A FAMISHED FOX saw some clusters of ripe black grapes hanging from a
    trellised vine. She resorted to all her tricks to get at them, but
    wearied herself in vain, for she could not reach them. At last she
    turned away, hiding her disappointment and saying: “The Grapes are
    sour, and not ripe as I thought.”

    The Walnut-Tree

    A WALNUT TREE standing by the roadside bore an abundant crop of fruit.
    For the sake of the nuts, the passers-by broke its branches with stones
    and sticks. The Walnut-Tree piteously exclaimed, “O wretched me! that
    those whom I cheer with my fruit should repay me with these painful
    requitals!”

    The Kid and the Wolf

    A KID, returning without protection from the pasture, was pursued by a
    Wolf. Seeing he could not escape, he turned round, and said: “I know,
    friend Wolf, that I must be your prey, but before I die I would ask of
    you one favour you will play me a tune to which I may dance.” The Wolf
    complied, and while he was piping and the Kid was dancing, some hounds
    hearing the sound ran up and began chasing the Wolf. Turning to the
    Kid, he said, “It is just what I deserve; for I, who am only a butcher,
    should not have turned piper to please you.”

    The Monkey and the Dolphin

    A SAILOR, bound on a long voyage, took with him a Monkey to amuse him
    while on shipboard. As he sailed off the coast of Greece, a violent
    tempest arose in which the ship was wrecked and he, his Monkey, and all
    the crew were obliged to swim for their lives. A Dolphin saw the Monkey
    contending with the waves, and supposing him to be a man (whom he is
    always said to befriend), came and placed himself under him, to convey
    him on his back in safety to the shore. When the Dolphin arrived with
    his burden in sight of land not far from Athens, he asked the Monkey if
    he were an Athenian. The latter replied that he was, and that he was
    descended from one of the most noble families in that city. The Dolphin
    then inquired if he knew the Piræus (the famous harbor of Athens).
    Supposing that a man was meant, the Monkey answered that he knew him
    very well and that he was an intimate friend. The Dolphin, indignant at
    these falsehoods, dipped the Monkey under the water and drowned him.

    The Horse and the Stag

    AT ONE TIME the Horse had the plain entirely to himself. Then a Stag
    intruded into his domain and shared his pasture. The Horse, desiring to
    revenge himself on the stranger, asked a man if he were willing to help
    him in punishing the Stag. The man replied that if the Horse would
    receive a bit in his mouth and agree to carry him, he would contrive
    effective weapons against the Stag. The Horse consented and allowed the
    man to mount him. From that hour he found that instead of obtaining
    revenge on the Stag, he had enslaved himself to the service of man.

    The Jackdaw and the Doves

    A JACKDAW, seeing some Doves in a cote abundantly provided with food,
    painted himself white and joined them in order to share their plentiful
    maintenance. The Doves, as long as he was silent, supposed him to be
    one of themselves and admitted him to their cote. But when one day he
    forgot himself and began to chatter, they discovered his true character
    and drove him forth, pecking him with their beaks. Failing to obtain
    food among the Doves, he returned to the Jackdaws. They too, not
    recognizing him on account of his color, expelled him from living with
    them. So desiring two ends, he obtained neither.

    The Fox and the Monkey

    A FOX and a Monkey were traveling together on the same road. As they
    journeyed, they passed through a cemetery full of monuments. “All these
    monuments which you see,” said the Monkey, “are erected in honour of my
    ancestors, who were in their day freedmen and citizens of great
    renown.” The Fox replied, “You have chosen a most appropriate subject
    for your falsehoods, as I am sure none of your ancestors will be able
    to contradict you.”

    A false tale often betrays itself.

    The Man and His Wife

    A MAN had a Wife who made herself hated by all the members of his
    household. Wishing to find out if she had the same effect on the
    persons in her father’s house, he made some excuse to send her home on
    a visit to her father. After a short time she returned, and when he
    inquired how she had got on and how the servants had treated her, she
    replied, “The herdsmen and shepherds cast on me looks of aversion.” He
    said, “O Wife, if you were disliked by those who go out early in the
    morning with their flocks and return late in the evening, what must
    have been felt towards you by those with whom you passed the whole
    day!”

    Straws show how the wind blows.

    The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog

    A HORSE, Ox, and Dog, driven to great straits by the cold, sought
    shelter and protection from Man. He received them kindly, lighted a
    fire, and warmed them. He let the Horse make free with his oats, gave
    the Ox an abundance of hay, and fed the Dog with meat from his own
    table. Grateful for these favours, the animals determined to repay him
    to the best of their ability. For this purpose, they divided the term
    of his life between them, and each endowed one portion of it with the
    qualities which chiefly characterized himself. The Horse chose his
    earliest years and gave them his own attributes: hence every man is in
    his youth impetuous, headstrong, and obstinate in maintaining his own
    opinion. The Ox took under his patronage the next term of life, and
    therefore man in his middle age is fond of work, devoted to labor, and
    resolute to amass wealth and to husband his resources. The end of life
    was reserved for the Dog, wherefore the old man is often snappish,
    irritable, hard to please, and selfish, tolerant only of his own
    household, but averse to strangers and to all who do not administer to
    his comfort or to his necessities.

    The Thief and the Housedog

    A THIEF came in the night to break into a house. He brought with him
    several slices of meat in order to pacify the Housedog, so that he
    would not alarm his master by barking. As the Thief threw him the
    pieces of meat, the Dog said, “If you think to stop my mouth, you will
    be greatly mistaken. This sudden kindness at your hands will only make
    me more watchful, lest under these unexpected favours to myself, you
    have some private ends to accomplish for your own benefit, and for my
    master’s injury.”

    The Apes and the Two Travelers

    TWO MEN, one who always spoke the truth and the other who told nothing
    but lies, were traveling together and by chance came to the land of
    Apes. One of the Apes, who had raised himself to be king, commanded
    them to be seized and brought before him, that he might know what was
    said of him among men. He ordered at the same time that all the Apes be
    arranged in a long row on his right hand and on his left, and that a
    throne be placed for him, as was the custom among men. After these
    preparations he signified that the two men should be brought before
    him, and greeted them with this salutation: “What sort of a king do I
    seem to you to be, O strangers?” The Lying Traveler replied, “You seem
    to me a most mighty king.” “And what is your estimate of those you see
    around me?” “These,” he made answer, “are worthy companions of
    yourself, fit at least to be ambassadors and leaders of armies.” The
    Ape and all his court, gratified with the lie, commanded that a
    handsome present be given to the flatterer. On this the truthful
    Traveler thought to himself, “If so great a reward be given for a lie,
    with what gift may not I be rewarded, if, according to my custom, I
    tell the truth?” The Ape quickly turned to him. “And pray how do I and
    these my friends around me seem to you?” “Thou art,” he said, “a most
    excellent Ape, and all these thy companions after thy example are
    excellent Apes too.” The King of the Apes, enraged at hearing these
    truths, gave him over to the teeth and claws of his companions.

    The Fox and the Lion

    WHEN A FOX who had never yet seen a Lion, fell in with him by chance
    for the first time in the forest, he was so frightened that he nearly
    died with fear. On meeting him for the second time, he was still much
    alarmed, but not to the same extent as at first. On seeing him the
    third time, he so increased in boldness that he went up to him and
    commenced a familiar conversation with him.

    Acquaintance softens prejudices.

    The Weasel and the Mice

    A WEASEL, inactive from age and infirmities, was not able to catch mice
    as he once did. He therefore rolled himself in flour and lay down in a
    dark corner. A Mouse, supposing him to be food, leaped upon him, and
    was instantly caught and squeezed to death. Another perished in a
    similar manner, and then a third, and still others after them. A very
    old Mouse, who had escaped many a trap and snare, observed from a safe
    distance the trick of his crafty foe and said, “Ah! you that lie there,
    may you prosper just in the same proportion as you are what you pretend
    to be!”

    The Boy Bathing

    A BOY bathing in a river was in danger of being drowned. He called out
    to a passing traveler for help, but instead of holding out a helping
    hand, the man stood by unconcernedly, and scolded the boy for his
    imprudence. “Oh, sir!” cried the youth, “pray help me now and scold me
    afterwards.”

    Counsel without help is useless.

    The Peacock and Juno

    THE PEACOCK made complaint to Juno that, while the nightingale pleased
    every ear with his song, he himself no sooner opened his mouth than he
    became a laughingstock to all who heard him. The Goddess, to console
    him, said, “But you far excel in beauty and in size. The splendor of
    the emerald shines in your neck and you unfold a tail gorgeous with
    painted plumage.” “But for what purpose have I,” said the bird, “this
    dumb beauty so long as I am surpassed in song?” “The lot of each,”
    replied Juno, “has been assigned by the will of the Fates—to thee,
    beauty; to the eagle, strength; to the nightingale, song; to the raven,
    favourable, and to the crow, unfavourable auguries. These are all
    contented with the endowments allotted to them.”

    The Wolf and the Shepherd

    A WOLF followed a flock of sheep for a long time and did not attempt to
    injure one of them. The Shepherd at first stood on his guard against
    him, as against an enemy, and kept a strict watch over his movements.
    But when the Wolf, day after day, kept in the company of the sheep and
    did not make the slightest effort to seize them, the Shepherd began to
    look upon him as a guardian of his flock rather than as a plotter of
    evil against it; and when occasion called him one day into the city, he
    left the sheep entirely in his charge. The Wolf, now that he had the
    opportunity, fell upon the sheep, and destroyed the greater part of the
    flock. When the Shepherd returned to find his flock destroyed, he
    exclaimed: “I have been rightly served; why did I trust my sheep to a
    Wolf?”

    The Hares and the Lions

    THE HARES harangued the assembly, and argued that all should be equal.
    The Lions made this reply: “Your words, O Hares! are good; but they
    lack both claws and teeth such as we have.”

    The Seller of Images

    A CERTAIN MAN made a wooden image of Mercury and offered it for sale.
    When no one appeared willing to buy it, in order to attract purchasers,
    he cried out that he had the statue to sell of a benefactor who
    bestowed wealth and helped to heap up riches. One of the bystanders
    said to him, “My good fellow, why do you sell him, being such a one as
    you describe, when you may yourself enjoy the good things he has to
    give?” “Why,” he replied, “I am in need of immediate help, and he is
    wont to give his good gifts very slowly.”

    The Hawk and the Nightingale

    A NIGHTINGALE, sitting aloft upon an oak and singing according to his
    wont, was seen by a Hawk who, being in need of food, swooped down and
    seized him. The Nightingale, about to lose his life, earnestly begged
    the Hawk to let him go, saying that he was not big enough to satisfy
    the hunger of a Hawk who, if he wanted food, ought to pursue the larger
    birds. The Hawk, interrupting him, said: “I should indeed have lost my
    senses if I should let go food ready in my hand, for the sake of
    pursuing birds which are not yet even within sight.”

    The Lark and Her Young Ones

    A LARK had made her nest in the early spring on the young green wheat.
    The brood had almost grown to their full strength and attained the use
    of their wings and the full plumage of their feathers, when the owner
    of the field, looking over his ripe crop, said, “The time has come when
    I must ask all my neighbors to help me with my harvest.” One of the
    young Larks heard his speech and related it to his mother, inquiring of
    her to what place they should move for safety. “There is no occasion to
    move yet, my son,” she replied; “the man who only sends to his friends
    to help him with his harvest is not really in earnest.” The owner of
    the field came again a few days later and saw the wheat shedding the
    grain from excess of ripeness. He said, “I will come myself tomorrow
    with my laborers, and with as many reapers as I can hire, and will get
    in the harvest.” The Lark on hearing these words said to her brood, “It
    is time now to be off, my little ones, for the man is in earnest this
    time; he no longer trusts his friends, but will reap the field
    himself.”

    Self-help is the best help.

    The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox

    A DOG and a Cock being great friends, agreed to travel together. At
    nightfall they took shelter in a thick wood. The Cock flying up,
    perched himself on the branches of a tree, while the Dog found a bed
    beneath in the hollow trunk. When the morning dawned, the Cock, as
    usual, crowed very loudly several times. A Fox heard the sound, and
    wishing to make a breakfast on him, came and stood under the branches,
    saying how earnestly he desired to make the acquaintance of the owner
    of so magnificent a voice. The Cock, suspecting his civilities, said:
    “Sir, I wish you would do me the favour of going around to the hollow
    trunk below me, and waking my porter, so that he may open the door and
    let you in.” When the Fox approached the tree, the Dog sprang out and
    caught him, and tore him to pieces.

    The Geese and the Cranes

    THE GEESE and the Cranes were feeding in the same meadow, when a
    birdcatcher came to ensnare them in his nets. The Cranes, being light
    of wing, fled away at his approach; while the Geese, being slower of
    flight and heavier in their bodies, were captured.

    The Ass and the Wolf

    AN ASS feeding in a meadow saw a Wolf approaching to seize him, and
    immediately pretended to be lame. The Wolf, coming up, inquired the
    cause of his lameness. The Ass replied that passing through a hedge he
    had trod with his foot upon a sharp thorn. He requested that the Wolf
    pull it out, lest when he ate him it should injure his throat. The Wolf
    consented and lifted up the foot, and was giving his whole mind to the
    discovery of the thorn, when the Ass, with his heels, kicked his teeth
    into his mouth and galloped away. The Wolf, being thus fearfully
    mauled, said, “I am rightly served, for why did I attempt the art of
    healing, when my father only taught me the trade of a butcher?”

    The Goat and the Ass

    A MAN once kept a Goat and an Ass. The Goat, envying the Ass on account
    of his greater abundance of food, said, “How shamefully you are
    treated: at one time grinding in the mill, and at another carrying
    heavy burdens;” and he further advised him to pretend to be epileptic
    and fall into a ditch and so obtain rest. The Ass listened to his
    words, and falling into a ditch, was very much bruised. His master,
    sending for a leech, asked his advice. He bade him pour upon the wounds
    the lungs of a Goat. They at once killed the Goat, and so healed the
    Ass.

    The Lion and the Bull

    A LION, greatly desiring to capture a Bull, and yet afraid to attack
    him on account of his great size, resorted to a trick to ensure his
    destruction. He approached the Bull and said, “I have slain a fine
    sheep, my friend; and if you will come home and partake of him with me,
    I shall be delighted to have your company.” The Lion said this in the
    hope that, as the Bull was in the act of reclining to eat, he might
    attack him to advantage, and make his meal on him. The Bull, on
    approaching the Lion’s den, saw the huge spits and giant caldrons, and
    no sign whatever of the sheep, and, without saying a word, quietly took
    his departure. The Lion inquired why he went off so abruptly without a
    word of salutation to his host, who had not given him any cause for
    offense. “I have reasons enough,” said the Bull. “I see no indication
    whatever of your having slaughtered a sheep, while I do see very
    plainly every preparation for your dining on a bull.”

    The Fox and the Mask

    A FOX entered the house of an actor and, rummaging through all his
    properties, came upon a Mask, an admirable imitation of a human head.
    He placed his paws on it and said, “What a beautiful head! Yet it is of
    no value, as it entirely lacks brains.”

    The Grasshopper and the Owl

    AN OWL, accustomed to feed at night and to sleep during the day, was
    greatly disturbed by the noise of a Grasshopper and earnestly besought
    her to stop chirping. The Grasshopper refused to desist, and chirped
    louder and louder the more the Owl entreated. When she saw that she
    could get no redress and that her words were despised, the Owl attacked
    the chatterer by a stratagem. “Since I cannot sleep,” she said, “on
    account of your song which, believe me, is sweet as the lyre of Apollo,
    I shall indulge myself in drinking some nectar which Pallas lately gave
    me. If you do not dislike it, come to me and we will drink it
    together.” The Grasshopper, who was thirsty, and pleased with the
    praise of her voice, eagerly flew up. The Owl came forth from her
    hollow, seized her, and put her to death.

    The Fowler and the Viper

    A FOWLER, taking his bird-lime and his twigs, went out to catch birds.
    Seeing a thrush sitting upon a tree, he wished to take it, and fitting
    his twigs to a proper length, watched intently, having his whole
    thoughts directed towards the sky. While thus looking upwards, he
    unknowingly trod upon a Viper asleep just before his feet. The Viper,
    turning about, stung him, and falling into a swoon, the man said to
    himself, “Woe is me! that while I purposed to hunt another, I am myself
    fallen unawares into the snares of death.”

    The Horse and the Ass

    A HORSE, proud of his fine trappings, met an Ass on the highway. The
    Ass, being heavily laden, moved slowly out of the way. “Hardly,” said
    the Horse, “can I resist kicking you with my heels.” The Ass held his
    peace, and made only a silent appeal to the justice of the gods. Not
    long afterwards the Horse, having become broken-winded, was sent by his
    owner to the farm. The Ass, seeing him drawing a dungcart, thus derided
    him: “Where, O boaster, are now all thy gay trappings, thou who are
    thyself reduced to the condition you so lately treated with contempt?”

    The Lion and the Three Bulls

    THREE BULLS for a long time pastured together. A Lion lay in ambush in
    the hope of making them his prey, but was afraid to attack them while
    they kept together. Having at last by guileful speeches succeeded in
    separating them, he attacked them without fear as they fed alone, and
    feasted on them one by one at his own leisure.

    Union is strength.

    The Wolf and the Goat

    A WOLF saw a Goat feeding at the summit of a steep precipice, where he
    had no chance of reaching her. He called to her and earnestly begged
    her to come lower down, lest she fall by some mishap; and he added that
    the meadows lay where he was standing, and that the herbage was most
    tender. She replied, “No, my friend, it is not for the pasture that you
    invite me, but for yourself, who are in want of food.”

    The Fly and the Draught-Mule

    A FLY sat on the axle-tree of a chariot, and addressing the
    Draught-Mule said, “How slow you are! Why do you not go faster? See if
    I do not prick your neck with my sting.” The Draught-Mule replied, “I
    do not heed your threats; I only care for him who sits above you, and
    who quickens my pace with his whip, or holds me back with the reins.
    Away, therefore, with your insolence, for I know well when to go fast,
    and when to go slow.”

    The Fishermen

    SOME FISHERMEN were out trawling their nets. Perceiving them to be very
    heavy, they danced about for joy and supposed that they had taken a
    large catch. When they had dragged the nets to the shore they found but
    few fish: the nets were full of sand and stones, and the men were
    beyond measure cast down so much at the disappointment which had
    befallen them, but because they had formed such very different
    expectations. One of their company, an old man, said, “Let us cease
    lamenting, my mates, for, as it seems to me, sorrow is always the twin
    sister of joy; and it was only to be looked for that we, who just now
    were over-rejoiced, should next have something to make us sad.”

    The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse

    A COUNTRY MOUSE invited a Town Mouse, an intimate friend, to pay him a
    visit and partake of his country fare. As they were on the bare
    plowlands, eating there wheat-stocks and roots pulled up from the
    hedgerow, the Town Mouse said to his friend, “You live here the life of
    the ants, while in my house is the horn of plenty. I am surrounded by
    every luxury, and if you will come with me, as I wish you would, you
    shall have an ample share of my dainties.” The Country Mouse was easily
    persuaded, and returned to town with his friend. On his arrival, the
    Town Mouse placed before him bread, barley, beans, dried figs, honey,
    raisins, and, last of all, brought a dainty piece of cheese from a
    basket. The Country Mouse, being much delighted at the sight of such
    good cheer, expressed his satisfaction in warm terms and lamented his
    own hard fate. Just as they were beginning to eat, someone opened the
    door, and they both ran off squeaking, as fast as they could, to a hole
    so narrow that two could only find room in it by squeezing. They had
    scarcely begun their repast again when someone else entered to take
    something out of a cupboard, whereupon the two Mice, more frightened
    than before, ran away and hid themselves. At last the Country Mouse,
    almost famished, said to his friend: “Although you have prepared for me
    so dainty a feast, I must leave you to enjoy it by yourself. It is
    surrounded by too many dangers to please me. I prefer my bare plowlands
    and roots from the hedgerow, where I can live in safety, and without
    fear.”

    The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape

    A WOLF accused a Fox of theft, but the Fox entirely denied the charge.
    An Ape undertook to adjudge the matter between them. When each had
    fully stated his case the Ape announced this sentence: “I do not think
    you, Wolf, ever lost what you claim; and I do believe you, Fox, to have
    stolen what you so stoutly deny.”

    The dishonest, if they act honestly, get no credit.

    The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer

    THE WASPS and the Partridges, overcome with thirst, came to a Farmer
    and besought him to give them some water to drink. They promised amply
    to repay him the favour which they asked. The Partridges declared that
    they would dig around his vines and make them produce finer grapes. The
    Wasps said that they would keep guard and drive off thieves with their
    stings. But the Farmer interrupted them, saying: “I have already two
    oxen, who, without making any promises, do all these things. It is
    surely better for me to give the water to them than to you.”

    The Brother and the Sister

    A FATHER had one son and one daughter, the former remarkable for his
    good looks, the latter for her extraordinary ugliness. While they were
    playing one day as children, they happened by chance to look together
    into a mirror that was placed on their mother’s chair. The boy
    congratulated himself on his good looks; the girl grew angry, and could
    not bear the self-praises of her Brother, interpreting all he said (and
    how could she do otherwise?) into reflection on herself. She ran off to
    her father, to be avenged on her Brother, and spitefully accused him of
    having, as a boy, made use of that which belonged only to girls. The
    father embraced them both, and bestowing his kisses and affection
    impartially on each, said, “I wish you both would look into the mirror
    every day: you, my son, that you may not spoil your beauty by evil
    conduct; and you, my daughter, that you may make up for your lack of
    beauty by your virtues.”

    The Dogs and the Fox

    SOME DOGS, finding the skin of a lion, began to tear it in pieces with
    their teeth. A Fox, seeing them, said, “If this lion were alive, you
    would soon find out that his claws were stronger than your teeth.”

    It is easy to kick a man that is down.

    The Blind Man and the Whelp

    A BLIND MAN was accustomed to distinguishing different animals by
    touching them with his hands. The whelp of a Wolf was brought him, with
    a request that he would feel it, and say what it was. He felt it, and
    being in doubt, said: “I do not quite know whether it is the cub of a
    Fox, or the whelp of a Wolf, but this I know full well. It would not be
    safe to admit him to the sheepfold.”

    Evil tendencies are shown in early life.

    The Cobbler Turned Doctor

    A COBBLER unable to make a living by his trade and made desperate by
    poverty, began to practice medicine in a town in which he was not
    known. He sold a drug, pretending that it was an antidote to all
    poisons, and obtained a great name for himself by long-winded puffs and
    advertisements. When the Cobbler happened to fall sick himself of a
    serious illness, the Governor of the town determined to test his skill.
    For this purpose he called for a cup, and while filling it with water,
    pretended to mix poison with the Cobbler’s antidote, commanding him to
    drink it on the promise of a reward. The Cobbler, under the fear of
    death, confessed that he had no knowledge of medicine, and was only
    made famous by the stupid clamors of the crowd. The Governor then
    called a public assembly and addressed the citizens: “Of what folly
    have you been guilty? You have not hesitated to entrust your heads to a
    man, whom no one could employ to make even the shoes for their feet.”

    The Wolf and the Horse

    A WOLF coming out of a field of oats met a Horse and thus addressed
    him: “I would advise you to go into that field. It is full of fine
    oats, which I have left untouched for you, as you are a friend whom I
    would love to hear enjoying good eating.” The Horse replied, “If oats
    had been the food of wolves, you would never have indulged your ears at
    the cost of your belly.”

    Men of evil reputation, when they perform a good deed, fail to get
    credit for it.

    The Two Men Who Were Enemies

    TWO MEN, deadly enemies to each other, were sailing in the same vessel.
    Determined to keep as far apart as possible, the one seated himself in
    the stem, and the other in the prow of the ship. A violent storm arose,
    and with the vessel in great danger of sinking, the one in the stern
    inquired of the pilot which of the two ends of the ship would go down
    first. On his replying that he supposed it would be the prow, the Man
    said, “Death would not be grievous to me, if I could only see my Enemy
    die before me.”

    The Gamecocks and the Partridge

    A MAN had two Gamecocks in his poultry-yard. One day by chance he found
    a tame Partridge for sale. He purchased it and brought it home to be
    reared with his Gamecocks. When the Partridge was put into the
    poultry-yard, they struck at it and followed it about, so that the
    Partridge became grievously troubled and supposed that he was thus
    evilly treated because he was a stranger. Not long afterwards he saw
    the Cocks fighting together and not separating before one had well
    beaten the other. He then said to himself, “I shall no longer distress
    myself at being struck at by these Gamecocks, when I see that they
    cannot even refrain from quarreling with each other.”

    The Fox and the Lion

    A FOX saw a Lion confined in a cage, and standing near him, bitterly
    reviled him. The Lion said to the Fox, “It is not thou who revilest me;
    but this mischance which has befallen me.”

    The Quack Frog

    A FROG once upon a time came forth from his home in the marsh and
    proclaimed to all the beasts that he was a learned physician, skilled
    in the use of drugs and able to heal all diseases. A Fox asked him,
    “How can you pretend to prescribe for others, when you are unable to
    heal your own lame gait and wrinkled skin?”

    The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox

    A LION, growing old, lay sick in his cave. All the beasts came to visit
    their king, except the Fox. The Wolf therefore, thinking that he had a
    capital opportunity, accused the Fox to the Lion of not paying any
    respect to him who had the rule over them all and of not coming to
    visit him. At that very moment the Fox came in and heard these last
    words of the Wolf. The Lion roaring out in a rage against him, the Fox
    sought an opportunity to defend himself and said, “And who of all those
    who have come to you have benefited you so much as I, who have traveled
    from place to place in every direction, and have sought and learnt from
    the physicians the means of healing you?” The Lion commanded him
    immediately to tell him the cure, when he replied, “You must flay a
    wolf alive and wrap his skin yet warm around you.” The Wolf was at once
    taken and flayed; whereon the Fox, turning to him, said with a smile,
    “You should have moved your master not to ill, but to good, will.”

    The Dog’s House

    IN THE WINTERTIME, a Dog curled up in as small a space as possible on
    account of the cold, determined to make himself a house. However when
    the summer returned again, he lay asleep stretched at his full length
    and appeared to himself to be of a great size. Now he considered that
    it would be neither an easy nor a necessary work to make himself such a
    house as would accommodate him.

    The North Wind and the Sun

    THE NORTH WIND and the Sun disputed as to which was the most powerful,
    and agreed that he should be declared the victor who could first strip
    a wayfaring man of his clothes. The North Wind first tried his power
    and blew with all his might, but the keener his blasts, the closer the
    Traveler wrapped his cloak around him, until at last, resigning all
    hope of victory, the Wind called upon the Sun to see what he could do.
    The Sun suddenly shone out with all his warmth. The Traveler no sooner
    felt his genial rays than he took off one garment after another, and at
    last, fairly overcome with heat, undressed and bathed in a stream that
    lay in his path.

    Persuasion is better than Force.

    The Crow and Mercury

    A CROW caught in a snare prayed to Apollo to release him, making a vow
    to offer some frankincense at his shrine. But when rescued from his
    danger, he forgot his promise. Shortly afterwards, again caught in a
    snare, he passed by Apollo and made the same promise to offer
    frankincense to Mercury. Mercury soon appeared and said to him, “O thou
    most base fellow? how can I believe thee, who hast disowned and wronged
    thy former patron?”

    The Fox and the Crane

    A FOX invited a Crane to supper and provided nothing for his
    entertainment but some soup made of pulse, which was poured out into a
    broad flat stone dish. The soup fell out of the long bill of the Crane
    at every mouthful, and his vexation at not being able to eat afforded
    the Fox much amusement. The Crane, in his turn, asked the Fox to sup
    with him, and set before her a flagon with a long narrow mouth, so that
    he could easily insert his neck and enjoy its contents at his leisure.
    The Fox, unable even to taste it, met with a fitting requital, after
    the fashion of her own hospitality.

    The Wolf and the Lion

    ROAMING BY the mountainside at sundown, a Wolf saw his own shadow
    become greatly extended and magnified, and he said to himself, “Why
    should I, being of such an immense size and extending nearly an acre in
    length, be afraid of the Lion? Ought I not to be acknowledged as King
    of all the collected beasts?” While he was indulging in these proud
    thoughts, a Lion fell upon him and killed him. He exclaimed with a too
    late repentance, “Wretched me! this overestimation of myself is the
    cause of my destruction.”

    The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat

    THE BIRDS waged war with the Beasts, and each were by turns the
    conquerors. A Bat, fearing the uncertain issues of the fight, always
    fought on the side which he felt was the strongest. When peace was
    proclaimed, his deceitful conduct was apparent to both combatants.
    Therefore being condemned by each for his treachery, he was driven
    forth from the light of day, and henceforth concealed himself in dark
    hiding-places, flying always alone and at night.

    The Spendthrift and the Swallow

    A YOUNG MAN, a great spendthrift, had run through all his patrimony and
    had but one good cloak left. One day he happened to see a Swallow,
    which had appeared before its season, skimming along a pool and
    twittering gaily. He supposed that summer had come, and went and sold
    his cloak. Not many days later, winter set in again with renewed frost
    and cold. When he found the unfortunate Swallow lifeless on the ground,
    he said, “Unhappy bird! what have you done? By thus appearing before
    the springtime you have not only killed yourself, but you have wrought
    my destruction also.”

    The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner

    A TRUMPETER, bravely leading on the soldiers, was captured by the
    enemy. He cried out to his captors, “Pray spare me, and do not take my
    life without cause or without inquiry. I have not slain a single man of
    your troop. I have no arms, and carry nothing but this one brass
    trumpet.” “That is the very reason for which you should be put to
    death,” they said; “for, while you do not fight yourself, your trumpet
    stirs all the others to battle.”

    The Owl and the Birds

    AN OWL, in her wisdom, counseled the Birds that when the acorn first
    began to sprout, to pull it all up out of the ground and not allow it
    to grow. She said acorns would produce mistletoe, from which an
    irremediable poison, the bird-lime, would be extracted and by which
    they would be captured. The Owl next advised them to pluck up the seed
    of the flax, which men had sown, as it was a plant which boded no good
    to them. And, lastly, the Owl, seeing an archer approach, predicted
    that this man, being on foot, would contrive darts armed with feathers
    which would fly faster than the wings of the Birds themselves. The
    Birds gave no credence to these warning words, but considered the Owl
    to be beside herself and said that she was mad. But afterwards, finding
    her words were true, they wondered at her knowledge and deemed her to
    be the wisest of birds. Hence it is that when she appears they look to
    her as knowing all things, while she no longer gives them advice, but
    in solitude laments their past folly.

    The Goods and the Ills

    ALL the Goods were once driven out by the Ills from that common share
    which they each had in the affairs of mankind; for the Ills by reason
    of their numbers had prevailed to possess the earth. The Goods wafted
    themselves to heaven and asked for a righteous vengeance on their
    persecutors. They entreated Jupiter that they might no longer be
    associated with the Ills, as they had nothing in common and could not
    live together, but were engaged in unceasing warfare; and that an
    indissoluble law might be laid down for their future protection.
    Jupiter granted their request and decreed that henceforth the Ills
    should visit the earth in company with each other, but that the Goods
    should one by one enter the habitations of men. Hence it arises that
    Ills abound, for they come not one by one, but in troops, and by no
    means singly: while the Goods proceed from Jupiter, and are given, not
    alike to all, but singly, and separately; and one by one to those who
    are able to discern them.

    The Ass in the Lion’s Skin

    AN ASS, having put on the Lion’s skin, roamed about in the forest and
    amused himself by frightening all the foolish animals he met in his
    wanderings. At last coming upon a Fox, he tried to frighten him also,
    but the Fox no sooner heard the sound of his voice than he exclaimed,
    “I might possibly have been frightened myself, if I had not heard your
    bray.”

    The Sparrow and the Hare

    A HARE pounced upon by an eagle sobbed very much and uttered cries like
    a child. A Sparrow upbraided her and said, “Where now is thy remarkable
    swiftness of foot? Why were your feet so slow?” While the Sparrow was
    thus speaking, a hawk suddenly seized him and killed him. The Hare was
    comforted in her death, and expiring said, “Ah! you who so lately, when
    you supposed yourself safe, exulted over my calamity, have now reason
    to deplore a similar misfortune.”

    The Flea and the Ox

    A FLEA thus questioned an Ox: “What ails you, that being so huge and
    strong, you submit to the wrongs you receive from men and slave for
    them day by day, while I, being so small a creature, mercilessly feed
    on their flesh and drink their blood without stint?” The Ox replied: “I
    do not wish to be ungrateful, for I am loved and well cared for by men,
    and they often pat my head and shoulders.” “Woe’s me!” said the flea;
    “this very patting which you like, whenever it happens to me, brings
    with it my inevitable destruction.”

    The Ass and His Purchaser

    A MAN wished to purchase an Ass, and agreed with its owner that he
    should try out the animal before he bought him. He took the Ass home
    and put him in the straw-yard with his other Asses, upon which the new
    animal left all the others and at once joined the one that was most
    idle and the greatest eater of them all. Seeing this, the man put a
    halter on him and led him back to his owner. On being asked how, in so
    short a time, he could have made a trial of him, he answered, “I do not
    need a trial; I know that he will be just the same as the one he chose
    for his companion.”

    A man is known by the company he keeps.

    The Dove and the Crow

    A DOVE shut up in a cage was boasting of the large number of young ones
    which she had hatched. A Crow hearing her, said: “My good friend, cease
    from this unseasonable boasting. The larger the number of your family,
    the greater your cause of sorrow, in seeing them shut up in this
    prison-house.”

    The Man and the Satyr

    A MAN and a Satyr once drank together in token of a bond of alliance
    being formed between them. One very cold wintry day, as they talked,
    the Man put his fingers to his mouth and blew on them. When the Satyr
    asked the reason for this, he told him that he did it to warm his hands
    because they were so cold. Later on in the day they sat down to eat,
    and the food prepared was quite scalding. The Man raised one of the
    dishes a little towards his mouth and blew in it. When the Satyr again
    inquired the reason, he said that he did it to cool the meat, which was
    too hot. “I can no longer consider you as a friend,” said the Satyr, “a
    fellow who with the same breath blows hot and cold.”

    Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus

    ACCORDING to an ancient legend, the first man was made by Jupiter, the
    first bull by Neptune, and the first house by Minerva. On the
    completion of their labours, a dispute arose as to which had made the
    most perfect work. They agreed to appoint Momus as judge, and to abide
    by his decision. Momus, however, being very envious of the handicraft
    of each, found fault with all. He first blamed the work of Neptune
    because he had not made the horns of the bull below his eyes, so he
    might better see where to strike. He then condemned the work of
    Jupiter, because he had not placed the heart of man on the outside,
    that everyone might read the thoughts of the evil disposed and take
    precautions against the intended mischief. And, lastly, he inveighed
    against Minerva because she had not contrived iron wheels in the
    foundation of her house, so its inhabitants might more easily remove if
    a neighbor proved unpleasant. Jupiter, indignant at such inveterate
    faultfinding, drove him from his office of judge, and expelled him from
    the mansions of Olympus.

    The Eagle and the Jackdaw

    AN EAGLE, flying down from his perch on a lofty rock, seized upon a
    lamb and carried him aloft in his talons. A Jackdaw, who witnessed the
    capture of the lamb, was stirred with envy and determined to emulate
    the strength and flight of the Eagle. He flew around with a great whir
    of his wings and settled upon a large ram, with the intention of
    carrying him off, but his claws became entangled in the ram’s fleece
    and he was not able to release himself, although he fluttered with his
    feathers as much as he could. The shepherd, seeing what had happened,
    ran up and caught him. He at once clipped the Jackdaw’s wings, and
    taking him home at night, gave him to his children. On their saying,
    “Father, what kind of bird is it?” he replied, “To my certain knowledge
    he is a Daw; but he would like you to think an Eagle.”

    The Eagle and the Fox

    AN EAGLE and a Fox formed an intimate friendship and decided to live
    near each other. The Eagle built her nest in the branches of a tall
    tree, while the Fox crept into the underwood and there produced her
    young. Not long after they had agreed upon this plan, the Eagle, being
    in want of provision for her young ones, swooped down while the Fox was
    out, seized upon one of the little cubs, and feasted herself and her
    brood. The Fox on her return, discovered what had happened, but was
    less grieved for the death of her young than for her inability to
    avenge them. A just retribution, however, quickly fell upon the Eagle.
    While hovering near an altar, on which some villagers were sacrificing
    a goat, she suddenly seized a piece of the flesh, and carried it, along
    with a burning cinder, to her nest. A strong breeze soon fanned the
    spark into a flame, and the eaglets, as yet unfledged and helpless,
    were roasted in their nest and dropped down dead at the bottom of the
    tree. There, in the sight of the Eagle, the Fox gobbled them up.

    The Two Bags

    EVERY MAN, according to an ancient legend, is born into the world with
    two bags suspended from his neck all bag in front full of his
    neighbors’ faults, and a large bag behind filled with his own faults.
    Hence it is that men are quick to see the faults of others, and yet are
    often blind to their own failings.

    The Bitch and Her Whelps

    A BITCH, ready to whelp, earnestly begged a shepherd for a place where
    she might litter. When her request was granted, she besought permission
    to rear her puppies in the same spot. The shepherd again consented. But
    at last the Bitch, protected by the bodyguard of her Whelps, who had
    now grown up and were able to defend themselves, asserted her exclusive
    right to the place and would not permit the shepherd to approach.

    The Stag at the Pool

    A STAG overpowered by heat came to a spring to drink. Seeing his own
    shadow reflected in the water, he greatly admired the size and variety
    of his horns, but felt angry with himself for having such slender and
    weak feet. While he was thus contemplating himself, a Lion appeared at
    the pool and crouched to spring upon him. The Stag immediately took to
    flight, and exerting his utmost speed, as long as the plain was smooth
    and open kept himself easily at a safe distance from the Lion. But
    entering a wood he became entangled by his horns, and the Lion quickly
    came up to him and caught him. When too late, he thus reproached
    himself: “Woe is me! How I have deceived myself! These feet which would
    have saved me I despised, and I gloried in these antlers which have
    proved my destruction.”

    What is most truly valuable is often underrated.

    The Lark Burying Her Father

    THE LARK (according to an ancient legend) was created before the earth
    itself, and when her father died, as there was no earth, she could find
    no place of burial for him. She let him lie uninterred for five days,
    and on the sixth day, not knowing what else to do, she buried him in
    her own head. Hence she obtained her crest, which is popularly said to
    be her father’s grave-hillock.

    Youth’s first duty is reverence to parents.

    The Gnat and the Bull

    A GNAT settled on the horn of a Bull, and sat there a long time. Just
    as he was about to fly off, he made a buzzing noise, and inquired of
    the Bull if he would like him to go. The Bull replied, “I did not know
    you had come, and I shall not miss you when you go away.”

    Some men are of more consequence in their own eyes than in the eyes of
    their neighbors.

    The Monkey and the Camel

    THE BEASTS of the forest gave a splendid entertainment at which the
    Monkey stood up and danced. Having vastly delighted the assembly, he
    sat down amidst universal applause. The Camel, envious of the praises
    bestowed on the Monkey and desiring to divert to himself the favour of
    the guests, proposed to stand up in his turn and dance for their
    amusement. He moved about in so utterly ridiculous a manner that the
    Beasts, in a fit of indignation, set upon him with clubs and drove him
    out of the assembly.

    It is absurd to ape our betters.

    The Dogs and the Hides

    SOME DOGS famished with hunger saw a number of cowhides steeping in a
    river. Not being able to reach them, they agreed to drink up the river,
    but it happened that they burst themselves with drinking long before
    they reached the hides.

    Attempt not impossibilities.

    The Jackdaw and the Fox

    A HALF-FAMISHED JACKDAW seated himself on a fig-tree, which had
    produced some fruit entirely out of season, and waited in the hope that
    the figs would ripen. A Fox seeing him sitting so long and learning the
    reason of his doing so, said to him, “You are indeed, sir, sadly
    deceiving yourself; you are indulging a hope strong enough to cheat
    you, but which will never reward you with enjoyment.”

    Mercury and the Workmen

    A WORKMAN, felling wood by the side of a river, let his axe drop by
    accident into a deep pool. Being thus deprived of the means of his
    livelihood, he sat down on the bank and lamented his hard fate. Mercury
    appeared and demanded the cause of his tears. After he told him his
    misfortune, Mercury plunged into the stream, and, bringing up a golden
    axe, inquired if that were the one he had lost. On his saying that it
    was not his, Mercury disappeared beneath the water a second time,
    returned with a silver axe in his hand, and again asked the Workman if
    it were his. When the Workman said it was not, he dived into the pool
    for the third time and brought up the axe that had been lost. The
    Workman claimed it and expressed his joy at its recovery. Mercury,
    pleased with his honesty, gave him the golden and silver axes in
    addition to his own. The Workman, on his return to his house, related
    to his companions all that had happened. One of them at once resolved
    to try and secure the same good fortune for himself. He ran to the
    river and threw his axe on purpose into the pool at the same place, and
    sat down on the bank to weep. Mercury appeared to him just as he hoped
    he would; and having learned the cause of his grief, plunged into the
    stream and brought up a golden axe, inquiring if he had lost it. The
    Workman seized it greedily, and declared that truly it was the very
    same axe that he had lost. Mercury, displeased at his knavery, not only
    took away the golden axe, but refused to recover for him the axe he had
    thrown into the pool.

    The Peasant and the Apple-Tree

    A PEASANT had in his garden an Apple-Tree which bore no fruit but only
    served as a harbor for the sparrows and grasshoppers. He resolved to
    cut it down, and taking his axe in his hand, made a bold stroke at its
    roots. The grasshoppers and sparrows entreated him not to cut down the
    tree that sheltered them, but to spare it, and they would sing to him
    and lighten his labours. He paid no attention to their request, but
    gave the tree a second and a third blow with his axe. When he reached
    the hollow of the tree, he found a hive full of honey. Having tasted
    the honeycomb, he threw down his axe, and looking on the tree as
    sacred, took great care of it.

    Self-interest alone moves some men.

    The Two Soldiers and the Robber

    TWO SOLDIERS traveling together were set upon by a Robber. The one fled
    away; the other stood his ground and defended himself with his stout
    right hand. The Robber being slain, the timid companion ran up and drew
    his sword, and then, throwing back his traveling cloak said, “I’ll at
    him, and I’ll take care he shall learn whom he has attacked.” On this,
    he who had fought with the Robber made answer, “I only wish that you
    had helped me just now, even if it had been only with those words, for
    I should have been the more encouraged, believing them to be true; but
    now put up your sword in its sheath and hold your equally useless
    tongue, till you can deceive others who do not know you. I, indeed, who
    have experienced with what speed you run away, know right well that no
    dependence can be placed on your valor.”

    The Shepherd and the Sheep

    A SHEPHERD driving his Sheep to a wood, saw an oak of unusual size full
    of acorns, and spreading his cloak under the branches, he climbed up
    into the tree and shook them down. The Sheep eating the acorns
    inadvertently frayed and tore the cloak. When the Shepherd came down
    and saw what was done, he said, “O you most ungrateful creatures! You
    provide wool to make garments for all other men, but you destroy the
    clothes of him who feeds you.”

    The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods

    THE GODS, according to an ancient legend, made choice of certain trees
    to be under their special protection. Jupiter chose the oak, Venus the
    myrtle, Apollo the laurel, Cybele the pine, and Hercules the poplar.
    Minerva, wondering why they had preferred trees not yielding fruit,
    inquired the reason for their choice. Jupiter replied, “It is lest we
    should seem to covet the honour for the fruit.” But said Minerva, “Let
    anyone say what he will the olive is more dear to me on account of its
    fruit.” Then said Jupiter, “My daughter, you are rightly called wise;
    for unless what we do is useful, the glory of it is vain.”

    The Flea and the Wrestler

    A FLEA settled upon the bare foot of a Wrestler and bit him, causing
    the man to call loudly upon Hercules for help. When the Flea a second
    time hopped upon his foot, he groaned and said, “O Hercules! if you
    will not help me against a Flea, how can I hope for your assistance
    against greater antagonists?”

    The Lion and the Fox

    A FOX entered into partnership with a Lion on the pretense of becoming
    his servant. Each undertook his proper duty in accordance with his own
    nature and powers. The Fox discovered and pointed out the prey; the
    Lion sprang on it and seized it. The Fox soon became jealous of the
    Lion carrying off the Lion’s share, and said that he would no longer
    find out the prey, but would capture it on his own account. The next
    day he attempted to snatch a lamb from the fold, but he himself fell
    prey to the huntsmen and hounds.

    Truth and the Traveler

    A WAYFARING MAN, traveling in the desert, met a woman standing alone
    and terribly dejected. He inquired of her, “Who art thou?” “My name is
    Truth,” she replied. “And for what cause,” he asked, “have you left the
    city to dwell alone here in the wilderness?” She made answer, “Because
    in former times, falsehood was with few, but is now with all men.”

    The Manslayer

    A MAN committed a murder, and was pursued by the relations of the man
    whom he murdered. On his reaching the river Nile he saw a Lion on its
    bank and being fearfully afraid, climbed up a tree. He found a serpent
    in the upper branches of the tree, and again being greatly alarmed, he
    threw himself into the river, where a crocodile caught him and ate him.
    Thus the earth, the air, and the water alike refused shelter to a
    murderer.

    The Lion and the Eagle

    AN EAGLE stayed his flight and entreated a Lion to make an alliance
    with him to their mutual advantage. The Lion replied, “I have no
    objection, but you must excuse me for requiring you to find surety for
    your good faith, for how can I trust anyone as a friend who is able to
    fly away from his bargain whenever he pleases?”

    Try before you trust.

    The Ass and His Driver

    AN ASS, being driven along a high road, suddenly started off and bolted
    to the brink of a deep precipice. While he was in the act of throwing
    himself over, his owner seized him by the tail, endeavoring to pull him
    back. When the Ass persisted in his effort, the man let him go and
    said, “Conquer, but conquer to your cost.”

    The Thrush and the Fowler

    A THRUSH was feeding on a myrtle-tree and did not move from it because
    its berries were so delicious. A Fowler observed her staying so long in
    one spot, and having well bird-limed his reeds, caught her. The Thrush,
    being at the point of death, exclaimed, “O foolish creature that I am!
    For the sake of a little pleasant food I have deprived myself of my
    life.”

    The Mother and the Wolf

    A FAMISHED WOLF was prowling about in the morning in search of food. As
    he passed the door of a cottage built in the forest, he heard a Mother
    say to her child, “Be quiet, or I will throw you out of the window, and
    the Wolf shall eat you.” The Wolf sat all day waiting at the door. In
    the evening he heard the same woman fondling her child and saying: “You
    are quiet now, and if the Wolf should come, we will kill him.” The
    Wolf, hearing these words, went home, gasping with cold and hunger.
    When he reached his den, Mistress Wolf inquired of him why he returned
    wearied and supperless, so contrary to his wont. He replied: “Why,
    forsooth! use I gave credence to the words of a woman!”

    The Hen and the Swallow

    A HEN finding the eggs of a viper and carefully keeping them warm,
    nourished them into life. A Swallow, observing what she had done, said,
    “You silly creature! why have you hatched these vipers which, when they
    shall have grown, will inflict injury on all, beginning with yourself?”

    The Rose and the Amaranth

    AN AMARANTH planted in a garden near a Rose-Tree, thus addressed it:
    “What a lovely flower is the Rose, a favourite alike with Gods and with
    men. I envy you your beauty and your perfume.” The Rose replied, “I
    indeed, dear Amaranth, flourish but for a brief season! If no cruel
    hand pluck me from my stem, yet I must perish by an early doom. But
    thou art immortal and dost never fade, but bloomest for ever in renewed
    youth.”

    The Travelers and the Plane-Tree

    TWO TRAVELERS, worn out by the heat of the summer’s sun, laid
    themselves down at noon under the widespreading branches of a
    Plane-Tree. As they rested under its shade, one of the Travelers said
    to the other, “What a singularly useless tree is the Plane! It bears no
    fruit, and is not of the least service to man.” The Plane-Tree,
    interrupting him, said, “You ungrateful fellows! Do you, while
    receiving benefits from me and resting under my shade, dare to describe
    me as useless, and unprofitable?”

    Some men underrate their best blessings.

    The Ass and the Horse

    AN ASS besought a Horse to spare him a small portion of his feed.
    “Yes,” said the Horse; “if any remains out of what I am now eating I
    will give it you for the sake of my own superior dignity, and if you
    will come when I reach my own stall in the evening, I will give you a
    little sack full of barley.” The Ass replied, “Thank you. But I can’t
    think that you, who refuse me a little matter now, will by and by
    confer on me a greater benefit.”

    The Crow and the Sheep

    A TROUBLESOME CROW seated herself on the back of a Sheep. The Sheep,
    much against his will, carried her backward and forward for a long
    time, and at last said, “If you had treated a dog in this way, you
    would have had your deserts from his sharp teeth.” To this the Crow
    replied, “I despise the weak and yield to the strong. I know whom I may
    bully and whom I must flatter; and I thus prolong my life to a good old
    age.”

    The Fox and the Bramble

    A FOX was mounting a hedge when he lost his footing and caught hold of
    a Bramble to save himself. Having pricked and grievously torn the soles
    of his feet, he accused the Bramble because, when he had fled to her
    for assistance, she had used him worse than the hedge itself. The
    Bramble, interrupting him, said, “But you really must have been out of
    your senses to fasten yourself on me, who am myself always accustomed
    to fasten upon others.”

    The Ass and the Charger

    AN ASS congratulated a Horse on being so ungrudgingly and carefully
    provided for, while he himself had scarcely enough to eat and not even
    that without hard work. But when war broke out, a heavily armed soldier
    mounted the Horse, and riding him to the charge, rushed into the very
    midst of the enemy. The Horse was wounded and fell dead on the
    battlefield. Then the Ass, seeing all these things, changed his mind,
    and commiserated the Horse.

    The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant

    THE LION wearied Jupiter with his frequent complaints. “It is true, O
    Jupiter!” he said, “that I am gigantic in strength, handsome in shape,
    and powerful in attack. I have jaws well provided with teeth, and feet
    furnished with claws, and I lord it over all the beasts of the forest,
    and what a disgrace it is, that being such as I am, I should be
    frightened by the crowing of a cock.” Jupiter replied, “Why do you
    blame me without a cause? I have given you all the attributes which I
    possess myself, and your courage never fails you except in this one
    instance.” On hearing this the Lion groaned and lamented very much and,
    reproaching himself with his cowardice, wished that he might die. As
    these thoughts passed through his mind, he met an Elephant and came
    close to hold a conversation with him. After a time he observed that
    the Elephant shook his ears very often, and he inquired what was the
    matter and why his ears moved with such a tremor every now and then.
    Just at that moment a Gnat settled on the head of the Elephant, and he
    replied, “Do you see that little buzzing insect? If it enters my ear,
    my fate is sealed. I should die presently.” The Lion said, “Well, since
    so huge a beast is afraid of a tiny gnat, I will no more complain, nor
    wish myself dead. I find myself, even as I am, better off than the
    Elephant.”

    The Dog and the Oyster

    A DOG, used to eating eggs, saw an Oyster and, opening his mouth to its
    widest extent, swallowed it down with the utmost relish, supposing it
    to be an egg. Soon afterwards suffering great pain in his stomach, he
    said, “I deserve all this torment, for my folly in thinking that
    everything round must be an egg.”

    They who act without sufficient thought, will often fall into
    unsuspected danger.

    The Mules and the Robbers

    TWO MULES well-laden with packs were trudging along. One carried
    panniers filled with money, the other sacks weighted with grain. The
    Mule carrying the treasure walked with head erect, as if conscious of
    the value of his burden, and tossed up and down the clear-toned bells
    fastened to his neck. His companion followed with quiet and easy step.
    All of a sudden Robbers rushed upon them from their hiding-places, and
    in the scuffle with their owners, wounded with a sword the Mule
    carrying the treasure, which they greedily seized while taking no
    notice of the grain. The Mule which had been robbed and wounded
    bewailed his misfortunes. The other replied, “I am indeed glad that I
    was thought so little of, for I have lost nothing, nor am I hurt with
    any wound.”

    The Lamb and the Wolf

    A WOLF pursued a Lamb, which fled for refuge to a certain Temple. The
    Wolf called out to him and said, “The Priest will slay you in
    sacrifice, if he should catch you.” On which the Lamb replied, “It
    would be better for me to be sacrificed in the Temple than to be eaten
    by you.”

    The Partridge and the Fowler

    A FOWLER caught a Partridge and was about to kill it. The Partridge
    earnestly begged him to spare his life, saying, “Pray, master, permit
    me to live and I will entice many Partridges to you in recompense for
    your mercy to me.” The Fowler replied, “I shall now with less scruple
    take your life, because you are willing to save it at the cost of
    betraying your friends and relations.”

    The Flea and the Man

    A MAN, very much annoyed with a Flea, caught him at last, and said,
    “Who are you who dare to feed on my limbs, and to cost me so much
    trouble in catching you?” The Flea replied, “O my dear sir, pray spare
    my life, and destroy me not, for I cannot possibly do you much harm.”
    The Man, laughing, replied, “Now you shall certainly die by mine own
    hands, for no evil, whether it be small or large, ought to be
    tolerated.”

    The Rich Man and the Tanner

    A RICH MAN lived near a Tanner, and not being able to bear the
    unpleasant smell of the tan-yard, he pressed his neighbor to go away.
    The Tanner put off his departure from time to time, saying that he
    would leave soon. But as he still continued to stay, as time went on,
    the rich man became accustomed to the smell, and feeling no manner of
    inconvenience, made no further complaints.

    The Viper and the File

    A VIPER, entering the workshop of a smith, sought from the tools the
    means of satisfying his hunger. He more particularly addressed himself
    to a File, and asked of him the favour of a meal. The File replied,
    “You must indeed be a simple-minded fellow if you expect to get
    anything from me, who am accustomed to take from everyone, and never to
    give anything in return.”

    The covetous are poor givers.

    The Lion and the Shepherd

    A LION, roaming through a forest, trod upon a thorn. Soon afterward he
    came up to a Shepherd and fawned upon him, wagging his tail as if to
    say, “I am a suppliant, and seek your aid.” The Shepherd boldly
    examined the beast, discovered the thorn, and placing his paw upon his
    lap, pulled it out; thus relieved of his pain, the Lion returned into
    the forest. Some time after, the Shepherd, being imprisoned on a false
    accusation, was condemned “to be cast to the Lions” as the punishment
    for his imputed crime. But when the Lion was released from his cage, he
    recognized the Shepherd as the man who healed him, and instead of
    attacking him, approached and placed his foot upon his lap. The King,
    as soon as he heard the tale, ordered the Lion to be set free again in
    the forest, and the Shepherd to be pardoned and restored to his
    friends.

    The Camel and Jupiter

    THE CAMEL, when he saw the Bull adorned with horns, envied him and
    wished that he himself could obtain the same honours. He went to
    Jupiter, and besought him to give him horns. Jupiter, vexed at his
    request because he was not satisfied with his size and strength of
    body, and desired yet more, not only refused to give him horns, but
    even deprived him of a portion of his ears.

    The Panther and the Shepherds

    A PANTHER, by some mischance, fell into a pit. The Shepherds discovered
    him, and some threw sticks at him and pelted him with stones, while
    others, moved with compassion towards one about to die even though no
    one should hurt him, threw in some food to prolong his life. At night
    they returned home, not dreaming of any danger, but supposing that on
    the morrow they would find him dead. The Panther, however, when he had
    recruited his feeble strength, freed himself with a sudden bound from
    the pit, and hastened to his den with rapid steps. After a few days he
    came forth and slaughtered the cattle, and, killing the Shepherds who
    had attacked him, raged with angry fury. Then they who had spared his
    life, fearing for their safety, surrendered to him their flocks and
    begged only for their lives. To them the Panther made this reply: “I
    remember alike those who sought my life with stones, and those who gave
    me food aside, therefore, your fears. I return as an enemy only to
    those who injured me.”

    The Eagle and the Kite

    AN EAGLE, overwhelmed with sorrow, sat upon the branches of a tree in
    company with a Kite. “Why,” said the Kite, “do I see you with such a
    rueful look?” “I seek,” she replied, “a mate suitable for me, and am
    not able to find one.” “Take me,” returned the Kite, “I am much
    stronger than you are.” “Why, are you able to secure the means of
    living by your plunder?” “Well, I have often caught and carried away an
    ostrich in my talons.” The Eagle, persuaded by these words, accepted
    him as her mate. Shortly after the nuptials, the Eagle said, “Fly off
    and bring me back the ostrich you promised me.” The Kite, soaring aloft
    into the air, brought back the shabbiest possible mouse, stinking from
    the length of time it had lain about the fields. “Is this,” said the
    Eagle, “the faithful fulfillment of your promise to me?” The Kite
    replied, “That I might attain your royal hand, there is nothing that I
    would not have promised, however much I knew that I must fail in the
    performance.”

    The Eagle and His Captor

    AN EAGLE was once captured by a man, who immediately clipped his wings
    and put him into his poultry-yard with the other birds, at which
    treatment the Eagle was weighed down with grief. Later, another
    neighbor purchased him and allowed his feathers to grow again. The
    Eagle took flight, and pouncing upon a hare, brought it at once as an
    offering to his benefactor. A Fox, seeing this, exclaimed, “Do not
    cultivate the favour of this man, but of your former owner, lest he
    should again hunt for you and deprive you a second time of your wings.”

    The King’s Son and the Painted Lion

    A KING, whose only son was fond of martial exercises, had a dream in
    which he was warned that his son would be killed by a lion. Afraid the
    dream should prove true, he built for his son a pleasant palace and
    adorned its walls for his amusement with all kinds of life-sized
    animals, among which was the picture of a lion. When the young Prince
    saw this, his grief at being thus confined burst out afresh, and,
    standing near the lion, he said: “O you most detestable of animals!
    through a lying dream of my father’s, which he saw in his sleep, I am
    shut up on your account in this palace as if I had been a girl: what
    shall I now do to you?” With these words he stretched out his hands
    toward a thorn-tree, meaning to cut a stick from its branches so that
    he might beat the lion. But one of the tree’s prickles pierced his
    finger and caused great pain and inflammation, so that the young Prince
    fell down in a fainting fit. A violent fever suddenly set in, from
    which he died not many days later.

    We had better bear our troubles bravely than try to escape them.

    The Cat and Venus

    A CAT fell in love with a handsome young man, and entreated Venus to
    change her into the form of a woman. Venus consented to her request and
    transformed her into a beautiful damsel, so that the youth saw her and
    loved her, and took her home as his bride. While the two were reclining
    in their chamber, Venus wishing to discover if the Cat in her change of
    shape had also altered her habits of life, let down a mouse in the
    middle of the room. The Cat, quite forgetting her present condition,
    started up from the couch and pursued the mouse, wishing to eat it.
    Venus was much disappointed and again caused her to return to her
    former shape.

    Nature exceeds nurture.

    The Eagle and the Beetle

    THE EAGLE and the Beetle were at enmity together, and they destroyed
    one another’s nests. The Eagle gave the first provocation in seizing
    upon and in eating the young ones of the Beetle. The Beetle got by
    stealth at the Eagle’s eggs, and rolled them out of the nest, and
    followed the Eagle even into the presence of Jupiter. On the Eagle
    making his complaint, Jupiter ordered him to make his nest in his lap;
    and while Jupiter had the eggs in his lap, the Beetle came flying about
    him, and Jupiter rising up unawares, to drive him away from his head,
    threw down the eggs, and broke them.

    The weak often revenge themselves on those who use them ill, even
    though they be more powerful.

    The She-Goats and Their Beards

    THE SHE-GOATS having obtained a beard by request to Jupiter, the
    He-Goats were sorely displeased and made complaint that the females
    equaled them in dignity. “Allow them,” said Jupiter, “to enjoy an empty
    honour and to assume the badge of your nobler sex, so long as they are
    not your equals in strength or courage.”

    It matters little if those who are inferior to us in merit should be
    like us in outside appearances.

    The Bald Man and the Fly

    A FLY bit the bare head of a Bald Man who, endeavoring to destroy it,
    gave himself a heavy slap. Escaping, the Fly said mockingly, “You who
    have wished to revenge, even with death, the Prick of a tiny insect,
    see what you have done to yourself to add insult to injury?” The Bald
    Man replied, “I can easily make peace with myself, because I know there
    was no intention to hurt. But you, an ill-favoured and contemptible
    insect who delights in sucking human blood, I wish that I could have
    killed you even if I had incurred a heavier penalty.”

    The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea

    A SHIPWRECKED MAN, having been cast upon a certain shore, slept after
    his buffetings with the deep. After a while he awoke, and looking upon
    the Sea, loaded it with reproaches. He argued that it enticed men with
    the calmness of its looks, but when it had induced them to plow its
    waters, it grew rough and destroyed them. The Sea, assuming the form of
    a woman, replied to him: “Blame not me, my good sir, but the winds, for
    I am by my own nature as calm and firm even as this earth; but the
    winds suddenly falling on me create these waves, and lash me into
    fury.”

    The Buffoon and the Countryman

    A RICH NOBLEMAN once opened the theaters without charge to the people,
    and gave a public notice that he would handsomely reward any person who
    invented a new amusement for the occasion. Various public performers
    contended for the prize. Among them came a Buffoon well known among the
    populace for his jokes, and said that he had a kind of entertainment
    which had never been brought out on any stage before. This report being
    spread about made a great stir, and the theater was crowded in every
    part. The Buffoon appeared alone upon the platform, without any
    apparatus or confederates, and the very sense of expectation caused an
    intense silence. He suddenly bent his head towards his bosom and
    imitated the squeaking of a little pig so admirably with his voice that
    the audience declared he had a porker under his cloak, and demanded
    that it should be shaken out. When that was done and nothing was found,
    they cheered the actor, and loaded him with the loudest applause. A
    Countryman in the crowd, observing all that has passed, said, “So help
    me, Hercules, he shall not beat me at that trick!” and at once
    proclaimed that he would do the same thing on the next day, though in a
    much more natural way. On the morrow a still larger crowd assembled in
    the theater, but now partiality for their favourite actor very
    generally prevailed, and the audience came rather to ridicule the
    Countryman than to see the spectacle. Both of the performers appeared
    on the stage. The Buffoon grunted and squeaked away first, and
    obtained, as on the preceding day, the applause and cheers of the
    spectators. Next the Countryman commenced, and pretending that he
    concealed a little pig beneath his clothes (which in truth he did, but
    not suspected by the audience ) contrived to take hold of and to pull
    his ear causing the pig to squeak. The Crowd, however, cried out with
    one consent that the Buffoon had given a far more exact imitation, and
    clamored for the Countryman to be kicked out of the theater. On this
    the rustic produced the little pig from his cloak and showed by the
    most positive proof the greatness of their mistake. “Look here,” he
    said, “this shows what sort of judges you are.”

    The Crow and the Serpent

    A CROW in great want of food saw a Serpent asleep in a sunny nook, and
    flying down, greedily seized him. The Serpent, turning about, bit the
    Crow with a mortal wound. In the agony of death, the bird exclaimed: “O
    unhappy me! who have found in that which I deemed a happy windfall the
    source of my destruction.”

    The Hunter and the Horseman

    A CERTAIN HUNTER, having snared a hare, placed it upon his shoulders
    and set out homewards. On his way he met a man on horseback who begged
    the hare of him, under the pretense of purchasing it. However, when the
    Horseman got the hare, he rode off as fast as he could. The Hunter ran
    after him, as if he was sure of overtaking him, but the Horseman
    increased more and more the distance between them. The Hunter, sorely
    against his will, called out to him and said, “Get along with you! for
    I will now make you a present of the hare.”

    The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree

    THE OLIVE-TREE ridiculed the Fig-Tree because, while she was green all
    the year round, the Fig-Tree changed its leaves with the seasons. A
    shower of snow fell upon them, and, finding the Olive full of foliage,
    it settled upon its branches and broke them down with its weight, at
    once despoiling it of its beauty and killing the tree. But finding the
    Fig-Tree denuded of leaves, the snow fell through to the ground, and
    did not injure it at all.

    The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun

    ONCE UPON A TIME, when the Sun announced his intention to take a wife,
    the Frogs lifted up their voices in clamor to the sky. Jupiter,
    disturbed by the noise of their croaking, inquired the cause of their
    complaint. One of them said, “The Sun, now while he is single, parches
    up the marsh, and compels us to die miserably in our arid homes. What
    will be our future condition if he should beget other suns?”

    The Brazier and His Dog

    A BRAZIER had a little Dog, which was a great favourite with his
    master, and his constant companion. While he hammered away at his
    metals the Dog slept; but when, on the other hand, he went to dinner
    and began to eat, the Dog woke up and wagged his tail, as if he would
    ask for a share of his meal. His master one day, pretending to be angry
    and shaking his stick at him, said, “You wretched little sluggard! what
    shall I do to you? While I am hammering on the anvil, you sleep on the
    mat; and when I begin to eat after my toil, you wake up and wag your
    tail for food. Do you not know that labor is the source of every
    blessing, and that none but those who work are entitled to eat?”

    FOOTNOTES

    1 (return)
    [ A History of the Literature of Ancient Greece, by K. O. Mueller. Vol.
    i, p. 191. _London_, Parker, 1858.]

    2 (return)
    [ Select Fables of Æsop, and other Fabulists. In three books,
    translated by Robert Dodsley, accompanied with a selection of notes,
    and an Essay on Fable. _Birmingham_, 1864. P. 60.]

    3 (return)
    [ Some of these fables had, no doubt, in the first instance, a primary
    and private interpretation. On the first occasion of their being
    composed they were intended to refer to some passing event, or to some
    individual acts of wrong-doing. Thus, the fables of the “Eagle and the
    Fox” and of the “Fox and Monkey” are supposed to have been written by
    Archilochus, to avenge the injuries done him by Lycambes. So also the
    fables of the “Swollen Fox” and of the “Frogs asking a King” were
    spoken by Æsop for the immediate purpose of reconciling the inhabitants
    of Samos and Athens to their respective rulers, Periander and
    Pisistratus; while the fable of the “Horse and Stag” was composed to
    caution the inhabitants of Himera against granting a bodyguard to
    Phalaris. In a similar manner, the fable from Phædrus, the “Marriage of
    the Sun,” is supposed to have reference to the contemplated union of
    Livia, the daughter of Drusus, with Sejanus the favourite, and minister
    of Trajan. These fables, however, though thus originating in special
    events, and designed at first to meet special circumstances, are so
    admirably constructed as to be fraught with lessons of general utility,
    and of universal application.]

    4 (return)
    [ Hesiod. Opera et Dies, verse 202.]

    5 (return)
    [ Æschylus. Fragment of the Myrmidons. Æschylus speaks of this fable as
    existing before his day. ὡς δ’ ἐστὶ μύθων τῶν Διβυστικῶν λογος. See
    Scholiast on the Aves of Aristophanes, line 808.]

    6 (return)
    [ Fragment. 38, ed. Gaisford. See also Mueller’s History of the
    Literature of Ancient Greece, vol. i. pp. 190–193.]

    7 (return)
    [ M. Bayle has well put this in his account of Æsop. “Il n’y a point
    d’apparence que les fables qui portent aujourd’hui son nom soient les
    mêmes qu’il avait faites; elles viennent bien de lui pour la plupart,
    quant à la matière et la pensée; mais les paroles sont d’un autre.” And
    again, “C’est donc à Hésiode, que j’aimerais mieux attribuer la gloire
    de l’invention; mais sans doute il laissa la chose très imparfaite.
    Esope la perfectionne si heureusement, qu’on l’a regarde comme le vrai
    père de cette sorte de production.”—_Bayle. Dictionnaire Historique_.]

    8 (return)
    [ Plato in Phædone.]

    9 (return)
    [ Apologos en! misit tibi
    Ab usque Rheni limite
    Ausonius nomen Italum
    Præceptor Augusti tui
    Æsopiam trimetriam;
    Quam vertit exili stylo
    Pedestre concinnans opus
    Fandi Titianus artifex.

    _Ausonii Epistola_, xvi. 75–80.]

    10 (return)
    [ Both these publications are in the British Museum, and are placed in
    the library in cases under glass, for the inspection of the curious.]

    11 (return)
    [ Fables may possibly have been not entirely unknown to the mediæval
    scholars. There are two celebrated works which might by some be classed
    amongst works of this description. The one is the “Speculum Sapientiæ,”
    attributed to St. Cyril, Archbishop of Jerusalem, but of a considerably
    later origin, and existing only in Latin. It is divided into four
    books, and consists of long conversations conducted by fictitious
    characters under the figures the beasts of the field and forest, and
    aimed at the rebuke of particular classes of men, the boastful, the
    proud, the luxurious, the wrathful, &c. None of the stories are
    precisely those of Æsop, and none have the concinnity, terseness, and
    unmistakable deduction of the lesson intended to be taught by the
    fable, so conspicuous in the great Greek fabulist. The exact title of
    the book is this: “Speculum Sapientiæ, B. Cyrilli Episcopi: alias
    quadripartitus apologeticus vocatus, in cujus quidem proverbiis omnis
    et totius sapientiæ speculum claret et feliciter incipit.” The other is
    a larger work in two volumes, published in the fourteenth century by
    Cæsar Heisterbach, a Cistercian monk, under the title of “Dialogus
    Miraculorum,” reprinted in 1851. This work consists of conversations in
    which many stories are interwoven on all kinds of subjects. It has no
    correspondence with the pure Æsopian fable.]

    12 (return)
    [ Post-mediæval Preachers, by S. Baring-Gould. Rivingtons, 1865.]

    13 (return)
    [ For an account of this work see the Life of Poggio Bracciolini, by
    the Rev. William Shepherd. Liverpool, 1801.]

    14 (return)
    [ Professor Theodore Bergh. See Classical Museum, No. viii. July,
    1849.]

    15 (return)
    [ Vavassor’s treatise, entitled “De Ludicrâ Dictione” was written A.D.
    1658, at the request of the celebrated M. Balzac (though published
    after his death), for the purpose of showing that the burlesque style
    of writing adopted by Scarron and D’Assouci, and at that time so
    popular in France, had no sanction from the ancient classic writers.
    _Francisci Vavassoris opera omnia_. Amsterdam. 1709.]

    16 (return)
    [ The claims of Babrias also found a warm advocate in the learned
    Frenchman, M. Bayle, who, in his admirable Dictionary, (_Dictionnaire
    Historique et Critique de Pierre Bayle_. Paris, 1820,) gives additional
    arguments in confirmation of the opinions of his learned predecessors,
    Nevelet and Vavassor.]

    17 (return)
    [ Scazonic, or halting, iambics; a choliambic (a lame, halting iambic)
    differs from the iambic Senarius in always having a spondee or trochee
    for its last foot; the fifth foot, to avoid shortness of metre, being
    generally an iambic. See Fables of Babrias, translated by Rev. James
    Davies. Lockwood, 1860. Preface, p. 27.]

    18 (return)
    [ See Dr. Bentley’s Dissertations upon the Epistles of Phalaris.]

    19 (return)
    [ Dr. Bentley’s Dissertations on the Epistles of Phalaris, and Fables
    of Æsop examined. By the Honourable Charles Boyle.]

    20 (return)
    [ M. Bayle thus characterises this Life of Æsop by Planudes, “Tous les
    habiles gens conviennent que c’est un roman, et que les absurdités
    grossières qui l’on y trouve le rendent indigne de toute créance.”
    _Dictionnaire Historique_. Art. _Esope_.]

    INDEX

    Æthiop
    The Ant and the Dove
    The Ants and the Grasshopper
    The Apes and the Two Travelers
    The Ass and the Charger
    The Ass and His Driver
    The Ass and the Frogs
    The Ass and the Grasshopper
    The Ass and his Masters
    The Ass and his Purchaser
    The Ass and his Shadow
    The Ass and the Horse
    The Ass and the Lapdog
    The Ass and the Mule
    The Ass and the Old Shepherd
    The Ass and the Wolf
    The Ass Carrying the Image
    The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion
    The Ass in the Lion’s Skin
    The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion
    The Astronomer

    The Bald Man and the Fly
    The Bald Knight
    The Bat And The Weasels
    The Bear and the Fox
    The Bear and the Two Travelers
    The Bee and Jupiter
    The Belly and the Members
    The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock
    The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat
    The Bitch and her Whelps
    The Blind Man and the Whelp
    The Boasting Traveler
    The Bowman and Lion
    The Boy and the Filberts
    The Boy and the Nettles
    The Boy Bathing
    The Boy hunting Locusts
    The Boys and the Frogs
    The Brazier and His Dog
    The Brother and the Sister
    The Buffoon and the Countryman
    The Bull and the Calf
    The Bull and the Goat
    The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter

    The Camel
    The Camel and the Arab
    The Camel and Jupiter
    The Cat and the Birds
    The Cat and the Cock
    The Cat and the Mice
    The Cat and Venus
    The Cobbler Turned Doctor
    The Cock and the Jewel
    The Charcoal-Burner and the Fuller
    The Charger and the Miller
    The Crab and the Fox
    The Crab and its Mother
    The Crow and Mercury
    The Crow and the Pitcher
    The Crow and the Raven
    The Crow and the Serpent
    The Crow and the Sheep

    The Dancing Monkeys
    The Doe and the Lion
    The Dog and the Cook
    The Dog and the Hare
    The Dog and the Oyster
    The Dog and the Shadow
    The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox
    The Dog in the Manger
    The Dogs and the Fox
    The Dogs and the Hides
    The Dog’s House
    The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat
    The Dove and the Crow

    The Eagle and the Arrow
    The Eagle and the Beetle
    The Eagle and His Captor
    The Eagle and the Fox
    The Eagle and the Jackdaw
    The Eagle and the Kite
    The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow

    The Farmer and the Cranes
    The Farmer and the Fox
    The Farmer and the Snake
    The Farmer and His Sons
    The Farmer and the Stork
    The Father And His Sons
    The Father and His Two Daughters
    The Fawn and His Mother
    The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle
    The Fir-Tree and the Bramble
    The Fisherman and His Nets
    The Fisherman and the Little Fish
    The Fisherman Piping
    The Fishermen
    The Flea and the Man
    The Flea and the Ox
    The Flea and the Wrestler
    The Flies and the Honey-Pot
    The Fly and the Draught-Mule
    The Fowler and the Viper
    The Fox and the Bramble
    The Fox and the Crane
    The Fox and the Crow
    The Fox and the Goat
    The Fox and the Grapes
    The Fox and the Hedgehog
    The Fox and the Leopard
    The Fox and the Lion
    The Fox and the Lion
    The Fox and the Mask
    The Fox and the Monkey
    The Fox and the Monkey
    The Fox and the Woodcutter
    The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail
    The Frogs Asking for a King
    The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun

    The Gamecocks and the Partridge
    The Geese and the Cranes
    The Gnat and the Bull
    The Gnat and the Lion
    The Goat and the Ass
    The Goat and the Goatherd
    The Goatherd and the Wild Goats
    The Goods and the Ills
    The Grasshopper and the Owl

    The Hare and the Hound
    The Hare and the Tortoise
    The Hares and the Foxes
    The Hares and the Frogs
    The Hares and the Lions
    The Hart and the Vine
    The Hawk and the Nightingale
    The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons
    The Heifer and the Ox
    The Hen and the Golden Eggs
    The Hen and the Swallow
    Hercules and the Wagoner
    The Herdsman and the Lost Bull
    The Horse and the Ass
    The Horse and Groom
    The Horse and his Rider
    The Horse and the Stag
    The Hunter and the Horseman
    The Hunter and the Woodman
    The Huntsman and the Fisherman

    The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter

    The Jackdaw and the Doves
    The Jackdaw and the Fox
    Jupiter and the Monkey
    Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus

    The Kid and the Wolf
    The Kid and the Wolf
    The Kingdom of the Lion
    The King’s Son and the Painted Lion
    The Kites and the Swans

    The Laborer and the Snake
    The Lamb and the Wolf
    The Lamp
    The Lark and Her Young Ones
    The Lark Burying Her Father
    The Lion and the Boar
    The Lion and the Bull
    The Lion and the Dolphin
    The Lion and the Eagle
    The Lion and the Fox
    The Lion and the Hare
    The Lion and the Mouse
    The Lion and the Shepherd
    The Lion and the Three Bulls
    The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox
    The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass
    The Lion in a Farmyard
    The Lion in Love
    The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant
    The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox
    The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
    The Lioness

    The Man and His Two Sweethearts
    The Man and His Wife
    The Man and the Lion
    The Man and the Satyr
    The Man bitten by a Dog
    The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog
    The Manslayer
    The Master and His Dogs
    Mercury and the Sculptor
    Mercury and the Workmen
    The Mice and the Weasels
    The Mice in Council
    The Milk-Woman and her Pail
    The Miller, His Son, and their Ass
    The Mischievous Dog
    The Miser
    The Mole and His Mother
    The Monkey and the Camel
    The Monkey and the Dolphin
    The Monkey and the Fishermen
    The Monkeys and their Mother
    The Mother and the Wolf
    The Mountain in Labor
    The Mouse and the Bull
    The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk
    The Mule
    The Mules and the Robbers

    The North Wind and the Sun

    The Oak and the Reeds
    The Oak and the Woodcutters
    The Oaks and Jupiter
    The Old Hound
    The Old Lion
    The Old Man and Death
    The Old Woman and the Physician
    The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar
    The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree
    The One-Eyed Doe
    The Owl and the Birds
    The Ox and the Frog
    The Oxen and the Axle-Trees
    The Oxen and the Butchers

    The Panther and the Shepherds
    The Partridge and the Fowler
    The Peacock and the Crane
    The Peacock and Juno
    The Peasant and the Apple-Tree
    The Peasant and the Eagle
    The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury
    The Playful Ass
    The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble
    The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat
    The Prophet

    The Quack Frog

    The Raven and the Swan
    The Rich Man and the Tanner
    The Rivers and the Sea
    The Rose and the Amaranth

    The Salt Merchant and his Ass
    The Seagull and the Kite
    The Seaside Travelers
    The Seller of Images
    The Serpent and the Eagle
    The She-Goats and their Beards
    The Shepherd and the Dog
    The Shepherd and the Sea
    The Shepherd and the Sheep
    The Shepherd and the Wolf
    The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf
    The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea
    The Sick Kite
    The Sick Lion
    The Sick Stag
    The Sparrow and the Hare
    The Spendthrift and the Swallow
    The Stag at the Pool
    The Stag in the Ox-Stall
    The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep
    The Swallow and the Crow
    The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice
    The Swan and the Goose
    The Swollen Fox

    The Thief and his Mother
    The Thief and the Housedog
    The Thief and the Innkeeper
    The Thieves and the Cock
    The Thirsty Pigeon
    The Three Tradesmen
    The Thrush and the Fowler
    The Tortoise and the Eagle
    The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse
    The Traveler and Fortune
    The Traveler and his Dog
    The Travelers and the Plane-Tree
    The Trees and the Axe
    The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods
    The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
    Truth and the Traveler
    The Two Bags
    The Two Dogs
    The Two Frogs
    The Two Frogs
    The Two Men Who Were Enemies
    The Two Pots
    The Two Soldiers and the Robber
    The Two Travelers and the Axe

    The Vain Jackdaw
    The Vine and the Goat
    The Viper and the File

    The Walnut-Tree
    The Wasp and the Snake
    The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer
    The Weasel and the Mice
    The Widow and Her Little Maidens
    The Widow and the Sheep
    The Wild Ass and the Lion
    The Wild Boar and the Fox
    The Wolf and the Crane
    The Wolf and the Fox
    The Wolf and the Goat
    The Wolf and the Horse
    The Wolf and the Housedog
    The Wolf and the Lamb
    The Wolf and the Lion
    The Wolf and the Lion
    The Wolf and the Sheep
    The Wolf and the Shepherd
    The Wolf and the Shepherds
    The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape
    The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
    The Wolves and the Sheep
    The Wolves and the Sheepdogs
    The Woman and her Hen

  • The war of the worlds

    The war of the worlds

    Aproximadamente 61.003 palavras.

    /

    The War of the Worlds

    by H. G. Wells

    ‘But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited?
    . . . Are we or they Lords of the World? . . . And
    how are all things made for man?’
    KEPLER (quoted in _The Anatomy of Melancholy_)

    Contents

    BOOK ONE.—THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

    I. THE EVE OF THE WAR.
    II. THE FALLING STAR.
    III. ON HORSELL COMMON.
    IV. THE CYLINDER OPENS.
    V. THE HEAT-RAY.
    VI. THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.
    VII. HOW I REACHED HOME.
    VIII. FRIDAY NIGHT.
    IX. THE FIGHTING BEGINS.
    X. IN THE STORM.
    XI. AT THE WINDOW.
    XII. WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.
    XIII. HOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.
    XIV. IN LONDON.
    XV. WHAT HAD HAPPENED IN SURREY.
    XVI. THE EXODUS FROM LONDON.
    XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD”.

    BOOK TWO.—THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS

    I. UNDER FOOT.
    II. WHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.
    III. THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.
    IV. THE DEATH OF THE CURATE.
    V. THE STILLNESS.
    VI. THE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.
    VII. THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.
    VIII. DEAD LONDON.
    IX. WRECKAGE.
    X. THE EPILOGUE.

    BOOK ONE
    THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

    I.
    THE EVE OF THE WAR.

    No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century
    that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences
    greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied
    themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and
    studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might
    scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of
    water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe
    about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire
    over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do
    the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources
    of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life
    upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of
    the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men
    fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to
    themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the
    gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the
    beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic,
    regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their
    plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great
    disillusionment.

    The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the
    sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it
    receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It
    must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world;
    and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface
    must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of
    the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the
    temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all
    that is necessary for the support of animated existence.

    Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to
    the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that
    intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all,
    beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since
    Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the
    superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that
    it is not only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer its end.

    The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already
    gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still
    largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region
    the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter.
    Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until
    they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change
    huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically
    inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to
    us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the
    inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened
    their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And
    looking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we
    have scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only
    35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own
    warmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy
    atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting
    cloud wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow,
    navy-crowded seas.

    And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at
    least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The
    intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant
    struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief
    of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this
    world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they
    regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their
    only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation,
    creeps upon them.

    And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless
    and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon
    animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior
    races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely
    swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European
    immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy
    as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?

    The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing
    subtlety—their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of
    ours—and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh
    perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen
    the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like
    Schiaparelli watched the red planet—it is odd, by-the-bye, that for
    countless centuries Mars has been the star of war—but failed to
    interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so
    well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.

    During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated
    part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of
    Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in
    the issue of _Nature_ dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this
    blaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk
    into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar
    markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak
    during the next two oppositions.

    The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached
    opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange
    palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of
    incandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of
    the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted,
    indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an
    enormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become
    invisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal
    puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet, “as
    flaming gases rushed out of a gun.”

    A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was
    nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the _Daily
    Telegraph_, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest
    dangers that ever threatened the human race. I might not have heard of
    the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at
    Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of
    his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a
    scrutiny of the red planet.

    In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil
    very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern
    throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking
    of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof—an
    oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved
    about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a
    circle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field.
    It seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly
    marked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect
    round. But so little it was, so silvery warm—a pin’s head of light! It
    was as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with
    the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view.

    As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to
    advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty
    millions of miles it was from us—more than forty millions of miles of
    void. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of
    the material universe swims.

    Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light,
    three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the
    unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks
    on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder.
    And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly
    and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer
    every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were
    sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity
    and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one
    on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.

    That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant
    planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection
    of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I
    told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty,
    and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the
    darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy
    exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.

    That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth
    from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first
    one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with
    patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a
    light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I
    had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till
    one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his
    house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all
    their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.

    He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and
    scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were
    signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy
    shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in
    progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic
    evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.

    “The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,” he
    said.

    Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night after
    about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten nights, a
    flame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on earth
    has attempted to explain. It may be the gases of the firing caused the
    Martians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through
    a powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating patches,
    spread through the clearness of the planet’s atmosphere and obscured
    its more familiar features.

    Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular
    notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes
    upon Mars. The seriocomic periodical _Punch_, I remember, made a happy
    use of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those
    missiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a
    pace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by
    hour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost
    incredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men
    could go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how
    jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the
    illustrated paper he edited in those days. People in these latter times
    scarcely realise the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century
    papers. For my own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the
    bicycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the probable
    developments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.

    One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been 10,000,000
    miles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I
    explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and pointed out Mars, a
    bright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards which so many
    telescopes were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party of
    excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us singing and playing
    music. There were lights in the upper windows of the houses as the
    people went to bed. From the railway station in the distance came the
    sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into
    melody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of the
    red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the
    sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.

    II.
    THE FALLING STAR.

    Then came the night of the first falling star. It was seen early in the
    morning, rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high in the
    atmosphere. Hundreds must have seen it, and taken it for an ordinary
    falling star. Albin described it as leaving a greenish streak behind it
    that glowed for some seconds. Denning, our greatest authority on
    meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about
    ninety or one hundred miles. It seemed to him that it fell to earth
    about one hundred miles east of him.

    I was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and although my
    French windows face towards Ottershaw and the blind was up (for I loved
    in those days to look up at the night sky), I saw nothing of it. Yet
    this strangest of all things that ever came to earth from outer space
    must have fallen while I was sitting there, visible to me had I only
    looked up as it passed. Some of those who saw its flight say it
    travelled with a hissing sound. I myself heard nothing of that. Many
    people in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must have seen the fall of
    it, and, at most, have thought that another meteorite had descended. No
    one seems to have troubled to look for the fallen mass that night.

    But very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had seen the shooting
    star and who was persuaded that a meteorite lay somewhere on the common
    between Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with the idea of
    finding it. Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far from the
    sand-pits. An enormous hole had been made by the impact of the
    projectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung violently in every
    direction over the heath, forming heaps visible a mile and a half away.
    The heather was on fire eastward, and a thin blue smoke rose against
    the dawn.

    The Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand, amidst the
    scattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to fragments in its
    descent. The uncovered part had the appearance of a huge cylinder,
    caked over and its outline softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured
    incrustation. It had a diameter of about thirty yards. He approached
    the mass, surprised at the size and more so at the shape, since most
    meteorites are rounded more or less completely. It was, however, still
    so hot from its flight through the air as to forbid his near approach.
    A stirring noise within its cylinder he ascribed to the unequal cooling
    of its surface; for at that time it had not occurred to him that it
    might be hollow.

    He remained standing at the edge of the pit that the Thing had made for
    itself, staring at its strange appearance, astonished chiefly at its
    unusual shape and colour, and dimly perceiving even then some evidence
    of design in its arrival. The early morning was wonderfully still, and
    the sun, just clearing the pine trees towards Weybridge, was already
    warm. He did not remember hearing any birds that morning, there was
    certainly no breeze stirring, and the only sounds were the faint
    movements from within the cindery cylinder. He was all alone on the
    common.

    Then suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the grey clinker,
    the ashy incrustation that covered the meteorite, was falling off the
    circular edge of the end. It was dropping off in flakes and raining
    down upon the sand. A large piece suddenly came off and fell with a
    sharp noise that brought his heart into his mouth.

    For a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and, although the
    heat was excessive, he clambered down into the pit close to the bulk to
    see the Thing more clearly. He fancied even then that the cooling of
    the body might account for this, but what disturbed that idea was the
    fact that the ash was falling only from the end of the cylinder.

    And then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular top of the
    cylinder was rotating on its body. It was such a gradual movement that
    he discovered it only through noticing that a black mark that had been
    near him five minutes ago was now at the other side of the
    circumference. Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated,
    until he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark jerk
    forward an inch or so. Then the thing came upon him in a flash. The
    cylinder was artificial—hollow—with an end that screwed out! Something
    within the cylinder was unscrewing the top!

    “Good heavens!” said Ogilvy. “There’s a man in it—men in it! Half
    roasted to death! Trying to escape!”

    At once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing with the flash
    upon Mars.

    The thought of the confined creature was so dreadful to him that he
    forgot the heat and went forward to the cylinder to help turn. But
    luckily the dull radiation arrested him before he could burn his hands
    on the still-glowing metal. At that he stood irresolute for a moment,
    then turned, scrambled out of the pit, and set off running wildly into
    Woking. The time then must have been somewhere about six o’clock. He
    met a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the tale he told
    and his appearance were so wild—his hat had fallen off in the pit—that
    the man simply drove on. He was equally unsuccessful with the potman
    who was just unlocking the doors of the public-house by Horsell Bridge.
    The fellow thought he was a lunatic at large and made an unsuccessful
    attempt to shut him into the taproom. That sobered him a little; and
    when he saw Henderson, the London journalist, in his garden, he called
    over the palings and made himself understood.

    “Henderson,” he called, “you saw that shooting star last night?”

    “Well?” said Henderson.

    “It’s out on Horsell Common now.”

    “Good Lord!” said Henderson. “Fallen meteorite! That’s good.”

    “But it’s something more than a meteorite. It’s a cylinder—an
    artificial cylinder, man! And there’s something inside.”

    Henderson stood up with his spade in his hand.

    “What’s that?” he said. He was deaf in one ear.

    Ogilvy told him all that he had seen. Henderson was a minute or so
    taking it in. Then he dropped his spade, snatched up his jacket, and
    came out into the road. The two men hurried back at once to the common,
    and found the cylinder still lying in the same position. But now the
    sounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal showed
    between the top and the body of the cylinder. Air was either entering
    or escaping at the rim with a thin, sizzling sound.

    They listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a stick, and,
    meeting with no response, they both concluded the man or men inside
    must be insensible or dead.

    Of course the two were quite unable to do anything. They shouted
    consolation and promises, and went off back to the town again to get
    help. One can imagine them, covered with sand, excited and disordered,
    running up the little street in the bright sunlight just as the shop
    folks were taking down their shutters and people were opening their
    bedroom windows. Henderson went into the railway station at once, in
    order to telegraph the news to London. The newspaper articles had
    prepared men’s minds for the reception of the idea.

    By eight o’clock a number of boys and unemployed men had already
    started for the common to see the “dead men from Mars.” That was the
    form the story took. I heard of it first from my newspaper boy about a
    quarter to nine when I went out to get my _Daily Chronicle_. I was
    naturally startled, and lost no time in going out and across the
    Ottershaw bridge to the sand-pits.

    III.
    ON HORSELL COMMON.

    I found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the huge
    hole in which the cylinder lay. I have already described the appearance
    of that colossal bulk, embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel
    about it seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion. No doubt its
    impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy were not there.
    I think they perceived that nothing was to be done for the present, and
    had gone away to breakfast at Henderson’s house.

    There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the Pit, with their
    feet dangling, and amusing themselves—until I stopped them—by throwing
    stones at the giant mass. After I had spoken to them about it, they
    began playing at “touch” in and out of the group of bystanders.

    Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I employed
    sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his little
    boy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were accustomed to
    hang about the railway station. There was very little talking. Few of
    the common people in England had anything but the vaguest astronomical
    ideas in those days. Most of them were staring quietly at the big table
    like end of the cylinder, which was still as Ogilvy and Henderson had
    left it. I fancy the popular expectation of a heap of charred corpses
    was disappointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I was
    there, and other people came. I clambered into the pit and fancied I
    heard a faint movement under my feet. The top had certainly ceased to
    rotate.

    It was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of this
    object was at all evident to me. At the first glance it was really no
    more exciting than an overturned carriage or a tree blown across the
    road. Not so much so, indeed. It looked like a rusty gas float. It
    required a certain amount of scientific education to perceive that the
    grey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the yellowish-white
    metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid and the cylinder had an
    unfamiliar hue. “Extra-terrestrial” had no meaning for most of the
    onlookers.

    At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing had come
    from the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it contained any
    living creature. I thought the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite
    of Ogilvy, I still believed that there were men in Mars. My mind ran
    fancifully on the possibilities of its containing manuscript, on the
    difficulties in translation that might arise, whether we should find
    coins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it was a little too large for
    assurance on this idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. About
    eleven, as nothing seemed happening, I walked back, full of such
    thought, to my home in Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work
    upon my abstract investigations.

    In the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very much.
    The early editions of the evening papers had startled London with
    enormous headlines:

    “A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”

    “REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,”

    and so forth. In addition, Ogilvy’s wire to the Astronomical Exchange
    had roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.

    There were half a dozen flys or more from the Woking station standing
    in the road by the sand-pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a
    rather lordly carriage. Besides that, there was quite a heap of
    bicycles. In addition, a large number of people must have walked, in
    spite of the heat of the day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that there
    was altogether quite a considerable crowd—one or two gaily dressed
    ladies among the others.

    It was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and
    the only shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning
    heather had been extinguished, but the level ground towards Ottershaw
    was blackened as far as one could see, and still giving off vertical
    streamers of smoke. An enterprising sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham
    Road had sent up his son with a barrow-load of green apples and ginger
    beer.

    Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about
    half a dozen men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man that I
    afterwards learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with several
    workmen wielding spades and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a
    clear, high-pitched voice. He was standing on the cylinder, which was
    now evidently much cooler; his face was crimson and streaming with
    perspiration, and something seemed to have irritated him.

    A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower
    end was still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the staring
    crowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down, and asked me
    if I would mind going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.

    The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to their
    excavations, especially the boys. They wanted a light railing put up,
    and help to keep the people back. He told me that a faint stirring was
    occasionally still audible within the case, but that the workmen had
    failed to unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to them. The case
    appeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible that the faint
    sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the interior.

    I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the privileged
    spectators within the contemplated enclosure. I failed to find Lord
    Hilton at his house, but I was told he was expected from London by the
    six o’clock train from Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter
    past five, I went home, had some tea, and walked up to the station to
    waylay him.

    IV.
    THE CYLINDER OPENS.

    When I returned to the common the sun was setting. Scattered groups
    were hurrying from the direction of Woking, and one or two persons were
    returning. The crowd about the pit had increased, and stood out black
    against the lemon yellow of the sky—a couple of hundred people,
    perhaps. There were raised voices, and some sort of struggle appeared
    to be going on about the pit. Strange imaginings passed through my
    mind. As I drew nearer I heard Stent’s voice:

    “Keep back! Keep back!”

    A boy came running towards me.

    “It’s a-movin’,” he said to me as he passed; “a-screwin’ and a-screwin’
    out. I don’t like it. I’m a-goin’ ’ome, I am.”

    I went on to the crowd. There were really, I should think, two or three
    hundred people elbowing and jostling one another, the one or two ladies
    there being by no means the least active.

    “He’s fallen in the pit!” cried some one.

    “Keep back!” said several.

    The crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way through. Every one
    seemed greatly excited. I heard a peculiar humming sound from the pit.

    “I say!” said Ogilvy; “help keep these idiots back. We don’t know
    what’s in the confounded thing, you know!”

    I saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I believe he was,
    standing on the cylinder and trying to scramble out of the hole again.
    The crowd had pushed him in.

    The end of the cylinder was being screwed out from within. Nearly two
    feet of shining screw projected. Somebody blundered against me, and I
    narrowly missed being pitched onto the top of the screw. I turned, and
    as I did so the screw must have come out, for the lid of the cylinder
    fell upon the gravel with a ringing concussion. I stuck my elbow into
    the person behind me, and turned my head towards the Thing again. For a
    moment that circular cavity seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in
    my eyes.

    I think everyone expected to see a man emerge—possibly something a
    little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a man. I know I
    did. But, looking, I presently saw something stirring within the
    shadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and then two
    luminous disks—like eyes. Then something resembling a little grey
    snake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up out of the
    writhing middle, and wriggled in the air towards me—and then another.

    A sudden chill came over me. There was a loud shriek from a woman
    behind. I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed upon the cylinder still,
    from which other tentacles were now projecting, and began pushing my
    way back from the edge of the pit. I saw astonishment giving place to
    horror on the faces of the people about me. I heard inarticulate
    exclamations on all sides. There was a general movement backwards. I
    saw the shopman struggling still on the edge of the pit. I found myself
    alone, and saw the people on the other side of the pit running off,
    Stent among them. I looked again at the cylinder, and ungovernable
    terror gripped me. I stood petrified and staring.

    A big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear, was rising
    slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. As it bulged up and caught
    the light, it glistened like wet leather.

    Two large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me steadfastly. The mass
    that framed them, the head of the thing, was rounded, and had, one
    might say, a face. There was a mouth under the eyes, the lipless brim
    of which quivered and panted, and dropped saliva. The whole creature
    heaved and pulsated convulsively. A lank tentacular appendage gripped
    the edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the air.

    Those who have never seen a living Martian can scarcely imagine the
    strange horror of its appearance. The peculiar V-shaped mouth with its
    pointed upper lip, the absence of brow ridges, the absence of a chin
    beneath the wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of this mouth,
    the Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing of the lungs
    in a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness and painfulness of
    movement due to the greater gravitational energy of the earth—above
    all, the extraordinary intensity of the immense eyes—were at once
    vital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous. There was something
    fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of
    the tedious movements unspeakably nasty. Even at this first encounter,
    this first glimpse, I was overcome with disgust and dread.

    Suddenly the monster vanished. It had toppled over the brim of the
    cylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud like the fall of a great
    mass of leather. I heard it give a peculiar thick cry, and forthwith
    another of these creatures appeared darkly in the deep shadow of the
    aperture.

    I turned and, running madly, made for the first group of trees, perhaps
    a hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly and stumbling, for I could
    not avert my face from these things.

    There, among some young pine trees and furze bushes, I stopped,
    panting, and waited further developments. The common round the
    sand-pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a
    half-fascinated terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the
    heaped gravel at the edge of the pit in which they lay. And then, with
    a renewed horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on
    the edge of the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had fallen in,
    but showing as a little black object against the hot western sun. Now
    he got his shoulder and knee up, and again he seemed to slip back until
    only his head was visible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have
    fancied a faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to go
    back and help him that my fears overruled.

    Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and the
    heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made. Anyone coming
    along the road from Chobham or Woking would have been amazed at the
    sight—a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more
    standing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes, behind
    gates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in short,
    excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of sand. The
    barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black against the
    burning sky, and in the sand-pits was a row of deserted vehicles with
    their horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the ground.

    V.
    THE HEAT-RAY.

    After the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerging from the cylinder
    in which they had come to the earth from their planet, a kind of
    fascination paralysed my actions. I remained standing knee-deep in the
    heather, staring at the mound that hid them. I was a battleground of
    fear and curiosity.

    I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a passionate
    longing to peer into it. I began walking, therefore, in a big curve,
    seeking some point of vantage and continually looking at the sand-heaps
    that hid these new-comers to our earth. Once a leash of thin black
    whips, like the arms of an octopus, flashed across the sunset and was
    immediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose up, joint by
    joint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun with a wobbling
    motion. What could be going on there?

    Most of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups—one a little
    crowd towards Woking, the other a knot of people in the direction of
    Chobham. Evidently they shared my mental conflict. There were few near
    me. One man I approached—he was, I perceived, a neighbour of mine,
    though I did not know his name—and accosted. But it was scarcely a time
    for articulate conversation.

    “What ugly _brutes_!” he said. “Good God! What ugly brutes!” He
    repeated this over and over again.

    “Did you see a man in the pit?” I said; but he made no answer to that.
    We became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side, deriving,
    I fancy, a certain comfort in one another’s company. Then I shifted my
    position to a little knoll that gave me the advantage of a yard or more
    of elevation and when I looked for him presently he was walking towards
    Woking.

    The sunset faded to twilight before anything further happened. The
    crowd far away on the left, towards Woking, seemed to grow, and I heard
    now a faint murmur from it. The little knot of people towards Chobham
    dispersed. There was scarcely an intimation of movement from the pit.

    It was this, as much as anything, that gave people courage, and I
    suppose the new arrivals from Woking also helped to restore confidence.
    At any rate, as the dusk came on a slow, intermittent movement upon the
    sand-pits began, a movement that seemed to gather force as the
    stillness of the evening about the cylinder remained unbroken. Vertical
    black figures in twos and threes would advance, stop, watch, and
    advance again, spreading out as they did so in a thin irregular
    crescent that promised to enclose the pit in its attenuated horns. I,
    too, on my side began to move towards the pit.

    Then I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly into the sand-pits,
    and heard the clatter of hoofs and the gride of wheels. I saw a lad
    trundling off the barrow of apples. And then, within thirty yards of
    the pit, advancing from the direction of Horsell, I noted a little
    black knot of men, the foremost of whom was waving a white flag.

    This was the Deputation. There had been a hasty consultation, and since
    the Martians were evidently, in spite of their repulsive forms,
    intelligent creatures, it had been resolved to show them, by
    approaching them with signals, that we too were intelligent.

    Flutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to the left.
    It was too far for me to recognise anyone there, but afterwards I
    learned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson were with others in this
    attempt at communication. This little group had in its advance dragged
    inward, so to speak, the circumference of the now almost complete
    circle of people, and a number of dim black figures followed it at
    discreet distances.

    Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous
    greenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which drove
    up, one after the other, straight into the still air.

    This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it) was so
    bright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches of brown
    common towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed to darken
    abruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their
    dispersal. At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible.

    Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white flag at
    its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small vertical
    black shapes upon the black ground. As the green smoke arose, their
    faces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then
    slowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, droning
    noise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and the ghost of a
    beam of light seemed to flicker out from it.

    Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from one to
    another, sprang from the scattered group of men. It was as if some
    invisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame. It was
    as if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.

    Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them staggering and
    falling, and their supporters turning to run.

    I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death leaping from
    man to man in that little distant crowd. All I felt was that it was
    something very strange. An almost noiseless and blinding flash of
    light, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the unseen shaft
    of heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry
    furze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away
    towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and wooden
    buildings suddenly set alight.

    It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this
    invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me
    by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied
    to stir. I heard the crackle of fire in the sand-pits and the sudden
    squeal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an
    invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather
    between me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the
    sand-pits the dark ground smoked and crackled. Something fell with a
    crash far away to the left where the road from Woking station opens out
    on the common. Forth-with the hissing and humming ceased, and the
    black, dome-like object sank slowly out of sight into the pit.

    All this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood motionless,
    dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light. Had that death swept
    through a full circle, it must inevitably have slain me in my surprise.
    But it passed and spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark
    and unfamiliar.

    The undulating common seemed now dark almost to blackness, except where
    its roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky of the early
    night. It was dark, and suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were
    mustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost
    greenish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell came
    out sharp and black against the western afterglow. The Martians and
    their appliances were altogether invisible, save for that thin mast
    upon which their restless mirror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated
    trees here and there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards
    Woking station were sending up spires of flame into the stillness of
    the evening air.

    Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment. The
    little group of black specks with the flag of white had been swept out
    of existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it seemed to me, had
    scarcely been broken.

    It came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless, unprotected,
    and alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from without,
    came—fear.

    With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the heather.

    The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of
    the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me. Such an
    extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently
    as a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare to look back.

    I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played
    with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this
    mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me
    from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down.

    VI.
    THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.

    It is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay men so
    swiftly and so silently. Many think that in some way they are able to
    generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute
    non-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam
    against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror
    of unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a lighthouse
    projects a beam of light. But no one has absolutely proved these
    details. However it is done, it is certain that a beam of heat is the
    essence of the matter. Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light.
    Whatever is combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like
    water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it falls upon
    water, incontinently that explodes into steam.

    That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the pit,
    charred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the common
    from Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze.

    The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and
    Ottershaw about the same time. In Woking the shops had closed when the
    tragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people and so forth,
    attracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell
    Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at last upon
    the common. You may imagine the young people brushed up after the
    labours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would make any
    novelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a trivial
    flirtation. You may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road
    in the gloaming. . . .

    As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the cylinder had
    opened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a bicycle to the
    post office with a special wire to an evening paper.

    As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they found
    little knots of people talking excitedly and peering at the spinning
    mirror over the sand-pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt, soon
    infected by the excitement of the occasion.

    By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may have
    been a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place, besides
    those who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer. There were
    three policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under
    instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter them from
    approaching the cylinder. There was some booing from those more
    thoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always an occasion
    for noise and horse-play.

    Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a collision, had
    telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as the Martians
    emerged, for the help of a company of soldiers to protect these strange
    creatures from violence. After that they returned to lead that
    ill-fated advance. The description of their death, as it was seen by
    the crowd, tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three
    puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the flashes of flame.

    But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine. Only the
    fact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower part of the
    Heat-Ray saved them. Had the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a
    few yards higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the
    flashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were, lit the
    bushes as it hurried towards them through the twilight. Then, with a
    whistling note that rose above the droning of the pit, the beam swung
    close over their heads, lighting the tops of the beech trees that line
    the road, and splitting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the
    window frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of the
    gable of the house nearest the corner.

    In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the
    panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some
    moments. Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and
    single leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire. Then
    came a crying from the common. There were shrieks and shouts, and
    suddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion with
    his hands clasped over his head, screaming.

    “They’re coming!” a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone was
    turning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way to
    Woking again. They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep.
    Where the road grows narrow and black between the high banks the crowd
    jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd did not
    escape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy, were
    crushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and the
    darkness.

    VII.
    HOW I REACHED HOME.

    For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of
    blundering against trees and stumbling through the heather. All about
    me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword
    of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it
    descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the
    crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads.

    At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my
    emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That
    was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and
    lay still.

    I must have remained there some time.

    I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not
    clearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like
    a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its
    fastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things
    before me—the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own
    feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as
    if something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There
    was no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was
    immediately the self of every day again—a decent, ordinary citizen. The
    silent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as
    if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things
    indeed happened? I could not credit it.

    I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My
    mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their
    strength. I dare say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch,
    and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran
    a little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to
    speak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless
    mumble and went on over the bridge.

    Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit
    smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying
    south—clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of
    people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row
    of gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so
    familiar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I
    told myself, could not be.

    Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my
    experience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of
    detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all
    from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out
    of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was
    very strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream.

    But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the
    swift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of
    business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I
    stopped at the group of people.

    “What news from the common?” said I.

    There were two men and a woman at the gate.

    “Eh?” said one of the men, turning.

    “What news from the common?” I said.

    “Ain’t yer just _been_ there?” asked the men.

    “People seem fair silly about the common,” said the woman over the
    gate. “What’s it all abart?”

    “Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” said I; “the creatures from
    Mars?”

    “Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate. “Thenks;” and all three
    of them laughed.

    I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what
    I had seen. They laughed again at my broken sentences.

    “You’ll hear more yet,” I said, and went on to my home.

    I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the
    dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect
    myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which
    was a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the
    table while I told my story.

    “There is one thing,” I said, to allay the fears I had aroused; “they
    are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit
    and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . .
    . But the horror of them!”

    “Don’t, dear!” said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on
    mine.

    “Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “To think he may be lying dead there!”

    My wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how
    deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.

    “They may come here,” she said again and again.

    I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.

    “They can scarcely move,” I said.

    I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told
    me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the
    earth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On
    the surface of the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is
    on the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times
    more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His
    own body would be a cope of lead to him, therefore. That, indeed, was
    the general opinion. Both _The Times_ and the _Daily Telegraph_, for
    instance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as
    I did, two obvious modifying influences.

    The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or
    far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars’. The
    invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians
    indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their
    bodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such
    mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to
    dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.

    But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning
    was dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the
    confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I
    grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.

    “They have done a foolish thing,” said I, fingering my wineglass. “They
    are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they
    expected to find no living things—certainly no intelligent living
    things.”

    “A shell in the pit,” said I, “if the worst comes to the worst, will
    kill them all.”

    The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive
    powers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with
    extraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife’s sweet anxious face
    peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its
    silver and glass table furniture—for in those days even philosophical
    writers had many little luxuries—the crimson-purple wine in my glass,
    are photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts
    with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s rashness, and denouncing the
    short-sighted timidity of the Martians.

    So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his
    nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in
    want of animal food. “We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

    I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat
    for very many strange and terrible days.

    VIII.
    FRIDAY NIGHT.

    The most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and
    wonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing of
    the commonplace habits of our social order with the first beginnings of
    the series of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If
    on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle
    with a radius of five miles round the Woking sand-pits, I doubt if you
    would have had one human being outside it, unless it were some relation
    of Stent or of the three or four cyclists or London people lying dead
    on the common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by the
    new-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder, of course, and
    talked about it in their leisure, but it certainly did not make the
    sensation that an ultimatum to Germany would have done.

    In London that night poor Henderson’s telegram describing the gradual
    unscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his evening
    paper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving no
    reply—the man was killed—decided not to print a special edition.

    Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of people were
    inert. I have already described the behaviour of the men and women to
    whom I spoke. All over the district people were dining and supping;
    working men were gardening after the labours of the day, children were
    being put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes
    love-making, students sat over their books.

    Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and dominant
    topic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger, or even an
    eye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of excitement, a
    shouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most part the daily
    routine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had done
    for countless years—as though no planet Mars existed in the sky. Even
    at Woking station and Horsell and Chobham that was the case.

    In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and going
    on, others were shunting on the sidings, passengers were alighting and
    waiting, and everything was proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy
    from the town, trenching on Smith’s monopoly, was selling papers with
    the afternoon’s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp whistle
    of the engines from the junction, mingled with their shouts of “Men
    from Mars!” Excited men came into the station about nine o’clock with
    incredible tidings, and caused no more disturbance than drunkards might
    have done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the darkness outside
    the carriage windows, and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark
    dance up from the direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of
    smoke driving across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious
    than a heath fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the
    common that any disturbance was perceptible. There were half a dozen
    villas burning on the Woking border. There were lights in all the
    houses on the common side of the three villages, and the people there
    kept awake till dawn.

    A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but the
    crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges. One or two
    adventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the darkness and
    crawled quite near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and
    again a light-ray, like the beam of a warship’s searchlight swept the
    common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow. Save for such, that big
    area of common was silent and desolate, and the charred bodies lay
    about on it all night under the stars, and all the next day. A noise of
    hammering from the pit was heard by many people.

    So you have the state of things on Friday night. In the centre,
    sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart,
    was this cylinder. But the poison was scarcely working yet. Around it
    was a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a few
    dark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there.
    Here and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a fringe of
    excitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation had not crept
    as yet. In the rest of the world the stream of life still flowed as it
    had flowed for immemorial years. The fever of war that would presently
    clog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain, had still to
    develop.

    All night long the Martians were hammering and stirring, sleepless,
    indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making ready, and
    ever and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up to the starlit
    sky.

    About eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and deployed
    along the edge of the common to form a cordon. Later a second company
    marched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common.
    Several officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the common
    earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to be missing.
    The colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge and was busy
    questioning the crowd at midnight. The military authorities were
    certainly alive to the seriousness of the business. About eleven, the
    next morning’s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars, two
    Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan regiment started
    from Aldershot.

    A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road, Woking,
    saw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the northwest. It
    had a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness like summer
    lightning. This was the second cylinder.

    IX.
    THE FIGHTING BEGINS.

    Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of
    lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating
    barometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in
    sleeping, and I rose early. I went into my garden before breakfast and
    stood listening, but towards the common there was nothing stirring but
    a lark.

    The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went
    round to the side gate to ask the latest news. He told me that during
    the night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and that guns
    were expected. Then—a familiar, reassuring note—I heard a train running
    towards Woking.

    “They aren’t to be killed,” said the milkman, “if that can possibly be
    avoided.”

    I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then
    strolled in to breakfast. It was a most unexceptional morning. My
    neighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture or to
    destroy the Martians during the day.

    “It’s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,” he said. “It
    would be curious to know how they live on another planet; we might
    learn a thing or two.”

    He came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries, for his
    gardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic. At the same time he
    told me of the burning of the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links.

    “They say,” said he, “that there’s another of those blessed things
    fallen there—number two. But one’s enough, surely. This lot’ll cost the
    insurance people a pretty penny before everything’s settled.” He
    laughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he said this. The
    woods, he said, were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to
    me. “They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the thick soil
    of pine needles and turf,” he said, and then grew serious over “poor
    Ogilvy.”

    After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down towards the
    common. Under the railway bridge I found a group of soldiers—sappers, I
    think, men in small round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and
    showing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf.
    They told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, looking along the
    road towards the bridge, I saw one of the Cardigan men standing
    sentinel there. I talked with these soldiers for a time; I told them of
    my sight of the Martians on the previous evening. None of them had seen
    the Martians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they
    plied me with questions. They said that they did not know who had
    authorised the movements of the troops; their idea was that a dispute
    had arisen at the Horse Guards. The ordinary sapper is a great deal
    better educated than the common soldier, and they discussed the
    peculiar conditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I
    described the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue among
    themselves.

    “Crawl up under cover and rush ’em, say I,” said one.

    “Get aht!” said another. “What’s cover against this ’ere ’eat? Sticks
    to cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near as the ground’ll let
    us, and then drive a trench.”

    “Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you ought to ha’ been
    born a rabbit, Snippy.”

    “Ain’t they got any necks, then?” said a third, abruptly—a little,
    contemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe.

    I repeated my description.

    “Octopuses,” said he, “that’s what I calls ’em. Talk about fishers of
    men—fighters of fish it is this time!”

    “It ain’t no murder killing beasts like that,” said the first speaker.

    “Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish ’em?” said the
    little dark man. “You carn tell what they might do.”

    “Where’s your shells?” said the first speaker. “There ain’t no time. Do
    it in a rush, that’s my tip, and do it at once.”

    So they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went on to the
    railway station to get as many morning papers as I could.

    But I will not weary the reader with a description of that long morning
    and of the longer afternoon. I did not succeed in getting a glimpse of
    the common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the
    hands of the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn’t know
    anything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy. I found people
    in the town quite secure again in the presence of the military, and I
    heard for the first time from Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son
    was among the dead on the common. The soldiers had made the people on
    the outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses.

    I got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have said, the day
    was extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I took a
    cold bath in the afternoon. About half past four I went up to the
    railway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers had
    contained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent,
    Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I didn’t know.
    The Martians did not show an inch of themselves. They seemed busy in
    their pit, and there was a sound of hammering and an almost continuous
    streamer of smoke. Apparently they were busy getting ready for a
    struggle. “Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without
    success,” was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper told me
    it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a long pole. The
    Martians took as much notice of such advances as we should of the
    lowing of a cow.

    I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this preparation,
    greatly excited me. My imagination became belligerent, and defeated the
    invaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of
    battle and heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at
    that time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs.

    About three o’clock there began the thud of a gun at measured intervals
    from Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned that the smouldering pine wood
    into which the second cylinder had fallen was being shelled, in the
    hope of destroying that object before it opened. It was only about
    five, however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against the
    first body of Martians.

    About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the
    summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering upon
    us, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and immediately after
    a gust of firing. Close on the heels of that came a violent rattling
    crash, quite close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon
    the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst
    into smoky red flame, and the tower of the little church beside it
    slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished, and the
    roof line of the college itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been
    at work upon it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it,
    flew, and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a heap
    of broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my study window.

    I and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the crest of Maybury
    Hill must be within range of the Martians’ Heat-Ray now that the
    college was cleared out of the way.

    At that I gripped my wife’s arm, and without ceremony ran her out into
    the road. Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I would go
    upstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for.

    “We can’t possibly stay here,” I said; and as I spoke the firing
    reopened for a moment upon the common.

    “But where are we to go?” said my wife in terror.

    I thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at Leatherhead.

    “Leatherhead!” I shouted above the sudden noise.

    She looked away from me downhill. The people were coming out of their
    houses, astonished.

    “How are we to get to Leatherhead?” she said.

    Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway bridge;
    three galloped through the open gates of the Oriental College; two
    others dismounted, and began running from house to house. The sun,
    shining through the smoke that drove up from the tops of the trees,
    seemed blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid light upon everything.

    “Stop here,” said I; “you are safe here;” and I started off at once for
    the Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord had a horse and dog cart. I
    ran, for I perceived that in a moment everyone upon this side of the
    hill would be moving. I found him in his bar, quite unaware of what was
    going on behind his house. A man stood with his back to me, talking to
    him.

    “I must have a pound,” said the landlord, “and I’ve no one to drive
    it.”

    “I’ll give you two,” said I, over the stranger’s shoulder.

    “What for?”

    “And I’ll bring it back by midnight,” I said.

    “Lord!” said the landlord; “what’s the hurry? I’m selling my bit of a
    pig. Two pounds, and you bring it back? What’s going on now?”

    I explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so secured the dog
    cart. At the time it did not seem to me nearly so urgent that the
    landlord should leave his. I took care to have the cart there and then,
    drove it off down the road, and, leaving it in charge of my wife and
    servant, rushed into my house and packed a few valuables, such plate as
    we had, and so forth. The beech trees below the house were burning
    while I did this, and the palings up the road glowed red. While I was
    occupied in this way, one of the dismounted hussars came running up. He
    was going from house to house, warning people to leave. He was going on
    as I came out of my front door, lugging my treasures, done up in a
    tablecloth. I shouted after him:

    “What news?”

    He turned, stared, bawled something about “crawling out in a thing like
    a dish cover,” and ran on to the gate of the house at the crest. A
    sudden whirl of black smoke driving across the road hid him for a
    moment. I ran to my neighbour’s door and rapped to satisfy myself of
    what I already knew, that his wife had gone to London with him and had
    locked up their house. I went in again, according to my promise, to get
    my servant’s box, lugged it out, clapped it beside her on the tail of
    the dog cart, and then caught the reins and jumped up into the driver’s
    seat beside my wife. In another moment we were clear of the smoke and
    noise, and spanking down the opposite slope of Maybury Hill towards Old
    Woking.

    In front was a quiet sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead on either
    side of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its swinging sign. I saw the
    doctor’s cart ahead of me. At the bottom of the hill I turned my head
    to look at the hillside I was leaving. Thick streamers of black smoke
    shot with threads of red fire were driving up into the still air, and
    throwing dark shadows upon the green treetops eastward. The smoke
    already extended far away to the east and west—to the Byfleet pine
    woods eastward, and to Woking on the west. The road was dotted with
    people running towards us. And very faint now, but very distinct
    through the hot, quiet air, one heard the whirr of a machine-gun that
    was presently stilled, and an intermittent cracking of rifles.
    Apparently the Martians were setting fire to everything within range of
    their Heat-Ray.

    I am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to turn my attention
    to the horse. When I looked back again the second hill had hidden the
    black smoke. I slashed the horse with the whip, and gave him a loose
    rein until Woking and Send lay between us and that quivering tumult. I
    overtook and passed the doctor between Woking and Send.

    X.
    IN THE STORM.

    Leatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury Hill. The scent of hay
    was in the air through the lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and the hedges
    on either side were sweet and gay with multitudes of dog-roses. The
    heavy firing that had broken out while we were driving down Maybury
    Hill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving the evening very peaceful
    and still. We got to Leatherhead without misadventure about nine
    o’clock, and the horse had an hour’s rest while I took supper with my
    cousins and commended my wife to their care.

    My wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and seemed oppressed
    with forebodings of evil. I talked to her reassuringly, pointing out
    that the Martians were tied to the pit by sheer heaviness, and at the
    utmost could but crawl a little out of it; but she answered only in
    monosyllables. Had it not been for my promise to the innkeeper, she
    would, I think, have urged me to stay in Leatherhead that night. Would
    that I had! Her face, I remember, was very white as we parted.

    For my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day. Something very
    like the war fever that occasionally runs through a civilised community
    had got into my blood, and in my heart I was not so very sorry that I
    had to return to Maybury that night. I was even afraid that that last
    fusillade I had heard might mean the extermination of our invaders from
    Mars. I can best express my state of mind by saying that I wanted to be
    in at the death.

    It was nearly eleven when I started to return. The night was
    unexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted passage of my
    cousins’ house, it seemed indeed black, and it was as hot and close as
    the day. Overhead the clouds were driving fast, albeit not a breath
    stirred the shrubs about us. My cousins’ man lit both lamps. Happily, I
    knew the road intimately. My wife stood in the light of the doorway,
    and watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart. Then abruptly she
    turned and went in, leaving my cousins side by side wishing me good
    hap.

    I was a little depressed at first with the contagion of my wife’s
    fears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the Martians. At that time
    I was absolutely in the dark as to the course of the evening’s
    fighting. I did not know even the circumstances that had precipitated
    the conflict. As I came through Ockham (for that was the way I
    returned, and not through Send and Old Woking) I saw along the western
    horizon a blood-red glow, which as I drew nearer, crept slowly up the
    sky. The driving clouds of the gathering thunderstorm mingled there
    with masses of black and red smoke.

    Ripley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted window or so the
    village showed not a sign of life; but I narrowly escaped an accident
    at the corner of the road to Pyrford, where a knot of people stood with
    their backs to me. They said nothing to me as I passed. I do not know
    what they knew of the things happening beyond the hill, nor do I know
    if the silent houses I passed on my way were sleeping securely, or
    deserted and empty, or harassed and watching against the terror of the
    night.

    From Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the valley of the
    Wey, and the red glare was hidden from me. As I ascended the little
    hill beyond Pyrford Church the glare came into view again, and the
    trees about me shivered with the first intimation of the storm that was
    upon me. Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford Church behind
    me, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill, with its tree-tops
    and roofs black and sharp against the red.

    Even as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road about me and
    showed the distant woods towards Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins.
    I saw that the driving clouds had been pierced as it were by a thread
    of green fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling into the
    field to my left. It was the third falling star!

    Close on its apparition, and blindingly violet by contrast, danced out
    the first lightning of the gathering storm, and the thunder burst like
    a rocket overhead. The horse took the bit between his teeth and bolted.

    A moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury Hill, and down this
    we clattered. Once the lightning had begun, it went on in as rapid a
    succession of flashes as I have ever seen. The thunderclaps, treading
    one on the heels of another and with a strange crackling accompaniment,
    sounded more like the working of a gigantic electric machine than the
    usual detonating reverberations. The flickering light was blinding and
    confusing, and a thin hail smote gustily at my face as I drove down the
    slope.

    At first I regarded little but the road before me, and then abruptly my
    attention was arrested by something that was moving rapidly down the
    opposite slope of Maybury Hill. At first I took it for the wet roof of
    a house, but one flash following another showed it to be in swift
    rolling movement. It was an elusive vision—a moment of bewildering
    darkness, and then, in a flash like daylight, the red masses of the
    Orphanage near the crest of the hill, the green tops of the pine trees,
    and this problematical object came out clear and sharp and bright.

    And this Thing I saw! How can I describe it? A monstrous tripod, higher
    than many houses, striding over the young pine trees, and smashing them
    aside in its career; a walking engine of glittering metal, striding now
    across the heather; articulate ropes of steel dangling from it, and the
    clattering tumult of its passage mingling with the riot of the thunder.
    A flash, and it came out vividly, heeling over one way with two feet in
    the air, to vanish and reappear almost instantly as it seemed, with the
    next flash, a hundred yards nearer. Can you imagine a milking stool
    tilted and bowled violently along the ground? That was the impression
    those instant flashes gave. But instead of a milking stool imagine it a
    great body of machinery on a tripod stand.

    Then suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were parted, as
    brittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting through them; they were
    snapped off and driven headlong, and a second huge tripod appeared,
    rushing, as it seemed, headlong towards me. And I was galloping hard to
    meet it! At the sight of the second monster my nerve went altogether.
    Not stopping to look again, I wrenched the horse’s head hard round to
    the right and in another moment the dog cart had heeled over upon the
    horse; the shafts smashed noisily, and I was flung sideways and fell
    heavily into a shallow pool of water.

    I crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my feet still in the
    water, under a clump of furze. The horse lay motionless (his neck was
    broken, poor brute!) and by the lightning flashes I saw the black bulk
    of the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel still
    spinning slowly. In another moment the colossal mechanism went striding
    by me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.

    Seen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it was no mere
    insensate machine driving on its way. Machine it was, with a ringing
    metallic pace, and long, flexible, glittering tentacles (one of which
    gripped a young pine tree) swinging and rattling about its strange
    body. It picked its road as it went striding along, and the brazen hood
    that surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevitable suggestion of a
    head looking about. Behind the main body was a huge mass of white metal
    like a gigantic fisherman’s basket, and puffs of green smoke squirted
    out from the joints of the limbs as the monster swept by me. And in an
    instant it was gone.

    So much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of the lightning, in
    blinding highlights and dense black shadows.

    As it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that drowned the
    thunder—“Aloo! Aloo!”—and in another minute it was with its companion,
    half a mile away, stooping over something in the field. I have no doubt
    this Thing in the field was the third of the ten cylinders they had
    fired at us from Mars.

    For some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness watching, by the
    intermittent light, these monstrous beings of metal moving about in the
    distance over the hedge tops. A thin hail was now beginning, and as it
    came and went their figures grew misty and then flashed into clearness
    again. Now and then came a gap in the lightning, and the night
    swallowed them up.

    I was soaked with hail above and puddle water below. It was some time
    before my blank astonishment would let me struggle up the bank to a
    drier position, or think at all of my imminent peril.

    Not far from me was a little one-roomed squatter’s hut of wood,
    surrounded by a patch of potato garden. I struggled to my feet at last,
    and, crouching and making use of every chance of cover, I made a run
    for this. I hammered at the door, but I could not make the people hear
    (if there were any people inside), and after a time I desisted, and,
    availing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the way, succeeded
    in crawling, unobserved by these monstrous machines, into the pine
    woods towards Maybury.

    Under cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now, towards my own
    house. I walked among the trees trying to find the footpath. It was
    very dark indeed in the wood, for the lightning was now becoming
    infrequent, and the hail, which was pouring down in a torrent, fell in
    columns through the gaps in the heavy foliage.

    If I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I had seen I
    should have immediately worked my way round through Byfleet to Street
    Cobham, and so gone back to rejoin my wife at Leatherhead. But that
    night the strangeness of things about me, and my physical wretchedness,
    prevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the skin, deafened and
    blinded by the storm.

    I had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and that was as much
    motive as I had. I staggered through the trees, fell into a ditch and
    bruised my knees against a plank, and finally splashed out into the
    lane that ran down from the College Arms. I say splashed, for the storm
    water was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. There in
    the darkness a man blundered into me and sent me reeling back.

    He gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed on before I could
    gather my wits sufficiently to speak to him. So heavy was the stress of
    the storm just at this place that I had the hardest task to win my way
    up the hill. I went close up to the fence on the left and worked my way
    along its palings.

    Near the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a flash of
    lightning, saw between my feet a heap of black broadcloth and a pair of
    boots. Before I could distinguish clearly how the man lay, the flicker
    of light had passed. I stood over him waiting for the next flash. When
    it came, I saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not shabbily
    dressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay crumpled up close
    to the fence, as though he had been flung violently against it.

    Overcoming the repugnance natural to one who had never before touched a
    dead body, I stooped and turned him over to feel for his heart. He was
    quite dead. Apparently his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed
    for a third time, and his face leaped upon me. I sprang to my feet. It
    was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose conveyance I had taken.

    I stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill. I made my way by
    the police station and the College Arms towards my own house. Nothing
    was burning on the hillside, though from the common there still came a
    red glare and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke beating up against the
    drenching hail. So far as I could see by the flashes, the houses about
    me were mostly uninjured. By the College Arms a dark heap lay in the
    road.

    Down the road towards Maybury Bridge there were voices and the sound of
    feet, but I had not the courage to shout or to go to them. I let myself
    in with my latchkey, closed, locked and bolted the door, staggered to
    the foot of the staircase, and sat down. My imagination was full of
    those striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body smashed against
    the fence.

    I crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to the wall,
    shivering violently.

    XI.
    AT THE WINDOW.

    I have already said that my storms of emotion have a trick of
    exhausting themselves. After a time I discovered that I was cold and
    wet, and with little pools of water about me on the stair carpet. I got
    up almost mechanically, went into the dining room and drank some
    whisky, and then I was moved to change my clothes.

    After I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but why I did so I
    do not know. The window of my study looks over the trees and the
    railway towards Horsell Common. In the hurry of our departure this
    window had been left open. The passage was dark, and, by contrast with
    the picture the window frame enclosed, the side of the room seemed
    impenetrably dark. I stopped short in the doorway.

    The thunderstorm had passed. The towers of the Oriental College and the
    pine trees about it had gone, and very far away, lit by a vivid red
    glare, the common about the sand-pits was visible. Across the light
    huge black shapes, grotesque and strange, moved busily to and fro.

    It seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direction was on
    fire—a broad hillside set with minute tongues of flame, swaying and
    writhing with the gusts of the dying storm, and throwing a red
    reflection upon the cloud scud above. Every now and then a haze of
    smoke from some nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid
    the Martian shapes. I could not see what they were doing, nor the clear
    form of them, nor recognise the black objects they were busied upon.
    Neither could I see the nearer fire, though the reflections of it
    danced on the wall and ceiling of the study. A sharp, resinous tang of
    burning was in the air.

    I closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the window. As I did
    so, the view opened out until, on the one hand, it reached to the
    houses about Woking station, and on the other to the charred and
    blackened pine woods of Byfleet. There was a light down below the hill,
    on the railway, near the arch, and several of the houses along the
    Maybury road and the streets near the station were glowing ruins. The
    light upon the railway puzzled me at first; there were a black heap and
    a vivid glare, and to the right of that a row of yellow oblongs. Then I
    perceived this was a wrecked train, the fore part smashed and on fire,
    the hinder carriages still upon the rails.

    Between these three main centres of light—the houses, the train, and
    the burning county towards Chobham—stretched irregular patches of dark
    country, broken here and there by intervals of dimly glowing and
    smoking ground. It was the strangest spectacle, that black expanse set
    with fire. It reminded me, more than anything else, of the Potteries at
    night. At first I could distinguish no people at all, though I peered
    intently for them. Later I saw against the light of Woking station a
    number of black figures hurrying one after the other across the line.

    And this was the little world in which I had been living securely for
    years, this fiery chaos! What had happened in the last seven hours I
    still did not know; nor did I know, though I was beginning to guess,
    the relation between these mechanical colossi and the sluggish lumps I
    had seen disgorged from the cylinder. With a queer feeling of
    impersonal interest I turned my desk chair to the window, sat down, and
    stared at the blackened country, and particularly at the three gigantic
    black things that were going to and fro in the glare about the
    sand-pits.

    They seemed amazingly busy. I began to ask myself what they could be.
    Were they intelligent mechanisms? Such a thing I felt was impossible.
    Or did a Martian sit within each, ruling, directing, using, much as a
    man’s brain sits and rules in his body? I began to compare the things
    to human machines, to ask myself for the first time in my life how an
    ironclad or a steam engine would seem to an intelligent lower animal.

    The storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of the burning
    land the little fading pinpoint of Mars was dropping into the west,
    when a soldier came into my garden. I heard a slight scraping at the
    fence, and rousing myself from the lethargy that had fallen upon me, I
    looked down and saw him dimly, clambering over the palings. At the
    sight of another human being my torpor passed, and I leaned out of the
    window eagerly.

    “Hist!” said I, in a whisper.

    He stopped astride of the fence in doubt. Then he came over and across
    the lawn to the corner of the house. He bent down and stepped softly.

    “Who’s there?” he said, also whispering, standing under the window and
    peering up.

    “Where are you going?” I asked.

    “God knows.”

    “Are you trying to hide?”

    “That’s it.”

    “Come into the house,” I said.

    I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the door
    again. I could not see his face. He was hatless, and his coat was
    unbuttoned.

    “My God!” he said, as I drew him in.

    “What has happened?” I asked.

    “What hasn’t?” In the obscurity I could see he made a gesture of
    despair. “They wiped us out—simply wiped us out,” he repeated again and
    again.

    He followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining room.

    “Take some whisky,” I said, pouring out a stiff dose.

    He drank it. Then abruptly he sat down before the table, put his head
    on his arms, and began to sob and weep like a little boy, in a perfect
    passion of emotion, while I, with a curious forgetfulness of my own
    recent despair, stood beside him, wondering.

    It was a long time before he could steady his nerves to answer my
    questions, and then he answered perplexingly and brokenly. He was a
    driver in the artillery, and had only come into action about seven. At
    that time firing was going on across the common, and it was said the
    first party of Martians were crawling slowly towards their second
    cylinder under cover of a metal shield.

    Later this shield staggered up on tripod legs and became the first of
    the fighting-machines I had seen. The gun he drove had been unlimbered
    near Horsell, in order to command the sand-pits, and its arrival it was
    that had precipitated the action. As the limber gunners went to the
    rear, his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing him into
    a depression of the ground. At the same moment the gun exploded behind
    him, the ammunition blew up, there was fire all about him, and he found
    himself lying under a heap of charred dead men and dead horses.

    “I lay still,” he said, “scared out of my wits, with the fore quarter
    of a horse atop of me. We’d been wiped out. And the smell—good God!
    Like burnt meat! I was hurt across the back by the fall of the horse,
    and there I had to lie until I felt better. Just like parade it had
    been a minute before—then stumble, bang, swish!

    “Wiped out!” he said.

    He had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peeping out furtively
    across the common. The Cardigan men had tried a rush, in skirmishing
    order, at the pit, simply to be swept out of existence. Then the
    monster had risen to its feet and had begun to walk leisurely to and
    fro across the common among the few fugitives, with its headlike hood
    turning about exactly like the head of a cowled human being. A kind of
    arm carried a complicated metallic case, about which green flashes
    scintillated, and out of the funnel of this there smoked the Heat-Ray.

    In a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could see, not a
    living thing left upon the common, and every bush and tree upon it that
    was not already a blackened skeleton was burning. The hussars had been
    on the road beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw nothing of
    them. He heard the Maxims rattle for a time and then become still. The
    giant saved Woking station and its cluster of houses until the last;
    then in a moment the Heat-Ray was brought to bear, and the town became
    a heap of fiery ruins. Then the Thing shut off the Heat-Ray, and
    turning its back upon the artilleryman, began to waddle away towards
    the smouldering pine woods that sheltered the second cylinder. As it
    did so a second glittering Titan built itself up out of the pit.

    The second monster followed the first, and at that the artilleryman
    began to crawl very cautiously across the hot heather ash towards
    Horsell. He managed to get alive into the ditch by the side of the
    road, and so escaped to Woking. There his story became ejaculatory. The
    place was impassable. It seems there were a few people alive there,
    frantic for the most part and many burned and scalded. He was turned
    aside by the fire, and hid among some almost scorching heaps of broken
    wall as one of the Martian giants returned. He saw this one pursue a
    man, catch him up in one of its steely tentacles, and knock his head
    against the trunk of a pine tree. At last, after nightfall, the
    artilleryman made a rush for it and got over the railway embankment.

    Since then he had been skulking along towards Maybury, in the hope of
    getting out of danger Londonward. People were hiding in trenches and
    cellars, and many of the survivors had made off towards Woking village
    and Send. He had been consumed with thirst until he found one of the
    water mains near the railway arch smashed, and the water bubbling out
    like a spring upon the road.

    That was the story I got from him, bit by bit. He grew calmer telling
    me and trying to make me see the things he had seen. He had eaten no
    food since midday, he told me early in his narrative, and I found some
    mutton and bread in the pantry and brought it into the room. We lit no
    lamp for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever and again our hands
    would touch upon bread or meat. As he talked, things about us came
    darkly out of the darkness, and the trampled bushes and broken rose
    trees outside the window grew distinct. It would seem that a number of
    men or animals had rushed across the lawn. I began to see his face,
    blackened and haggard, as no doubt mine was also.

    When we had finished eating we went softly upstairs to my study, and I
    looked again out of the open window. In one night the valley had become
    a valley of ashes. The fires had dwindled now. Where flames had been
    there were now streamers of smoke; but the countless ruins of shattered
    and gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees that the night had
    hidden stood out now gaunt and terrible in the pitiless light of dawn.
    Yet here and there some object had had the luck to escape—a white
    railway signal here, the end of a greenhouse there, white and fresh
    amid the wreckage. Never before in the history of warfare had
    destruction been so indiscriminate and so universal. And shining with
    the growing light of the east, three of the metallic giants stood about
    the pit, their cowls rotating as though they were surveying the
    desolation they had made.

    It seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and ever and again
    puffs of vivid green vapour streamed up and out of it towards the
    brightening dawn—streamed up, whirled, broke, and vanished.

    Beyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham. They became pillars of
    bloodshot smoke at the first touch of day.

    XII.
    WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.

    As the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the window from which we had
    watched the Martians, and went very quietly downstairs.

    The artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no place to stay in.
    He proposed, he said, to make his way Londonward, and thence rejoin his
    battery—No. 12, of the Horse Artillery. My plan was to return at once
    to Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength of the Martians
    impressed me that I had determined to take my wife to Newhaven, and go
    with her out of the country forthwith. For I already perceived clearly
    that the country about London must inevitably be the scene of a
    disastrous struggle before such creatures as these could be destroyed.

    Between us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third cylinder, with its
    guarding giants. Had I been alone, I think I should have taken my
    chance and struck across country. But the artilleryman dissuaded me:
    “It’s no kindness to the right sort of wife,” he said, “to make her a
    widow;” and in the end I agreed to go with him, under cover of the
    woods, northward as far as Street Cobham before I parted with him.
    Thence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach Leatherhead.

    I should have started at once, but my companion had been in active
    service and he knew better than that. He made me ransack the house for
    a flask, which he filled with whisky; and we lined every available
    pocket with packets of biscuits and slices of meat. Then we crept out
    of the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the ill-made road by
    which I had come overnight. The houses seemed deserted. In the road lay
    a group of three charred bodies close together, struck dead by the
    Heat-Ray; and here and there were things that people had dropped—a
    clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the like poor valuables. At the
    corner turning up towards the post office a little cart, filled with
    boxes and furniture, and horseless, heeled over on a broken wheel. A
    cash box had been hastily smashed open and thrown under the debris.

    Except the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on fire, none of the
    houses had suffered very greatly here. The Heat-Ray had shaved the
    chimney tops and passed. Yet, save ourselves, there did not seem to be
    a living soul on Maybury Hill. The majority of the inhabitants had
    escaped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking road—the road I had taken
    when I drove to Leatherhead—or they had hidden.

    We went down the lane, by the body of the man in black, sodden now from
    the overnight hail, and broke into the woods at the foot of the hill.
    We pushed through these towards the railway without meeting a soul. The
    woods across the line were but the scarred and blackened ruins of
    woods; for the most part the trees had fallen, but a certain proportion
    still stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown foliage instead of
    green.

    On our side the fire had done no more than scorch the nearer trees; it
    had failed to secure its footing. In one place the woodmen had been at
    work on Saturday; trees, felled and freshly trimmed, lay in a clearing,
    with heaps of sawdust by the sawing-machine and its engine. Hard by was
    a temporary hut, deserted. There was not a breath of wind this morning,
    and everything was strangely still. Even the birds were hushed, and as
    we hurried along I and the artilleryman talked in whispers and looked
    now and again over our shoulders. Once or twice we stopped to listen.

    After a time we drew near the road, and as we did so we heard the
    clatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems three cavalry soldiers
    riding slowly towards Woking. We hailed them, and they halted while we
    hurried towards them. It was a lieutenant and a couple of privates of
    the 8th Hussars, with a stand like a theodolite, which the artilleryman
    told me was a heliograph.

    “You are the first men I’ve seen coming this way this morning,” said
    the lieutenant. “What’s brewing?”

    His voice and face were eager. The men behind him stared curiously. The
    artilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and saluted.

    “Gun destroyed last night, sir. Have been hiding. Trying to rejoin
    battery, sir. You’ll come in sight of the Martians, I expect, about
    half a mile along this road.”

    “What the dickens are they like?” asked the lieutenant.

    “Giants in armour, sir. Hundred feet high. Three legs and a body like
    ’luminium, with a mighty great head in a hood, sir.”

    “Get out!” said the lieutenant. “What confounded nonsense!”

    “You’ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots fire and
    strikes you dead.”

    “What d’ye mean—a gun?”

    “No, sir,” and the artilleryman began a vivid account of the Heat-Ray.
    Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted him and looked up at me. I
    was still standing on the bank by the side of the road.

    “It’s perfectly true,” I said.

    “Well,” said the lieutenant, “I suppose it’s my business to see it too.
    Look here”—to the artilleryman—“we’re detailed here clearing people out
    of their houses. You’d better go along and report yourself to
    Brigadier-General Marvin, and tell him all you know. He’s at Weybridge.
    Know the way?”

    “I do,” I said; and he turned his horse southward again.

    “Half a mile, you say?” said he.

    “At most,” I answered, and pointed over the treetops southward. He
    thanked me and rode on, and we saw them no more.

    Farther along we came upon a group of three women and two children in
    the road, busy clearing out a labourer’s cottage. They had got hold of
    a little hand truck, and were piling it up with unclean-looking bundles
    and shabby furniture. They were all too assiduously engaged to talk to
    us as we passed.

    By Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and found the
    country calm and peaceful under the morning sunlight. We were far
    beyond the range of the Heat-Ray there, and had it not been for the
    silent desertion of some of the houses, the stirring movement of
    packing in others, and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge over
    the railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day would
    have seemed very like any other Sunday.

    Several farm waggons and carts were moving creakily along the road to
    Addlestone, and suddenly through the gate of a field we saw, across a
    stretch of flat meadow, six twelve-pounders standing neatly at equal
    distances pointing towards Woking. The gunners stood by the guns
    waiting, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like distance.
    The men stood almost as if under inspection.

    “That’s good!” said I. “They will get one fair shot, at any rate.”

    The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.

    “I shall go on,” he said.

    Farther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge, there were a number
    of men in white fatigue jackets throwing up a long rampart, and more
    guns behind.

    “It’s bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow,” said the
    artilleryman. “They ’aven’t seen that fire-beam yet.”

    The officers who were not actively engaged stood and stared over the
    treetops southwestward, and the men digging would stop every now and
    again to stare in the same direction.

    Byfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of hussars, some
    of them dismounted, some on horseback, were hunting them about. Three
    or four black government waggons, with crosses in white circles, and an
    old omnibus, among other vehicles, were being loaded in the village
    street. There were scores of people, most of them sufficiently
    sabbatical to have assumed their best clothes. The soldiers were having
    the greatest difficulty in making them realise the gravity of their
    position. We saw one shrivelled old fellow with a huge box and a score
    or more of flower pots containing orchids, angrily expostulating with
    the corporal who would leave them behind. I stopped and gripped his
    arm.

    “Do you know what’s over there?” I said, pointing at the pine tops that
    hid the Martians.

    “Eh?” said he, turning. “I was explainin’ these is vallyble.”

    “Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!” and leaving him to digest
    that if he could, I hurried on after the artillery-man. At the corner I
    looked back. The soldier had left him, and he was still standing by his
    box, with the pots of orchids on the lid of it, and staring vaguely
    over the trees.

    No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were
    established; the whole place was in such confusion as I had never seen
    in any town before. Carts, carriages everywhere, the most astonishing
    miscellany of conveyances and horseflesh. The respectable inhabitants
    of the place, men in golf and boating costumes, wives prettily dressed,
    were packing, river-side loafers energetically helping, children
    excited, and, for the most part, highly delighted at this astonishing
    variation of their Sunday experiences. In the midst of it all the
    worthy vicar was very pluckily holding an early celebration, and his
    bell was jangling out above the excitement.

    I and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drinking fountain,
    made a very passable meal upon what we had brought with us. Patrols of
    soldiers—here no longer hussars, but grenadiers in white—were warning
    people to move now or to take refuge in their cellars as soon as the
    firing began. We saw as we crossed the railway bridge that a growing
    crowd of people had assembled in and about the railway station, and the
    swarming platform was piled with boxes and packages. The ordinary
    traffic had been stopped, I believe, in order to allow of the passage
    of troops and guns to Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage
    struggle occurred for places in the special trains that were put on at
    a later hour.

    We remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that hour we found
    ourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames
    join. Part of the time we spent helping two old women to pack a little
    cart. The Wey has a treble mouth, and at this point boats are to be
    hired, and there was a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side
    was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of Shepperton
    Church—it has been replaced by a spire—rose above the trees.

    Here we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugitives. As yet the
    flight had not grown to a panic, but there were already far more people
    than all the boats going to and fro could enable to cross. People came
    panting along under heavy burdens; one husband and wife were even
    carrying a small outhouse door between them, with some of their
    household goods piled thereon. One man told us he meant to try to get
    away from Shepperton station.

    There was a lot of shouting, and one man was even jesting. The idea
    people seemed to have here was that the Martians were simply formidable
    human beings, who might attack and sack the town, to be certainly
    destroyed in the end. Every now and then people would glance nervously
    across the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but everything over
    there was still.

    Across the Thames, except just where the boats landed, everything was
    quiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side. The people who landed
    there from the boats went tramping off down the lane. The big ferryboat
    had just made a journey. Three or four soldiers stood on the lawn of
    the inn, staring and jesting at the fugitives, without offering to
    help. The inn was closed, as it was now within prohibited hours.

    “What’s that?” cried a boatman, and “Shut up, you fool!” said a man
    near me to a yelping dog. Then the sound came again, this time from the
    direction of Chertsey, a muffled thud—the sound of a gun.

    The fighting was beginning. Almost immediately unseen batteries across
    the river to our right, unseen because of the trees, took up the
    chorus, firing heavily one after the other. A woman screamed. Everyone
    stood arrested by the sudden stir of battle, near us and yet invisible
    to us. Nothing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows feeding
    unconcernedly for the most part, and silvery pollard willows motionless
    in the warm sunlight.

    “The sojers’ll stop ’em,” said a woman beside me, doubtfully. A
    haziness rose over the treetops.

    Then suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the river, a puff of
    smoke that jerked up into the air and hung; and forthwith the ground
    heaved under foot and a heavy explosion shook the air, smashing two or
    three windows in the houses near, and leaving us astonished.

    “Here they are!” shouted a man in a blue jersey. “Yonder! D’yer see
    them? Yonder!”

    Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured
    Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat
    meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards
    the river. Little cowled figures they seemed at first, going with a
    rolling motion and as fast as flying birds.

    Then, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth. Their armoured
    bodies glittered in the sun as they swept swiftly forward upon the
    guns, growing rapidly larger as they drew nearer. One on the extreme
    left, the remotest that is, flourished a huge case high in the air, and
    the ghostly, terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on Friday night smote
    towards Chertsey, and struck the town.

    At sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures the crowd near
    the water’s edge seemed to me to be for a moment horror-struck. There
    was no screaming or shouting, but a silence. Then a hoarse murmur and a
    movement of feet—a splashing from the water. A man, too frightened to
    drop the portmanteau he carried on his shoulder, swung round and sent
    me staggering with a blow from the corner of his burden. A woman thrust
    at me with her hand and rushed past me. I turned with the rush of the
    people, but I was not too terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray
    was in my mind. To get under water! That was it!

    “Get under water!” I shouted, unheeded.

    I faced about again, and rushed towards the approaching Martian, rushed
    right down the gravelly beach and headlong into the water. Others did
    the same. A boatload of people putting back came leaping out as I
    rushed past. The stones under my feet were muddy and slippery, and the
    river was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet scarcely waist-deep.
    Then, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely a couple of hundred
    yards away, I flung myself forward under the surface. The splashes of
    the people in the boats leaping into the river sounded like
    thunderclaps in my ears. People were landing hastily on both sides of
    the river. But the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment
    of the people running this way and that than a man would of the
    confusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has kicked. When,
    half suffocated, I raised my head above water, the Martian’s hood
    pointed at the batteries that were still firing across the river, and
    as it advanced it swung loose what must have been the generator of the
    Heat-Ray.

    In another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride wading halfway
    across. The knees of its foremost legs bent at the farther bank, and in
    another moment it had raised itself to its full height again, close to
    the village of Shepperton. Forthwith the six guns which, unknown to
    anyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind the outskirts of that
    village, fired simultaneously. The sudden near concussion, the last
    close upon the first, made my heart jump. The monster was already
    raising the case generating the Heat-Ray as the first shell burst six
    yards above the hood.

  • The Unpopular Review, Volume II Number 3

    The Unpopular Review, Volume II Number 3

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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
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    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.

  • The Unpopular Review, Number 19

    The Unpopular Review, Number 19

    Aproximadamente 75.338 palavras.

    The invaders have tried to create a Belgian faction in support of their
    policy, and have here and there, at different times, organized meetings
    and processions of so-called "Activists," or pro-German Belgians. But
    these assemblages have never been other than contemptible in size and
    composition. They have been hissed and mobbed by vast crowds of
    patriotic Belgians, and in Belgium it takes courage to attack a movement
    which is protected by German bayonets. On February 9, 1918, the Chief
    Justice and two Associate Judges of the Belgian Court of Appeals at
    Brussels were arrested for instituting proceedings against the
    "Activists," and were ordered to be deported to Germany.

    With all their cunning the Germans in Belgium have shown themselves
    densely stupid. Their near-sighted pedantry inclines them to put their
    trust in formulas, when the thing they are dealing with is life. They
    think they can _decree_ an indomitable people into submission. Having
    begun with butchery, they declined into robbery, and now they imagine
    that because bribery is less rude, it will be regarded as a sort of
    mercy. Jealous and quarrelsome at home, fussy and petty in their own
    local and domestic affairs, they cannot understand magnanimity in
    others. German writers have often admitted and lamented the tendency of
    the German people to be parochial (_kleinstaedtisch_) in their outlook,
    and stencilled (_schablonenhaft_) in their personality. So they are; and
    these bad qualities render them incapable of understanding the spirit of
    Belgium, which is independent, individual, far-sighted, and bold. Since
    July, 1914, the German heel has stamped its imprint on regions several
    times as extensive as the German Empire itself. But a nation of pedants
    will never rule the world, and the echo of those iron-bound,
    blood-spattered boots will cease to ring when the American people
    realize that what the Germans have done in Belgium they will try to do
    wherever they find room to tramp.

    IMMORTALITY IN LITERATURE

    "_Come l'uom s'eterna_"

    Now that the immortals in literature have been caught and measured; now
    that we know that they fill not more than five feet of shelf room, we
    may be pardoned for asking a question or two as to how they "arrived,"
    what their chances are for "staying put," and whether the place for
    classics is inevitably "upon the shelf." These are of course awkward
    questions, but there are other regions beside heaven which one must be
    as a little child to enter–the Garden of Understanding among them.

    It is in a certain sense a positive relief to find that the really
    persistent literature of the past is so compressible, and it is
    reassuring as one looks forward to the long future, to think that the
    people towards the end of time will not be so unimaginably burdened with
    the deathless monuments of their past; although when one multiplies five
    feet, the sediment of five millennia, by x, the classic library of the
    end of things seems to us of this unheroic age, a trifle depressing. Of
    course, the men of the Ultima Thule of time may take their classics less
    seriously, and it may be that they will find less of a gap than we
    between the thoughts and speech of the immortals and those of daily
    intercourse. But since the immortals die not, there is no escaping their
    accumulation.

    Yet after all, come to think of it, there is a good deal of an
    assumption in the assertion that our five feet of immortals are all
    going to perch upon that last library shelf. There have been immortals
    of the past who failed to reach even our days; had they all fulfilled
    their promise and the prophecies of their friends, the publishers would
    not be willing to let us buy our modest set of unquestionable classics
    on monthly payments without the guarantee of our great grandchildren.
    Paradoxical as it may seem, many immortals have proved mortal, and the
    deathless have died. We must lay this troublesome fact to the loose
    speech of our forefathers. They were hyperbolic now and then, and they
    dubbed a volume immortal without stopping to think whether the twentieth
    century A. D. would also find it interesting, and so, of course, really
    immortal. Humanity has been fallible in the past, and the result is that
    we are forced most unscientifically to accept contradictory ideas with
    gravity–in short, to speak of "relative immortality." The work that
    outlives its contemporaries is, we may admit, relatively deathless. Such
    a statement makes no prophecy, however, as to the remote future.
    Relative immortality merely means that a work goes on interesting for a
    few years, a generation or two, a century or more. It is only the simon
    pure immortal who will not have to get up at the sound of Gabriel's
    trump. Blessed relief–the final shelf of unforgettable classics may be
    only five feet long after all, and may be even shorter!

    Naturally, your enduring work must have a strong constitution; it must
    have all the characteristics of a live creature except the power of
    growth within itself, and, alas, of propagating its kind. Perhaps one
    might liken it to the Leyden jar which we of the older generation used
    to read of in our physics–I do not know whether it is remembered
    now-a-days. It has a charge of electricity of more or less strength, and
    it has a retaining capacity of more or less endurance, so that to touch
    it as the ages pass, is to receive a spark of life.

    Many a work has started out with a tremendous appeal to its first
    audience, but has not been able to hold its second or third. The first
    night is not always a sure test of the length of a "run." Such a work
    had a momentary word to speak which was appropriate, which came as pat
    as Vice in the old comedy; but like a jest called out by a passing
    event, it raised its crackle of laughter and died. One need not go far
    to find examples. Mrs. Radcliffe's _Mysteries of Udolpho_ is pigeonholed
    here; and _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ and _The Jungle_ are tied by the same
    tape, in spite of a certain uncanny habit of reappearance of Mrs.
    Stowe's painful tale. Much literature of this sort is, of course,
    temporarily valuable; but Time promptly and wisely puts it into the
    wallet at his back. Without endurance, fame is as the fire of thorns
    under the pot; without vitality, naught can endure.

    As a matter of fact a work need not be brutally vital to have a fair
    chance at long life. It must interest somebody very much indeed. Of
    course, the great immortals start out in life popular in the best sense;
    but there are lesser immortals too. One does not have to be Dante or
    Shakespeare to win out. So long as the second class passengers persist
    in interesting a few hearers on the various stages of the road, they
    will not be forgotten. They may be, as they usually are, caviare to the
    general, but they find from age to age fit audience. Poets like Horace
    and Spenser and Blake, the authors of _Emma_ or _Cranford_ may cross the
    final line side by side with their great competitors. And some of us who
    venture diffident prophecy, expect greater endurance for Mr. Robert
    Frost and his shy _North of Boston_ than for the dramatic anachronisms
    of the late Stephen Phillips, or the epic _longueurs_ of Mr. Alfred
    Noyes. Long life in literature concerns itself with the length of
    Clotho's thread, and not at all with the question as to whether it be
    labelled "No. 60" or "No. 90."

    But to have transcended its own time by a generation or so is no promise
    of immortality. Every work if not hopelessly tangled in the
    perishabilities of its own age, is liable to be so tangled in those of
    its own century or epoch. How often have men watched with exultation the
    endurance of a work, and jumped to conclusions, when wisdom would have
    recognized that it could last only while certain ideals or moods
    prevailed. Was not Byron a god for a generation? But, alas, as the
    waters of time rose, he found himself caught in the eel-grass of
    romanticism, and pulled under. And did not the _Romance of the Rose_
    hold men bound by its myriad lines for centuries–and where is it now?
    Dusty upon dusty shelves. Its voice was that of Mediaevalism, not of
    humanity. It perished with the conventions and provincialism of its era.

    The time never was when a new work appeared to the world without some
    external circumstance to modify for good or ill its early reputation.
    Even the "anonymous" early ballads must have depended at first in some
    measure upon the impression of "good time" which lingered in the minds
    of the junketers among whom they sprang up. Even the _Iliad_ or the
    _Song of Roland_ must have gained or lost according to the effectiveness
    of the reciter or the social status of the patron. And to-day it is a
    thousand times truer than ever before, that at the start the genuine
    fame which endures is bound up with much that is purely factitious.

    A new book comes to birth and finds a waiting world to welcome, but not
    impartial in its attitude. Have not the friends and family announced the
    arrival in joyful and ringing tones? Advertiser and advance reviewer
    have been busy; the publisher now-a-days is preeminently efficient. The
    result is a sort of pre-natal notoriety built up regardless of real
    worth. The advertising campaign may be likened to an attack by gas-bombs
    on the reading public; but fortunately from long experience a large part
    of the public has provided itself with a tolerably good supply of masks
    to receive the assault, and–to finish the figure with all possible
    despatch–"waits till the clouds roll by."

    Then for the first time, the work gradually emerges for what it is
    worth. The public reads and judges; recommends it to its friends, or
    warns them off; and speaks the fateful word, which if it is favorable,
    leads others to read, and at least makes strangers admit that the book
    is "well spoken of." Here is real fame, still struggling for existence,
    yet independent of the handicaps of early puffing. Yet it must be said
    in all fairness that the early puffing, with its manufactured audience,
    hastens for the good book the chance for genuine fame; and makes more
    decisive the collapse of the poor book, by bringing sooner to proof the
    pinchbeck prophecies.

    But even then the new book has got to stand up against convictions and
    prejudices, conventions and dogmas. The public at large–and
    incidentally the professional critic–wants more of "the same thing,"
    more like that of its earlier loves and admirations. Figures of previous
    experience rise in the readers' minds with malicious menaces against the
    upstart–Dickens, Austen or Trollope; Ward, Sinclair or Tarkington;
    perhaps Fielding or Goldsmith–figures moribund or vigorous still, all
    are alert to impose "has been" upon "to be." Let the new book differ at
    its peril; it becomes easily "revolutionary," "decadent," "not art"–is
    damned, in short, unless, by a curious freak of the moment, it takes the
    world by storm through its very "freshness." And even then Kipling joins
    the ring, and henceforth struggles to impose the Kiplingesque. Such
    dangers, such threats–mostly unreal when brought to the proof–the new
    book must live through. The vigorous and vital book will be unabashed,
    for its claims to long life must rest on stronger virtues than
    conformity or non-conformity.

    The ages confirm with Jovian nod the trite fact that every period has a
    general cast of opinion about any literary work. San Francisco may not
    accept the same order among "the best sellers" as New York, nor New York
    as London; yet we accept the unity of age in our use of older epithets,
    such as "Elizabethan" and "Victorian," even while we overlook it in the
    hurlyburly of the present. It is a complicated and, perhaps, ultimately,
    an inexplicable phenomenon; but strong leadership plays its part in
    clarifying and fixing the momentary appraisement. Let Dr. Johnson or the
    _Edinburgh Review_ utter a critical judgment, and society follows like
    the traditional flock of sheep. If such notorious dictatorship is rare
    in our larger world, there are yet many smaller Judges and Prophets
    scattered abroad, apparent mouthpieces of the _Zeitgeist_. We are all
    familiar with the small theatre party. One or two members have definite
    ideas about the play and its presentation, and the rest experience all
    the sensations but are more or less neutral. The neutrals inevitably
    fall in behind the leaders, and the whole party is easily unanimous.
    Such in miniature is the working of the critical leadership at large.
    The only requirement is, that the leader must not be too far ahead or
    behind his time. Thus it would have taken more than Dryden to make
    Whitman a success in the days of the Restoration; and we can hardly
    fancy Jeffreys forcing _The Widow in the Bye Street_ upon the Edinburgh
    subscribers. But as all real leadership is moderate, neat unity seems to
    be fairly easy to the backward look.

    Yet the judgment of an age may seem to us the veriest nonsense of
    perversity. It irritates us, at the same time that it flatters our sense
    of superiority, to see the citizens of the Seventeenth Century tossing
    up their caps over Cowley, and proclaiming him celestial; and to see
    those of the Eighteenth lose their heads over Pope. We know better.
    Cowley and Pope, indeed! Would not any college sophomore place them for
    us–Why, of course, Cowley wrote the _Sonnets of Pindar_, and Pope was a
    pseudonym. It is pedantic to have read them, and we are proud to know
    them only by reputation. Yet we must not blame our unfortunate
    ancestors. The old formula reappears:–they clung to what interested
    them, and called it deathless. The humor lies rather more in the
    inability of the next generation, perhaps our own, to break away from
    the stereotyped verdicts of those remote days of questionable authority.
    We were all taught that Addison was one of the mighty of earth, and that
    his style was the acme of lucidity and charm–"Spend your days and
    nights with Addison." But we must admit that this estimate is but the
    sluggish echo of auld lang syne. For have you, gentle reader, perused a
    single _Spectator_ Paper since you were preparing for your college
    examinations? Of course, if Addison really interested his own age by
    touching as no one else did its concerns, he deserved the audience he
    gathered about him and the fame that transpired; but why should we talk
    of him as if he actually interested us profoundly, when no one reads
    him? And how about _Tom Jones_ and _Clarissa Harlowe_ and _The Tale of a
    Tub_, and _Tristram Shandy_ or _The Vicar of Wakefield_? It is the
    tendency of long enduring fame to become sluggish and to sink into
    dogmatism.

    It is one of the duties lying nearest to the present–wherever that
    present may be–to right the wrongs of the weak, and to humble the pride
    of usurpers. Distrust of one's own taste and power, whatever may be the
    case among individuals, is impossible to a whole generation. To judge
    and to accept as final one's own conclusion is the prerequisite for true
    results and positive progress. The saints have always been vigorous in
    their unshaken conviction of the truth that is in them; it is the
    insinuating voice of the devil which doubts. So, without misgiving, the
    Eighteenth Century which wrote up Addison, wrote down Shakespeare; and
    the Nineteenth Century which wrote up Browning, wrote down Pope. We,
    too, are conscious of wise catholicity, and judge with decisive
    orthodoxy. We adore the vigorous brutalities of Kipling and Masefield,
    we are interested in the formless feebleness of certain new poets; we
    scorn Gray and Landor, and overlook the poetry of Arnold. We are
    hospitable to the "newer movements," even to the _outre_; we despise the
    ways of our parents and our grandparents, though they were men who
    walked with God. We cannot help it, to be sure, and are most unconscious
    of our little ways; but now and then it is possible for some of us to
    transport ourselves in spirit to the higher ground of the next century,
    and to look back upon the plain of our own time. Then it is hard to be
    convinced that the universe was not devised to furnish laughter for the
    gods.

    Nothing is harder than for us to laugh at ourselves; we prefer to dwell
    upon the seriousness, the impressiveness of lasting fame, as proof of
    the unity of the human race. When the world of twenty-five centuries
    after Homer can thrill at the twang of the bow of Odysseus, and smile at
    the laughter of Nausikaa and her maidens, we are kinsmen of the distant
    Greeks. Time and race are annihilated before the mighty genius which
    touches the deeps of the heart. Institutions and nations may decay, but
    the song of Homer calls us brothers. Impressive, indeed, and yet–how
    many really thrill and smile over the Odyssean tale? How many in this
    age of broad enlightenment ever read the _Odyssey_ at all, or have
    dipped into its pages for love of their pure serene? The candid answer
    is: Very few. And yet Homer is one of the two or three who reign
    supreme, as we almost all still conventionally admit.

    This vaunted proof of racial unity is overworked; Homer has but few
    relatives to-day, and they are that select handful who love to widen
    their horizons by looking backwards. In spite of our boasted
    education–which does not, any more than other panaceas, live up to its
    promises–the disciples of the great past will always be few. But since
    no age can walk entirely by its lone, there will always be a loyal band
    who will spend the best portions of their lives in the great backward
    and abysm of time, and will with shining faces bring good tidings to
    their fellowmen. How grateful the early Nineteenth Century should have
    been to Lamb for his specimens of the well-nigh forgotten Elizabethan
    Dramatists; how grateful we should be to Mr. Gilbert Murray for pointing
    out to us once more the splendors of Athenian Tragedy! Upon scholars
    like these we must rely that too much is not forgotten.

    * * * * *

    The saying that the greater the fame the fewer the readers, is a random
    shot, and yet it hits the target, and not the outermost ring. Every
    approving reader gained for a work hands on the word to a dozen who have
    not read, nor will ever read it. Fame enlarges its sweep through time
    like the surge thrown off the prow of a moving steamship, broadening
    over the sea until it stretches beyond all apparent relation to the ship
    which first stirred it up. But here the figure breaks: for while in most
    cases the waves subside, in others, the commotion bids fair to last to
    the end of human history.

    The classic once established becomes so sacred to the unthinking public
    that to doubt it is _lese majeste_; at least, its fame produces a sort
    of hypnotism. No one, for instance, can approach a play of Shakespeare
    for the first time unbiassed. He may be actually bored, but he will not
    admit it. Perhaps he will make himself believe that he enjoys it, but he
    will not be found with it in his hours of honest play. He hardly dares
    know what he thinks, lest he should be found heretical, and he feels
    safer to swell the lusty chorus of praise. The most influential critics
    in such a case get no real hearing. They may capture a few individual
    opinions, but the public at large will lend no ear to qualifications.
    Only if repetition is carried to the point of damnable iteration, will
    modification of appraisal begin slowly to sink down through class after
    class; it takes an unconscionable time to reach the bottom, perhaps
    centuries. One recalls lesser literature still lingering moribund upon
    front parlor tables in village homes–Thomson's _Seasons_ or, perhaps,
    Young's _Night Thoughts_. No one reads them; they remain as closely shut
    as the parlor doors; but there they lie, the cherished signs of family
    respectability, and still accepted unquestioningly as living things.

    Literary fame is a slippery and indefinite thing. There are countless
    impossible questions one could ask. How many readers must a work have to
    be considered alive at all? Is fame to be allowed to some of the obscure
    poets like Campion, Traherne, and Shenstone, who are known only to the
    specialist? Definiteness and finality are as difficult of attainment as
    to tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind is northerly. But it is
    certain that the immortals are dependent upon an amazingly small set of
    followers, which tends to grow smaller as the ages turn. Yet those who
    deserve long life will in the long run reach an old age, frosty but
    kindly. And we may leave them with confidence in the hands of Time, who,
    after all, like Autolycus, pockets only what have come to be
    unconsidered trifles.

    CARLYLE AND KULTUR

    I

    The opinions anyone holds in this momentous crisis are largely
    determined by those he has imbibed from the thinkers of the past, and it
    is interesting to notice how much Carlyle has been brought into the
    discussion on both sides. A somewhat systematic consideration of the
    bearing of his teachings on the present war may therefore not be
    altogether profitless.

    For many reasons he is not the sort of man to invite much attention from
    journalistic, academic, and dilettante writers. He is unpopular in a
    double sense; for he is neither superficial nor facile, and his ideas
    are opposed to the optimistic convictions that dominate in this
    generation. Some insist that he is responsible for the extravagant
    paradox and persistent denial of the obvious and the accepted indulged
    in so freely by such journalistic products as Shaw and Chesterton, but
    these men only imitate his manner to pervert his meaning. That they
    imitate him, however, is proof of his influence; for the popular writer
    does not imitate anyone whose repute is not of the highest.

    The academic mind is indifferent or hostile to him because the
    formlessness of his writings and their abnormal character seem serious
    defects to those to whom the formal is more important than the
    substantial. His learning, too, while undoubtedly extensive, is not
    always accurate or orthodox. The king is not the "cunning or the
    kenning" man, and his contempt for "logic-choppers" and "word-mongers"
    does not commend him to such as value the theoretical above the
    practical.

    To the dilettante he is equally repellant. He hated mediocrity and
    superficiality, and he had inconveniently high standards. This latter
    reason is the openly avowed one for hostility towards him in the case of
    an English writer, Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer, who freely denounces him in
    his diffuse discussions of the war, but also cites facts that tend to
    disprove his contention that Carlyle is without influence; for he tells
    of repeated experiences with British workingmen who were readers of
    Carlyle and ardent believers in his gospel.

    Carlyle is undoubtedly a strong influence in Great Britain. The
    superficial regard him as a reactionary and an obscurantist who believed
    in despotism and serfdom, but those who live closer to the realities of
    life detect in his writings a passionate sympathy for the humble and the
    oppressed. He may not exert much influence in the learned or the
    artistic world, but he is certainly a social and a political force.
    Writers on British politics constantly refer to his influence over the
    more intelligent voters of the working classes, and this demonstrates
    power of the most pregnant kind.

    Outside of Great Britain, too, there are evidences of his influence. It
    is mostly within the English speaking world, but some accuse him of
    being the progenitor of Nietzsche and his cult of the superman. This is
    only superficially true, however, for Nietzsche was exactly the sort of
    person he denounced as "quack" and "simulacrum;" but, as in the case of
    Shaw and Chesterton, this proves influence, even though it be of a
    negative sort. In the United States his _French Revolution_ has
    apparently had much influence in the way of making our attitude towards
    the past less formal and academic, and in bringing about a tendency to
    look more at the principles than at the facts of history. He has also
    given us such familiar expressions as "captains of industry," the
    "unspeakable Turk," and many others not generally recognized as his; and
    the man who fashions our daily speech gives the strongest possible proof
    of influence. Here, too, however, his influence is chiefly in the
    political and social world, and we can see the effect of his ideas in
    one of our most important pieces of recent legislation, the selective
    draft; for this act aims to realize his cardinal principle, that the
    necessary work of a nation shall be compulsory and shall be apportioned
    equitably and in such a way as to ensure each man getting the task for
    which he is fitted.

    II

    The chief question about Carlyle at present, however, is not the extent
    of his influence, but how far his teachings justify the theories and
    practices now dominant in Germany. The Germans point to his advocacy of
    their cause in 1870, and to his glorification of Frederick the Great, as
    proofs that he would approve of, and even exalt, all that they have
    done. The kaiser has quoted him in a widely discussed speech about "one
    man with God being a majority," while less prominent Germans have freely
    appealed to his authority. The English speaking world has seemed, on the
    whole, disposed to admit that Carlyle's doctrines justify, or at least
    tend to produce, ideas such as those that now obsess Germany. Some
    writers, like the Mr. Hueffer already mentioned, have seized the
    opportunity to belabor his memory as a traitor; while others have risen
    up to defend him, although they seem to do so less from conviction than
    a desire to deprive the Germans of support. Anyone who knows Carlyle
    more than superficially, however, knows that the present German policy
    would earn from him nothing but furious denunciation; and the reason
    would not be because the Germans began the war, as D. A. Wilson argues
    in _The Fortnightly Review_ for February, 1916, nor because he was
    pro-Russian, nor because of any other personal prejudice or
    predilection, but because the German nation today exhibits about all the
    vices he inveighed against as most dangerous to the peace of the world
    and the progress of civilization.

    It would be idle to deny that Carlyle did exalt the German nation and
    German policies to the English-speaking world, but we shall have to
    qualify this exaltation if we accept Dr. Johnson's principle that an
    author's works need editing a generation or so after their composition.
    This dictum is based on the obvious necessity of recognizing that the
    force of what a man says is conditioned by the current opinion of his
    time and by his attitude towards it, and it also recognizes the truth of
    one of Carlyle's own observations: "It is man's nature to change his
    dialect from century to century; he cannot help it though he would." The
    dialect of the nineteenth century was not that of the twentieth, and
    Carlyle's use of it was affected by several things that still further
    obscure his meaning for us. He opposed strongly what he regarded as many
    popular fallacies of his time, and in opposing them he overemphasized
    things that seemed to him to discredit or to disprove them. To the
    undisciplined British populace, impatient of all control and clamoring
    for the removal of all restrictions on individual liberty, he extolled
    the docile German people; but it was not their absolute so much as their
    comparative virtue that he was praising, and he would have recognized
    that, under other circumstances, their submissiveness could prove a
    vice, as, indeed, it has. Another fact, pointed out by Colonel T. W.
    Higginson, a man whose extreme humanitarianism was calculated to make
    him unsympathetic towards the eulogist of Dr. Francia, is that Carlyle
    was a humorist and a man to whom the humorous attitude was second
    nature. It will be necessary, therefore, to discount his praise of the
    German people and of German institutions, for two reasons; the first,
    because it was heightened to serve as a corrective to the tendency
    towards license in his countrymen; and the second, because, as a
    humorist, and also because of his ardent temperament, he invariably
    indulged in over-statement.

    There is much besides this to indicate that Carlyle's praise of Germany
    in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries is anything but
    evidence that he would endorse Kultur and Schrecklichkeit. His
    fundamental teaching is that we must not be formal, rigidly logical, or
    addicted to any fixed method of thinking. The nature of things must be
    determined from their effects, and not from any external
    characteristics. The national attributes of any people are not
    permanent, but they are capable of wide variation, and much of his
    invective and striking metaphor was poured forth in an effort to prove
    that this variation is very largely a question of good or bad
    leadership. In sustaining this thesis he traces the history of Germany
    more completely than he does that of any other country; and he indicates
    several periods, notably that of the Thirty Years' War, and the reign of
    Frederick I, when Prussia, at least, was contemptible in its policies.
    France, too, he argues, has not always been the mischief-maker of
    Europe; for to him the French Revolution was a salutary outburst of the
    native integrity of the French people, to sweep away the intolerable
    hypocrisies and injustices of the Old Regime, and to improve not only
    French, but human society as well.

    * * * * *

    It is plain, therefore, that he did not affirm the Germans to be
    intrinsically good and the French intrinsically bad. His aim was to show
    that nations rise in proportion to the extent to which their purposes
    are just and their methods intelligent, and that they invariably fall if
    they deal unjustly with their own citizens or their neighbors. Sometimes
    he contrasted the French unfavorably with the Germans, as, for instance,
    when he says that the martial ardor of the French may be compared to
    blazing straw, while that of the Germans is more like the burning of
    anthracite coal. This, however, is due to his having, like a great many
    other people, an impression that the French are more likely to exhibit
    superficial and glittering qualities, while the Germans are conspicuous
    for the commonplace virtues of industry and thoroughness. Nothing was
    more insidious, in his opinion, than to prefer brilliancy to solid
    worth; and it was the danger of this preference he was emphasizing, more
    than the native depravity of the French national character, when he
    compared the Gallic temperament unfavorably with the Teutonic.

    III

    His attitude towards efficiency was also the direct opposite of the
    present German conception of it. To him efficiency was a matter of
    adaptation and improvisation, while the German theory is that it is a
    question of fixed method and elaborate mechanism. Nobody ever despised
    more than Carlyle the perennial fallacy that things can be done better
    by the hocus pocus of procedure than by the intelligent application of
    the available means to the end desired. He censured any effort to
    achieve things automatically. He was never tired of ridiculing trust in
    formulas. He insisted that the intelligence must be unfettered by
    preconceptions or by a rigid plan. His hero was a man who had "swallowed
    all the formulas," and who proceeded to adapt means to ends in any way
    that was effective, passing rough-shod over theory, convention, dogmas,
    or any other restrictions on his freedom of action. It is true that he
    did insist on the necessity of having accurate and comprehensive
    knowledge, and on thoroughness and other essentials of what the Germans
    regard as scientific procedure. These things, however, were to him not
    major but minor virtues. They were the auxiliaries to success, but they
    were never to be considered as sufficient to ensure success, for they
    had always to be supplemented by intelligence and insight. This is shown
    by his depreciation of mere "beaver" industry, and by his fondness for
    satirizing "pipe-clay," by which he meant senseless military routine. No
    crime, in his eyes, was worse than a failure to recognize the dominant
    importance of the sensibly and intellectually imponderable and
    intangible elements that are part of every human problem; so that he
    reprehended as vices the very things that have been most characteristic
    of the Germans during the present war.

    Another thing that Carlyle abused and the Germans display, is
    insincerity. Nothing comes in for more invective from him than this, and
    to him it meant primarily a subjective attitude. Vanity was its chief
    cause, in his opinion. Truth, however unpalatable, must be recognized;
    while fiction, however flattering, must be scorned. Personal
    relationships must not sway our judgment, and he railed with especial
    violence against unwarranted optimism inspired by conceit. He pointed
    out, as one of Frederick the Great's chief virtues, the fact that he was
    influenced by no delusions created by vanity or sentimentality. He says
    Frederick looked facts squarely in the face, and instances his once
    offending his brother, the Crown Prince, by telling him that he had
    surrounded himself with flatterers, and reminding him that the
    Austrians, his enemies in the field, would not flatter him. Carlyle also
    points out that Frederick's wars were all conducted on a frank basis, so
    far, at least, as acknowledgment to himself of the real situation was
    concerned. There was no indulgence in the theatrical or the spectacular,
    certainly in none that deceived only himself. Frederick wasted no energy
    in striving for apparent triumphs that had no practical worth. He
    disregarded purely political or sentimental influences. Berlin was twice
    entered by the enemy during the Seven Years War, because Frederick never
    paid a military price for a political or a temporary victory, but he
    yielded territory whenever strategy demanded it. How different is this
    from Germany's present military policy, which sacrifices permanent
    advantages for the appearance of victory, and does not succeed in
    achieving even a convincing appearance of that? It is plain that the
    cheap posturing of the German military policy is just the sort of thing
    Carlyle hated and despised, and nobody who has read him more than
    casually can have escaped realizing that his insistence on the necessity
    of recognizing fact in an honest and unbiased manner is a condemnation
    of the delight in conscious and unconscious mendacity displayed by the
    present German government.

    Stupidity he warned against as one of the chief implements of the devil.
    There is no other crime, he often said, for morality is largely a matter
    of intelligence. Better be a villain than a fool, he implies, by quoting
    approvingly the boast of the Scotch family that it had produced "many a
    blackguard but not one blockhead." The mind which cannot or will not
    perceive the obvious, or which persists in denying the unflattering, is
    not only hopeless but vicious. Preferring to credit their prejudices or
    their desires, instead of the lesson of events, was the chief crime he
    ascribed to the men he held responsible for the worst catastrophes of
    history. For mere density and well-intentioned incompetence, as in the
    case of Louis XVI, he had some pity; but for stupidity arising from
    wanton obstinacy and arrogance he had nothing but wrath and scorn. It
    would be difficult to find in history a parallel for the infatuated
    folly of the German military and political policy during this war, but
    we find Carlyle reprehending less aggravated and perverse displays of
    trust in bombast, brutality, and pretension, in the case of countries
    like Spain and Austria; and this is only one of many things that show
    how monstrous in his eyes would seem the insensate policy which has made
    Germany the shame of civilization, and has alienated from her every
    country in the world except a few contiguous ones that tolerate or
    assist her through fear or rapacity.

    What proves the German policy most at variance with Carlyle's
    philosophy, however, is the fact that it is guided by materialistic and
    cynical convictions. His basic belief was that the fundamental law of
    existence is morality; they jeer at any power that is not material.
    Besides this, he believed that reliance on the baser qualities of human
    nature can never lead anywhere but to perdition. The leadership which
    aims to secure itself by appealing to the selfishness or by satisfying
    the folly of mankind, is courting disaster. The German policy boastfully
    proceeds on the assumption that the only motives that govern human
    action are self interest of some base sort, and it credits humanity with
    as little intelligence as morality. It is true that Carlyle had slight
    respect for the intelligence or the integrity of the masses, but he
    insisted that nobility is inherent in human nature, and that a hero who
    knows how to arouse it, invariably appears whenever a government becomes
    so unjust or so incompetent as to be intolerable. The German theory is
    that the weak have no friends; Carlyle's conviction was that nature
    avenges all injustice. The Germans declare that might makes right;
    Carlyle preached that right makes might, and on every question of
    fundamental morality he was diametrically opposed to them. "Savage
    animalism is nothing; inventive spiritualism is all," he writes in one
    place, and implies in a thousand. The Germans proceed on exactly the
    opposite assumption. They trust in nothing but force, and the
    neo-Darwinism that guides their policy is only a combination of the
    ideas he denounced in the works of such men as Hume, Bentham, Comte, and
    Darwin himself, mixed with a sentimental egoism that he abominated above
    everything else.

    IV

    There is, of course, some reason for believing that Carlyle's ideas
    resemble those of which the German policy is the expression, but there
    is none if we look beyond his superficial meaning. One reason for
    branding him as an advocate of German practices is his exaltation of
    Frederick the Great. Frederick began his first war by seizing Silesia,
    very much as Wilhelm II began the present war by seizing Belgium. As
    Carlyle justified the seizing of Silesia, many people cannot see why
    that does not warrant the conclusion that he would also justify the
    seizure of Belgium. Such people, however, forget that the Prussia of
    1740 was not even the Prussia of 1914, to say nothing of the German
    Empire or the Teutonic Alliance. Carlyle would detect in Prussia a
    change in spirit, but even if this cannot be established, there is
    certainly no parallel between Frederick's seizure of Silesia and
    Germany's attack on Belgium. In 1740, Prussia was one of the small
    countries of Europe. Its population was about half that of Belgium in
    1914, and its political importance was not much greater. It was situated
    between militaristic France and imperialistic Austria; and its immediate
    neighbors: Saxony, Bavaria, Poland, and the Scandinavian kingdoms, were
    ready at any moment to profit by its misfortunes. Prussia's seizure of
    Silesia was, therefore, very much as if Belgium, learning in advance of
    Germany's plan of invasion, had seized German territory adjacent to its
    frontiers, and used it as a buffer to defend itself. It was the case of
    a small state preserving itself from the aggressions of a big neighbor
    aiming at world dominion. The methods employed may not have been
    technically legal, but they were justified; therefore Carlyle endorsed
    them. He believed that Frederick, cynic and materialist though he admits
    him to have been, nevertheless proved himself the valiant defender of
    his country's right to self government. He also regarded Frederick as
    the man who did most in the eighteenth century to preserve Europe from
    being dominated by a lawless imperialism. The rulers of Austria, because
    of their almost uninterrupted possession of the office of Holy Roman
    Emperor, openly aimed at universal dominion, and never lost an
    opportunity of trying to realize it by force of intrigue. France, too,
    was striving for the domination of Europe, and Russia was just becoming
    conspicuous for the brutality and unscrupulousness of its political
    methods quite as much as for the vastness of the power it had suddenly
    developed. When these facts are considered, Frederick's action must be
    admitted to have been, if not in the interests of democracy, at least in
    support of the principle of self-determination for which the Allies
    claim to be fighting against Germany; and Carlyle's endorsement of it at
    least creates the presumption that he would not sympathize with Germany,
    which today, greatly extended, is playing the part of the bullying
    nations he commended Frederick for thwarting.

    He seems, however, to advocate autocracy, and to deride democracy, and
    this would appear to put him in agreement with the kaiser and his
    professorial prompters. It is true that he did deride the notion that
    the decision of the majority is always right. He likewise insisted that
    all the constitutionality and legality conceivable will not ensure good
    government or justify incompetence or unrighteousness in power; and
    that, conversely, no formal or technical irregularity disqualifies a
    government which is beneficent and capable. He ridiculed the idea that
    political equality is synonymous with justice, but this does not mean
    that he believed in caste rule. His opposition to political equality was
    inspired by no respect for inherited authority or the sanctity of
    property, but was the result of a conviction that it is a crude and
    materialistic way of trying to solve an immensely complicated problem by
    a simple mechanical process. Not external equality, but _equity_, must
    be achieved to make government effective and successful, was his
    contention. Making men equal in political power, in his opinion, ensured
    that the government would be dominated by the ignorance and selfishness
    of the mass of men, rather than by the enlightenment and integrity of
    the relatively small portion of mankind whom nature fits for leadership
    by endowing them with superior moral and intellectual powers. He
    believed no man entitled to authority except on the basis of character
    and ability, and he was as bitterly opposed to the German scheme of
    class rule as he was to the quantitative methods of the radicals. It is
    entirely wrong to think that, because he denied that universal suffrage
    will guarantee justice and humanity, he endorsed injustice and
    oppression. He didn't care how a government was organized or what it
    claimed to do, but he only inquired what it had succeeded in doing, and
    by this he judged it. The results of the German policy have been
    disaster for the world as well as for Germany, and he would condemn the
    German government for this, without being at all concerned about its
    form. He attached no importance to a government's form; all he judged by
    was its spirit. He believed that a government is inevitably the
    expression of the intelligence and morality of the people it represents,
    and that any form is capable of proving either good or bad in operation.
    Germany may be an autocracy in form, but the German people almost
    unanimously endorsed the war and its enormities; so what we have is an
    exhibition of the fallibility of popular judgment more than a display of
    the evils of autocracy. On this point Carlyle's position is clear, while
    that of the critics who accuse him of having endorsed German practices,
    because he denied that the majority is always right, is much more
    susceptible of being considered a justification of Kultur.

    According to his interpretation of history, the case of Germany is
    perfectly plain. It is simply an instance of the degeneracy that, he
    claimed, inevitably follows the adoption of selfish or materialistic
    ambitions. The patient industry and the steady pursuit of the practical
    instead of the spectacular brought Germany to greatness, and placed vast
    power in the hands of her rulers. Then those rulers were tempted to
    misuse that power, and they fell. They decided to corrupt the people and
    make them the instrument by which world dominion could be achieved. They
    therefore cultivated the baser passions of the populace, and with
    infinite thoroughness and resource, they used every agency of the
    government to secure public endorsement for a policy of aggression, and
    for a swash-buckling and bombastic procedure that appealed only to the
    shallow and the reckless. They found this the easier because
    circumstances worked with them. The Franco-Prussian War inflamed German
    chauvinism and inflated German conceit to an incredible extent. The
    success of the war was more the result of France's weakness than
    Germany's strength, but it filled the German nation with extravagant
    enthusiasm, and inspired it with blind faith in its own invincibility.
    Then Germany changed from a country largely agricultural to one mainly
    industrial, and wealth came to kindle in a naturally gross and sensual
    people a passion for luxury, and to impart to a naturally arrogant one
    the insolence of material power. The effect of the first of these things
    is shown in the famous night-life of Berlin, which, before the war, was
    more gross and lavish than that of any other city in the world; while
    the overbearing character of the average German abroad shows how general
    was the influence of the second. Thus a change has been effected in the
    spirit of Germany. From a nation dull but honest, rude but sincere and
    kindly, it has been transformed by bad leadership and sudden prosperity
    into a people whose dominant characteristics are brutality and
    mendacity. Therefore the Germany that Carlyle praised is not the Germany
    that perpetrated the present war, and there is no doubt that his
    attitude towards the apostles of Kultur would be the direct opposite of
    what it was towards Frederick the Great and Bismarck.

    THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS

    "It need not be difficult either to define or to secure the freedom of
    the seas if the governments of the world sincerely desire to come to an
    agreement concerning it." At first thought, the most striking
    characteristic of these words of President Wilson in his address to the
    Senate last January is their optimism. Freedom of the seas, according to
    German authorities, is to be secured by various agencies, including the
    unrestricted use of the submarine and an independent Ireland. Primarily
    it is to be secured by the destruction of British naval predominance.
    Now British authorities have an inconvenient habit of stating that
    freedom of the seas was won long ago by means of the British navy, that
    it exists today in time of peace, and that its continuance depends upon
    Britannia ruling the waves. Our correspondence with Germany before we
    entered the war contains polite references to our cooeperation with that
    country to secure freedom of the seas through recognition by treaties
    and international agreement of principles such as that of the immunity
    of private property, not contraband, from capture at sea. But Germany no
    longer thinks it possible to secure the freedom of the seas by the
    medium of scraps of paper, and other nations show an unflattering
    unanimity on this point, with regard to any scraps of paper to which the
    present German government might be a party. As to the submarine as a
    means of securing freedom of the seas, our entrance into the war is
    perhaps a sufficient indication of our estimate of it. The usefulness of
    an independent Ireland toward this end would seem even more likely to be
    limited. There remains the British navy, and it promises to remain.

    And how are we to define the freedom of the seas? The term has been used
    in the past, and examination of our diplomatic correspondence will show
    that it has been used in this war, in three different ways. It has been
    used in protest against the appropriation by a single nation of definite
    areas of the high seas for exclusive uses. The sowing of mines and the
    proclamation of danger areas have led to its revival in this sense. It
    has been believed to mean the right of private citizens to continue
    sea-borne commerce in war time with a minimum of interruption. Our
    preoccupation with this usage of the term during the first years of the
    war won us a good deal of unpopularity with our present co-belligerents.
    It has been used with reference to the safety of human life on the sea.
    We are fighting Germany today upon this issue.

    Is the problem one of war times only, or is there anything in the
    contention that the potential pressure of sea power operates in times of
    peace in restraint of commercial development? The question is not a
    simple one, and perhaps it will aid us in understanding the seeming
    optimism of our historian-president if we try to understand how this
    matter has been dealt with in the past. The sailing ship has given way
    to the turbine propeller, the galleon to the dreadnaught, the pinnace to
    the submarine, but is the freedom of the seas which is being fought for
    to-day of a kind different from that which was fought for in the days of
    Drake? And is it to be secured by the same or by different means?

    * * * * *

    We need not dwell upon the recognition by Roman law of the principle of
    the right of all to use the seas as a highway, nor upon the claims of
    various city-states, notably Venice, to dominate portions of the
    Mediterranean. In view of recent pronouncements from the Vatican, it is
    interesting to remember that the claim of Venice, picturesquely
    symbolized by the annual ceremony of wedding the Adriatic, was based in
    part upon the gift of a ring accompanying an alleged papal grant, and
    that the struggle for the freedom of the ocean seas began as a challenge
    of two actual papal grants of wider significance. In 1454 Nicholas V
    rewarded the pertinacity of the Portuguese in pushing their discoveries
    southward along the coast of Africa, by granting to the crown of
    Portugal exclusive rights of navigation and trade south of Capes Bojador
    and Non. In 1493, Alexander VI rewarded the crown of Castile for the
    exploit of Columbus, by giving Spain rights similarly exclusive beyond
    the meridian one hundred degrees west of the Azores. The details of
    these arrangements were later modified by mutual agreement of the powers
    concerned, the final understanding being that Portugal had exclusive
    rights of trade and navigation by the eastern approach to the Indies,
    and Spain in the waters of what was supposed to be the western route
    thither.

    Both powers stood ready to defend the privileges which the highest
    international authority of the period had granted them. They proceeded
    to deal summarily with all foreign vessels found in their preserves.
    Although the medieval maritime code, the _Consolato del Mare_, provided
    for sparing the lives of the crew of a captured vessel, the
    humanitarianism of the king of Portugal took a different form. John II
    issued orders to his captains to seize all vessels encountered in the
    barred zone, and instructed them to cast the crews into the sea, "In
    order that they may die a natural death."

    * * * * *

    It was the mariners of France who most frequently braved this earlier
    form of "spurlos versenkt." They persisted in navigating the waters
    claimed by Portugal, and established a lucrative trade in Brazil. Their
    sovereign, Francis I, seems to have been the earliest champion among
    rulers of the freedom of the ocean seas. To the expostulations of the
    king of Portugal he maintained, "The act of traffic and exchange of
    goods is of all rights one of the most natural and best grounded." To
    the remonstrances of the Spanish ruler, the Emperor Charles V, he
    replied, "The sun shines for me as well as for others. I should like to
    see the clause of Adam's will which excludes me from the partition of
    the world." The tales of the exploits of Jean Ango, merchant of Dieppe,
    who sank his enormous fortune in his ventures; of his captains, Fleury,
    Verrazano, the brothers Parmentier, is an absorbing one. Seeking
    fortunes for themselves and revenge for comrades fallen into the hands
    of the enemy and treated as pirates; justifying their acts on the
    principle that the paths of the sea are free to all; they dared and
    suffered, and explored new lands, and brought glory to the maritime
    annals of France. They laid the foundations of her overseas commerce and
    colonies, but owing to the religious wars at home the superstructure was
    not built until a later age.

    The exploits of the French sailors against the Spanish monopoly were
    succeeded by those of Hawkins and Drake. Elizabeth's dictum that the sea
    and the air were common to all was as emphatic as Francis I's utterances
    on the subject, and Elizabeth's was the better maintained. The victories
    of Drake in the Caribbean Sea in 1586 meant the death blow to Spain's
    hopes of effectually barring the western seas. She was felt to be within
    her rights, however, in establishing a monopoly of trade with her
    colonies in the new world. The English, in their efforts to obtain
    trading concessions, or at least a recognition of their right to trade
    in regions not actually occupied by Spain, following French precedent,
    sedulously avoided making any agreement that might seem to acknowledge
    Spain's right to prevent the vessels of other nations from sailing the
    American seas.

    While England was combating Spain's claims in western waters, a new
    maritime power, the Netherlands, was breaking down the monopoly of
    Portugal in the east. The ships of the Dutch East India Company won
    their way against the Portuguese and made prize of their vessels. It was
    apparently to set at rest the consciences of members of the company who
    hesitated to pocket profits that had not been won in peaceful trade,
    that the Dutchman Grotius wrote his treatise on the law of prize, one
    chapter of which, under the title _Mare Liberum_, was published as an
    independent work. The book claimed the seas as a free highway for the
    ships of all nations, and freedom of trade for all nations on every sea.
    That age was not ready to accept either claim in its entirety. Two
    Englishmen, Welwod and Selden, wrote books to vindicate England's
    traditional sovereignty over the British seas, the limits of which no
    one was quite certain about. Even the British admirals who were supposed
    to defend British authority there, could never get the Crown lawyers to
    pronounce exactly on the point, some holding that British seas extended
    to the English settlements in America, others being satisfied with a
    line drawn from Norway to Cape Finisterre. Charles I set out, with his
    ship money fleets, to supplement the discourses of his subjects by "the
    louder language of a powerful navy." But it was left for his great
    successor, Cromwell, to use this latter language effectively, and to
    wring from the Dutch the concession that their ships should strike flag
    and topsail in the narrow seas. They always insisted, however, that this
    was done in courtesy, not as a recognition of British sovereignty over
    any part of the high seas. International incidents arising from the
    refusal of French captains to salute occurred until England relinquished
    her claim during the Napoleonic wars.

    * * * * *

    As to freedom of trade, the English Navigation Laws stood as a witness
    that Spain's policy of monopolizing colonial trade was considered worthy
    of emulation. Such monopolies were carefully guarded, as in Elizabeth's
    day, and as in her day efforts were made to break them down. To
    Cromwell's request that Englishmen be allowed liberty of conscience and
    of trade in the West Indies, the Spanish ambassador replied that it was
    to ask his master's two eyes. Thereupon Cromwell stopped asking, but
    despatched a fleet to the West Indies to seize a post which might become
    a centre of British trade.

    This action of Cromwell links his day to ours. That the keynote of
    modern diplomacy and its accompaniment of wars is to be found in rivalry
    for the possession of land and markets in the extra-European world, has
    been fully pointed out by historians. It is a fact which cannot be
    emphasized too strongly. Its significance increases with the study of
    the whole modern period.[1] One has only to dip into the pamphlet
    literature of the eighteenth and late seventeenth centuries, or to read
    a few pages of parliamentary debates, to realize the importance of trade
    in the eyes of all men. It becomes apparent that the aim of each
    progressive nation was to increase its overseas commerce at the expense
    of other nations, and that every new enterprise of foreigners loomed as
    a menace to national prosperity. Sea-borne trade was the nursery of
    seamen, and commerce must be restricted to nationals by navigation acts,
    while commercial ventures of rival states were not alone a menace
    because they meant diverting profits to the benefit of a rival, but
    dangerous as the possible foundation for hostile naval power. Since
    commerce was carried on most successfully by trading companies, it was
    good policy to give them governmental countenance, and although
    occasional voices were raised in criticism of their monopolies and the
    high prices for which they were felt to be responsible, their shares
    were popular forms of investment, and many of their shareholders sat in
    the seats of the mighty. The English and Dutch East India Companies were
    among the first to carry on overseas commerce on a large scale, and much
    international history is written between the lines of their annals.

    [1] And its illusions were set forth in "The Expansionist
    Fallacy," No. 5 of this REVIEW.–ED.

    "And you, Belgians, courage, courage! Continue to defend intrepidly your
    rights and your freedom, and with them the freedom of the human race!"
    It was not in August of 1914 that these words were spoken. They occur in
    a pamphlet published in 1727, and the struggle in which they urge the
    Belgians to persist was a struggle for the freedom of the seas. The
    ruler of the Belgians in those days was popularly called the German
    emperor, and though not a Hohenzollern, he was a Hapsburg. The Emperor
    Charles VI was pursuing a project which bade fair to give the Hapsburg
    lands something they have not attained to this day: importance as a
    maritime power. He had issued a charter to a group of Belgian merchants
    who were already carrying on a lucrative trade with the far east from
    the port of Ostend. The Dutch and English East India companies, seeing
    their monopolies endangered, complained to their respective governments,
    which immediately set in motion machinery for the suppression of the
    Ostend Company. Diplomatic agents busied themselves at Charles' court,
    and a flood of pamphlets, in those days of limited newspaper publicity,
    did what they could in the manufacturing of public opinion. The Belgian
    pamphlets maintained the principle that "the right to trade in any part
    of the globe is inherent in all sovereign peoples." The Dutch pamphlets
    opposed the company on the ground of alleged infringement of treaty
    rights and agreements. The English pamphlets, wisely refraining from
    much comment on documents based on papal grants whose authority England
    had never recognized, argued that English pocketbooks would suffer if
    the Ostend Company continued to do business. Pitt many years later
    stated in Parliament that the English government had no right to demand
    the suppression of the company. But, as the British ambassador said to
    the Emperor, in language strikingly reminiscent of that of the Spanish
    ambassador of Cromwell's day, "In attacking our commerce, you fly in the
    eyes of the English nation." In the complicated diplomacy of five years,
    the question of the Ostend Company held its own, but in 1731 Charles VI
    abandoned it, as he had abandoned many other things of value, to obtain
    one more ratification of the Pragmatic Sanction.

    Eight years later it was England that was carrying on a struggle for the
    principle of freedom of the seas. Modern research has established beyond
    any reasonable doubt that the immortal Jenkins did actually have an ear
    sliced off by a Spaniard who was searching his ship for smuggled goods,
    and that the tale was not a fabrication of the Opposition that desired
    to force Walpole to plunge England into war. The Opposition certainly
    recognized the recruiting value of the incident. "The tale of Jenkins'
    ear will raise us troops enough!" exclaimed one member on the floor of
    the House of Commons. Whether or not Jenkins commended his soul to God
    and his cause to his country, his country embraced his cause as that of
    the freedom of British commerce from search by Spaniards in time of
    peace. The British vessels searched were usually smugglers, but the
    British public was not interested in the right of Spain to safeguard her
    monopoly of trade with her colonies; they objected to search and to the
    contention that British ships must not be found in American waters
    outside the straight path between England and her colonies, and they
    besieged the doors of Parliament with the slogan: "A free sea or war!"
    And so was fought the war of Jenkins' Ear, which might have been avoided
    had it not been for the powerful influence, both with the people and
    with Parliament, of the South Sea Company; and which did nothing toward
    settling the point in controversy.

    Thus far the principle of freedom of the seas had been invoked in
    connection with efforts to preserve for the benefit of a whole nation or
    of favored groups of nationals, all access to the trade and resources of
    certain regions. During the wars for colonies and commerce which arose
    from these efforts, the principle was brought forward against
    interruption of commerce in time of war. In the days when privateering
    was a recognized adjunct of maritime, warfare, commerce-destroying was
    reduced to a science that only the last three years have rivalled. The
    seizure as contraband of anything which might help the enemy to prolong
    the struggle, and the confiscation of cargoes of neutral ships, on the
    ground that part of the cargo belonged to the enemy, caused endless
    international complications. Treaties of peace began to contain
    provisions designed to render less burdensome these rights claimed by
    belligerents. The first step toward anything like international
    agreement was taken in the treaties of Utrecht in 1713. By these
    treaties contraband was limited to articles directly useful in war,
    exclusive of foodstuffs; enemy goods on neutral ships were protected on
    the principle later reduced to a formula, as "free ships, free goods";
    and the method of visit and search was regulated. These arrangements did
    not outlast the peace, but many later treaties renewed, and some
    developed more fully, these restrictions, which were naturally more
    popular with neutral powers and with powers possessing small navies,
    than with the power which possessed the command of the sea. As that
    enviable position was held practically without interruption by Great
    Britain, and as in time of war she used unsparingly the advantages her
    position gave her, she gained in the eyes of opponent and neutral the
    reputation of being the enemy of freedom of the seas.

    At the beginning of the Seven Years' War France, realizing that she
    would not be able to control the trade with her colonies, threw it open
    to neutrals. Great Britain thereupon laid down her famous "Rule of 1756"
    that commerce illegal in time of peace was not legal in time of war, and
    attacked neutral ships found trading with French colonies. The answer of
    Denmark and Sweden to this policy was the formation of the first league
    of neutrals to protect neutral commerce. The French, hoping that the
    contrast of their policy with that of Great Britain would help their
    cause with neutral powers, were careful not to authorize interference
    with neutral trade. It is interesting to find the doctrine of which we
    have heard so much of late, of the menace of British "navalism,"
    formulated in the eighteenth century by the minister of a state which,
    like England's opponent in the twentieth, was stronger on land than on
    the sea. It was a French diplomat who expressed the hope that some day a
    union of nations would be able to cope with England and "establish
    firmly after the peace, or even during the war, a balance of commerce:
    for without it no other people will ever enjoy any but a precarious
    navigation, which will last only as long as it is to the interest of the
    English government not to destroy it." This statement owes its
    significance to the fact that it voiced the attitude of a government
    which, under stress of circumstances, indeed, and not because it saw a
    light, was departing from the prevailing practice of mercantilism, the
    reservation for nationals of the benefits of colonial trade.

    * * * * *

    A British statesman has recently made the assertion that the United
    States owes its existence to the struggle for the freedom of the seas.
    He was referring to the Elizabethan struggle against Spain's policy of
    exclusion, but is not the statement true also in another sense? In so
    far as the restrictions laid upon the development of the colonies by the
    trade and navigation laws contributed in bringing about the American
    Revolution, that movement was a protest against the mercantile system,
    under which no freedom of the seas was possible.

    The United States early ranged herself, also, on the side of the nations
    that championed freedom of the seas for commerce in time of war. Her
    treaty with France regulated the right of search, limited contraband to
    munitions of war, and proclaimed the principle, "free ships, free
    goods." The treaty which Franklin later negotiated with Prussia
    established American advocacy of the immunity of private property from
    capture at sea. In the meantime, Great Britain's refusal to limit
    herself in any interference with commerce which might hinder her victory
    over her revolted colonies and France, gave umbrage to the Scandinavian
    powers and to Russia, and in 1780 Catherine II proclaimed the Armed
    Neutrality of the North. To the principle of "free flag, free goods,"
    and the limitation of contraband to actual munitions of war, the Armed
    Neutrality joined the principle that a blockade to be binding must be
    effectively maintained. Although Catherine jested with the British
    ambassador about her armed neutrality, calling it an armed nullity, she
    told him that Russian trade and Russian ships were her children, and
    that she was determined to protect them. France had favored the
    formation of the Armed Neutrality, and Louis XVI improved the occasion
    by explaining that his only motive in participating in the war was his
    attachment to the principle of the freedom of the seas.

    It is difficult for us today to preserve the proper attitude of respect
    for the word of a king in this connection, but it is not so difficult
    for us to understand what was the real attitude of France. England had
    won from France the greater part of her colonies, and with them a
    lucrative commerce, and her remaining commerce was being crippled by the
    war policy of the mistress of the seas. Behind the England which refused
    to limit her power as a belligerent by accepting a revision of maritime
    law, stood the England which was the successful commercial rival of
    France.

    The French Republic inherited this much of the view point of Louis XVI.
    The remedy for the situation France saw in an imitation of England's
    policy. It enacted a navigation law copied after those of Great Britain,
    and while declaring that its war against England was a war to free the
    seas, it proclaimed that as a war measure it was abandoning the
    principle, "free ships, free goods." Napoleon took up the convenient
    formula, writing to the Royal Society on paper decorated by a vignette
    representing Liberty sailing in a shell, and bearing the motto, _Liberte
    de Mer_. Years later he read the same meaning into the formula;
    outlining to Narbonne his idea that England should be attacked through
    the Orient; he said that the same blow which destroyed her mercantile
    greatness in India, would win independence for the west, and the freedom
    of the sea. England's attitude toward sea law gave him a convenient
    weapon, and he induced his admirer the Czar to form a new Armed
    Neutrality, announcing that France would not make peace until neutral
    flags were properly respected, "and until England shall have
    acknowledged that the sea belongs to all nations." Whether the device of
    a league of neutrals could really be an effective force in protecting
    commerce in wartime was not proved in 1800, for after the assassination
    of the Czar Paul the coalition went to a pieces. As in the present war,
    both belligerents used their naval forces to cut off supplies from the
    territories controlled by the enemy, and to ruin her commerce. Napoleon
    in his attempt to close the markets of Europe to Great Britain
    maintained that he was defending the freedom of the seas against Great
    Britain's refusal "to recognize international law as observed by other
    nations," while England defended her "paper blockades" and policy toward
    neutrals, as necessary, since she must preserve her command of the seas
    as an "essential to the protection of independent states, and for the
    prosperity and good of the human race."

    The damage done to American commerce in the pursuit of these
    high-sounding aims precipitated the war of 1812, which was indubitably a
    war for the freedom of the seas for neutral commerce in time of war, and
    which would probably have been fought with France instead of with Great
    Britain had it not been for the question of impressment, and the popular
    prejudices which had survived the American Revolution. Our championship
    of rules limiting belligerent rights against sea borne commerce, and our
    activities in the suppression of the Barbary pirates, have led us into a
    rather complacent attitude with regard to our position as to freedom of
    the seas. It is salutary therefore for us to remember the Bering Sea
    controversy. When, in 1821, Russia claimed sovereignty over Bering Sea,
    both the United States and Great Britain protested, and Russia withdrew
    her claim. But when in 1886 our activities in connection with pelagic
    sealing caused friction with Great Britain, our defense was based in
    part upon a claim to have inherited from Russia rights which in 1821 we
    had refused to admit that she possessed. And when the case was heard
    before an international court, one of our advocates even justified visit
    and search in time of peace, regardless of our traditional position on
    that subject. However, after a certain amount of journalistic jubilation
    when the award went against us, our cousins overseas charitably allowed
    the memory of our peccadillo to accumulate dust. That the question of
    the right of a nation to protect fisheries in adjacent waters is not a
    closed one, was shown by Russia's claim in the White Sea put forward in
    1911. That question, as well as the whole matter of the three-mile
    limit, is bound to demand further consideration in the near future.

    * * * * *

    What has been the attitude of Great Britain since 1815, and how far does
    it foreshadow her future policy? It must not be forgotten that in the
    long struggle to safeguard human life as well as property upon the seas,
    the chief burden has been borne by her. In the old days of her proud
    claim to a salute in the narrow seas, she felt her responsibility to
    police those seas, and this sense of responsibility has widened with the
    extension of her commerce, so that she has put the whole world in her
    debt by rendering the seven seas a safe highway in time of peace. Her
    adoption of the principle of free trade was probably the greatest single
    step that has been taken in modern times toward freedom of the seas, in
    the sense of breaking down the barriers of trade restriction which
    supposed national interest had erected. On the other hand, in the race
    for markets and raw materials, she has not escaped the tendency toward
    that return to the mercantilistic policy of exclusion in favor of
    nationals which is so marked in the whole movement today, and which is
    the crux of the problem. In the aspect of the question which has to do
    with limitation of belligerent right, she has shown herself responsive
    to the tendency, so noticeable from 1815 to 1914, to regard war as
    something to be limited so far as possible to the armed forces of the
    belligerents. Her substantial concessions in 1856, many of her statesmen
    have never ceased to deprecate, and it was the growing feeling that she
    could not afford to part with any more of the advantages her command of
    the sea gave her, that prevented the ratification of the Declaration of
    London. The events of the present war make very vital the question how
    far rules of this sort contribute toward the solution of the problem.

    The attitude of the English press toward Lord Lansdowne's suggestion
    that Great Britain declare her willingness to discuss the problems
    connected with the freedom of the seas reflects the shades of British
    opinion at present. Certain papers see the problem as one of war times
    only, and point out, what American opinion will not fail to echo, that
    the submarine question will have to be dealt with first and foremost.
    Two writers face the problem squarely as one of commercial policy in
    time of peace, and offer solutions according to their creeds. The
    _Saturday Review_ expresses the belief that "so far from examining with
    other Powers the question of the freedom of the seas, we must re-enact,
    without delay, the Navigation Laws, which we foolishly repealed in
    1849." On the other hand, the _London Nation_ sees the impartial
    distribution of the world's raw materials as one aspect of the real
    freedom of the seas, and agrees with the French Socialists that the
    mistress of the seas that must secure this freedom for all nations
    willing to live by the rule of peace, must be, not Great Britain, but
    the future League of Nations. The harmonizing of these two view-points
    does not promise to be an easy task, and we may be sure that the whole
    question will have full and free discussion in England and throughout
    her empire in the months to come. American citizens do not have to
    consider the problem of resigning to the keeping of a League of Nations
    a proud and long-cherished tradition of wardenship of the seas. But we
    are one of the great commercial nations, and no voice will have a more
    respectful hearing than ours at the peace settlement. Barere,
    phrase-maker of the French Revolution, summed up the foreign policy of
    France in 1798 by saying that she had inscribed upon her flags, "Freedom
    of the seas, peace to the world, equal rights to all nations." We have
    seen how the first of these phrases has been used again and again in the
    past to cloak jealousies of the commercial dominance of a rival nation.
    We know that one thing that it means today is that never again must the
    history of the world be stained by the wanton destruction of the lives
    of peaceful travelers upon the world's highway. If it has a meaning also
    in relation to the world's commerce, in peace or in war, we must see
    that it is a different meaning from that of the past. For we, too, have
    inscribed _Freedom of the seas_ upon our battle flags, and it behooves
    us to be certain just where our army belongs in the long procession of
    armies with banners–just what is the direction in which our standards
    point.

    THE CONDITIONS OF TOLERANCE

    There is one virtue which we implicitly assume when we discuss
    philosophy, and usually invoke when we venture to discuss religion. It
    is the favorite "intellectual virtue" of our time: for, as the sophists
    disquietingly remarked in their day, and as Professor Sumner shows in
    _Folkways_, moral touchstones, like clothes, are subject to change of
    fashion; those of a former generation, taken for granted in all
    soberness, rise out of old books with a quaintness like that of the
    "y^e" and the long "s" of our forefathers. The "great, the awful, the
    respectable virtues," such as godliness and righteousness, as terms of
    approval, are seldom on our lips; the old stalwart, rigid qualities are
    less admired today than those which are more gracious and humane–than
    flexibility of mind, universal sympathy, open vision.

    But these latter in their turn we have now accepted as ideals, with no
    warning Socrates at our elbow to demand: "Precisely what do you mean by
    these new standards which you take for granted?"

    "Toleration is so prodigious an impiety," said a member of the
    Westminster Assembly, "that this religious parliament cannot but abhor
    the meaning of it." Yet, in that constant gradual "transvaluation of all
    values" which humanity performs, tolerance has become the golden word of
    modern thought. And, like all popular ideas, it is unthinkingly accepted
    and facilely claimed. Even those who admit that they have not attained
    full measure of it, hide themselves behind the remark: "I am tolerant of
    everything except intolerance," and thereby yield them altogether: for
    to be tolerant only of a corresponding tolerance, is like confining your
    courtesy to polite people. The only attitude which tests the quality of
    tolerance is precisely the intolerant attitude.

    But passing by these simple folk, we may yet find in the more
    serious-minded the sense of an inconsistency in the very conception,
    which puts it forever beyond our reach. We may be undertaking the
    difficult experiment of eating our cake and having it too. Yet even so
    there may be a refuge: for if paradox should prove to be the final form of
    truth–a union of opposites present in all living facts–inconsistency
    will have no devastating effect on it. The very fabric of truth may be
    woven of just such contradictions; reality may _never_ be consistent.
    But whether or no this be the way out, there are plainly difficulties
    to be considered, if we are to understand, and at the same time
    accept, the ideal of tolerance.

    At the outset the distinction must be drawn between outward physical
    toleration and the inward spiritual grace of tolerance. In the first
    place, tolerance refers to thought, not to conduct. That heretics are no
    longer burned at the stake is the outcome of a change in social policy;
    in so far as this change is more than the discovery that heretics are
    after all not dangerous to the state, it is due to the obvious fact that
    where there is no clearly delineated, uniform orthodoxy, there can be no
    heresy–the species is extinct. Whenever the government in power
    concludes that an idea _is_ dangerous to the state, it does not hesitate
    to break through whatever safeguards to individual liberty of opinion
    may have been erected in the past. If such action is not legally
    justified, it is at once shown that laws are dead things, powerless
    against living human fears and needs. The application of the
    Defense-of-the-Realm act in England to distributing copies of the
    hitherto innocuous Sermon on the Mount, is evidence enough that the
    governmental attitude towards the subject has not changed in principle.
    And if, in addition to fear, we have a sharply defined orthodox view, we
    find that, though ordinary people no longer advocate capital punishment
    for doubting the Trinity, they did attempt to lynch Max Eastman for
    doubting the righteousness of the war. In other words, we have ceased to
    believe that religious opinions matter to social conduct, while still
    believing that political opinions do.

    The genuine intolerance of the middle ages rested on a different basis.
    We say: Think what you please, so long as you act in conformity with
    what public opinion pleases. Plenty of anarchists and pacifists and
    upholders of the Susan B. Anthony Federal Amendment are still at large
    because their actions, though not their thoughts, are orthodox. The
    Inquisition struck deeper, because it was convinced of the genuine
    importance of thought, in relation to conduct. It was not content with
    binding the heretic to hold his peace–he must recant. It was so utterly
    convinced that not merely expediency, but final universal truth, lay in
    its keeping, that mere error, in the face of this revealed truth, became
    the ultimate sin.

    The question of the meaning of tolerance, then, if it is not simply a
    matter of social usage, becomes the question, How far is it compatible
    with conviction? Tolerance may be defined as willingness to sanction the
    existence of views at variance with our own. The point at issue is not
    the expression of such views; the most intolerant man may egg on his
    opponent to complete expression, that he may argue him out of his error.
    The real tolerance refers to the relation of thought to thought, not of
    thought to speech. The above definition is one which, I believe, the
    seeker after tolerance will agree to accept (I have tried it on
    several). And yet, though presenting a fair idea of the attitude, it
    holds within itself the difficulty which puts the ideal out of reach.

    This inherent contradiction may be stated, in the terms of our
    definition, thus: we are willing for an opposite view to exist _only_
    when we are not entirely convinced that our own view is true. The real
    belief in absolute truth is a missionary state of mind, and carries with
    it the faith that truth is the one thing worth having. In our day, the
    infinite variety of ideas which custom does not stale, has long forced
    itself upon our attention. In consequence we no longer share the faith
    of Plato that knowledge, as distinct from opinion, can be secured. We
    cannot believe anything quite as firmly as the mediaeval Catholic
    believed in an eternal church independent of argument, or indeed of
    humanity. If we could, we should be as intolerant as Billy Sunday, whom
    "the pale cast of thought" has never tinged, and, if we were
    metaphysicians, should go up and down the world preaching the dangers of
    neo-realism, as the evangelist fulminates against the blasphemy of
    biological evolution. But Billy Sunday is an inverted anachronism; it is
    not in the power of a modern of the _commencement de siecle_ to
    recapture his fine careless rapture.

    If this be true, if we have grown too modest to declare the eternal
    constitution of the universe, what degree of conviction and what quality
    of tolerance are left us?

    The first answer is, that we may be willing to admit a view differing
    from our own because we realize that both may be right. But such a
    realization, if it is to be more than verbal politeness, implies that
    the difference is only partial or nominal, and consequently that my
    opponent's error does not shut him out from acknowledging my truth. I
    may be a woman suffragist, and yet be tolerant of the views of a friend
    who opposes suffrage, not on grounds of sex, but because he believes
    that the suffrage is already too wide, requiring restriction rather than
    enlargement. If I also am in theory an aristocrat, I can admit the
    notion that both of us are in a measure right.

    But the only real tests of tolerance are the far more common cases, in
    which, if I am right, you must be wrong. Present species are or are not
    the result of development or special creation; the world is or is not an
    intelligible order; our individual personalities do or do not survive
    bodily death. We cannot be content here to fall back on a different
    statement of the problem. When we say: "Oh, yes, we both believe in God;
    to me he is Life Force; to you, Jehovah," we know in our hearts that we
    are simply conniving at the draining of all definite meaning from the
    word, in order to confuse the issue and keep the peace. The one thing
    needful is, not that we should find blanket terms under which we seem to
    agree, but that we should drag our disagreement into the clearest
    possible light, and so find out what we are talking about. Not only our
    language, but our intelligence suffers from preferring vague unity to
    distinct differentiation.

    Even in such cases there are, however, three conditions which make
    tolerance tenable. The first of them is, that we do not really care
    about the issue; we have taken sides, but only because it is necessary
    to hold some opinion, and so we have no active conviction. We are
    tolerant because, after all, we know little about the subject, and are
    willing to leave enthusiasm to experts. I have a friend who, even in the
    crisis of the present war, keeps critically aloof from questions of
    politics, seeming tolerant because his own position is held only
    "academically"; he does not care enough about the subject for that
    particular truth to seem supremely important. He is tolerant with the
    ease of indifference. It is easy to give free play to ideas in which we
    have no compelling interest. In consequence, many of us pretend to a
    general tolerance, when the fact is, that we carefully choose our
    examples from among the issues which least concern us.

    Much of the modern religious tolerance is of this type. Our culture is
    so predominantly pagan that Christianity has ceased to play more than a
    nominal part in our tests of ideas and conduct. This tendency has
    infiltrated even those who are unaware of the influence; the saving of
    souls according to Christian theology has become less important than the
    preservation of good taste, whose standards are set by an unconsciously
    pagan public opinion. On the other hand, the prevailing paganism has not
    become self-conscious, since it is hidden behind Christian words; and
    few have the time or courage to look beneath words to test their
    consonance with things. Being the result, not of directed effort, but of
    drifting, the pagan element in our civilization is not eager to assert
    itself. So the avowed pagans are tolerant of Christianity, saying: "I do
    not care for it for myself, but it is good for the masses. As to the
    church, for people who like that sort of thing, why, that is the sort of
    thing they like." And the Christians are tolerant of pagan ideals of
    self-realization, of personal pride and the worldly splendor of luxury
    and art, on the ground that some of the ideals which they are supposed
    to accept are after all inapplicable to modern life. Since neither cares
    to assert itself for what it is, there is the mutual tolerance of
    indifference. If these two ideals dared to stand forth and contest the
    field, there would be an end of tolerance,–a holy war, and clearing of
    the atmosphere.

    The second condition of tolerance implies deeper thought on the disputed
    subject than does the first. It relates to things, about which we are
    not indifferent; but it indicates a mental sophistication which is too
    cautious lightly to put Q. E. D. at the close of a demonstration. Our
    conviction has, as it were, a string to it. I read once in a novel a
    phrase like this: "He was as amazed as a Christian, who, waking after
    death, should look round the universe and find that there was no God."
    Imagination gives us tolerance by marring every faith with the
    suggestion that we may wake up and find ourselves mistaken. And this is
    just the faith that cannot remove mountains. The idea that the other
    fellow may be right, paralyzes activity. Only bigots and fanatics set
    fire to the world without scruple. We sit before the hearth, perhaps,
    and argue about the brutality and cowardice of much of our current
    morality, and the obstacles which convention often raises against a
    sincere and heroic life; and yet, unspoken behind our preaching, is the
    haunting fear that the wisdom of the ages may not be the hoary folly it
    seems, that the melodramatic novels may be true, that considerations
    unguessed may be involved–and we continue to sit before the hearth.

    The presence of the little imp of skeptical imagination marks the
    difference between philosophical and religious convictions. For good or
    ill, the other person's point of view, once seen, cannot cease for us.
    Our most ardent idealism is not a belief for which we would willingly be
    martyred by the realists: for we might wake and look round the universe
    in vain for an Absolute. It may be a good thing that the quality of
    religious conviction has died out among us, or it may be a necessary
    evil of civilized thinking. But the fact remains that we have no need of
    tolerance towards views which, consciously or unconsciously, we admit
    may be more nearly true than our own. We are merely not sure enough of
    ourselves to risk annihilating the views of our opponents.

    The third form of imperfect conviction on which tolerance may rest is
    the view of truth as purely personal or relative. Subjectivism has been
    used as a bad name in philosophy for so long that the suspicion of it is
    usually resented. But it peers out from behind the respectable robe of
    many a philosophy which has not learned to call hard names. To reduce
    truth to a fact in individual experience, is to destroy the problem.
    Genuine conviction, without which tolerance is a mere form devoid of
    substance, is impossible if the truth for me and the truth for you are
    isolated facts, having and needing no relation to each other. But little
    private truths are sufficient only for little private affairs.

    All of us want, and most of us take for granted, a real beauty in whose
    light it is irrelevant that Longfellow is read by a larger number of
    people than is Shelley. If I really love Shelley, I must believe that in
    some impersonal sense _Prometheus Unbound_ is superior to _The Psalm of
    Life_. This insistence upon a standard is at the root of all our serious
    thinking; _de gustibus non disputandum_ is a foolish saying: for nothing
    as a matter of fact is more fiercely disputed than questions of taste.
    The social character of thought is so firmly rooted that a thought which
    is limited to a personal impression ceases to interest us. It has become
    a mere fact; and we live in a world not of mere facts but of facts which
    gain their importance only through meaning. It is only of the most
    trivial acts that we say: This is right for me but wrong for you,
    because you think it wrong. We do not really even then put the You and
    the I on the same level, but imply that you will, if properly educated,
    agree with me. Human nature demands that we habitually will that the
    maxim of our thought at least, should become a universal law. Only when
    we apply our convictions, aesthetic, ethical, or metaphysical, to others
    outside ourselves, do they become more than fancies.

    If we go the whole way with Professor Sumner, for example, in the
    relativity of morals, we are not really, from the standpoint of modern
    Western teaching, looking tolerantly upon other theories which approve,
    for instance, the summary extermination of undesirable members of the
    family. We are simply refusing to adopt the morality of our own or any
    other age, more seriously than as a guide of conduct whereby we avoid
    punishment by society. The owning of slaves in the United States, says
    Professor Sumner, is no longer expedient; but, under changes of social
    and industrial conditions, it may again become so. Morality, that is, is
    what its etymology implies–simply custom.

    The holder of such a theory has no real conviction of the position
    which, by geographical and temporal accidents, he holds. He is really
    trying to place himself at the center of indifference, and his one
    conviction is that all standards are relative. Of opposition to this, he
    is frequently intolerant enough. The man who holds that Buddhism best
    meets the religious needs of India, as Christianity satisfies the
    conditions of life in the West, thinks himself tolerant of religious
    differences, because all the examples are on his side; but he is
    intolerant–and on his premises justly so–of missionaries, who are his
    real opponents.

    Such are the forms of incomplete conviction which make tolerance
    plausible. There remain those attitudes which frankly abandon, for both
    sides, the claim to truth in any absolute sense. Our opinions in any
    case, they maintain, are but aspects of an all-embracing truth which can
    be known only to a consciousness of the whole. Your opinion and mine
    are, therefore, in the limited sense which is alone applicable, equally
    true. But the only ideas which we can admit to have an equal claim to
    partial truth, are those which are not mutually exclusive, so that the
    different facets of the universal truth shall not interfere with one
    another. Unless we mean simply that a variety of opinion makes the world
    less dull, in which case conviction does not come in at all, we are
    unable to admit that a belief diametrically opposed to our own is "just
    as good," not as a foil, or a spur, to our own thinking, but in its own
    right. It may be that the Bradleyan Absolute can admit contradictories
    as equally true, but such mental acrobatics do not come naturally to
    human thinking. Since we cannot view the world as the Absolute sees it,
    we cannot, in practice, be guided by the theory that opposite answers to
    living problems, set in all their complex conditions, are equally true.

    The conviction that is softened by an historic sense or by use of the
    terms of biological evolution, meets the same difficulty. In so far as
    there is any real demand for tolerance, it must be in the conflict of
    present issues. We do not need to be tolerant of the past, unless we
    imagine ourselves in that past, and regard its issues as, for the time
    being, contemporary with us. Ideas opposing our own may be gently dealt
    with, as necessary stages of civilization. But if a stage is now no
    longer necessary, the excuse fails. Cannibalism could not be defended as
    a civilized practice, simply because it represents a stage of
    development. Still less can we tolerate on the same ground what seems to
    us wrong in modern life. For we cannot without undue vanity maintain
    that the rest of mankind living under our conditions are less highly
    developed than we. So the sincere pacifist, for example, cannot properly
    be tolerant of war as an expression of prevailing savagery, beyond which
    he has himself advanced.

    The theory that opinions and institutions are justified as
    "stepping-stones," survivals not yet quite outworn, always carries the
    presumption that we are the apex–an assumption, of course, which
    evolutionary theory does not bear out. It is possible that our seeming
    progress may be retrogressive, that the true apex may have been reached
    in Greece some two thousand years ago. When we look kindly upon (to us)
    impossible views, with some idea of thesis and antithesis in our minds,
    we are taking our own position as the synthesis, and, placing ourselves
    at the standpoint of the whole, implying knowledge of that far off,
    divine event towards which the Tennysonian creation moves. But if we
    really think the truth of our vision worth striving for, it is dangerous
    to hold our reputation for urbanity to be of more importance than
    insight, by smiling down on opponents as on children at play, not worth
    fighting. Imperfect as it is, our little truth must seem to us, as it
    stands, better than any other, without smoothing away the stark
    contradiction between it and its opposite, and without claiming for it a
    higher level than for them, if it is to be at once effective and humble.

    To all of this it may be answered that our idea of tolerance has been an
    impossible ideal; that simply by making the definition unwarrantably
    strict, the quality has been pushed out of reach; and that, on these
    terms of course it cannot exist. Nevertheless the exact quality of
    current attempts at tolerance is made visible in the light of that
    extreme form which we have been considering: as Plato judged the success
    of actual forms of the state by comparison with that perfect justice
    which was to be found in none of them. But if, as the situation
    suggests, the degree of tolerance is in inverse ratio to the force of
    conviction, we cannot hold both as ideals. The question is, Which is the
    more valid?

    By assuming tolerance as a possession or even as a goal, we have lost
    that driving power of conviction which more primitive, less imaginative
    forms of belief still hold. Perfect tolerance would be an anaesthetic
    influence; it would militate against that clash of open conflict in
    which alone are ideas tested. If tolerance is to be achieved only by
    proportionate weakening of conviction, the prevailing acceptance of such
    an ideal may be not merely a crying for the moon, but for a burning toy
    balloon which would be of no value to us if we had it.

    The past few centuries have deepened the conception of tolerance, given
    inner meaning as a virtue to what was originally only a convenience of
    social conduct. Tolerance in act has been proved practically advisable.
    It rests on the recognition that the intolerant Calvin, burning
    Servetus, was a more positively objectionable member of society than the
    Greek sage whose skepticism was so complete that he would commit himself
    to nothing more than the wagging of his finger. But if we are right in
    maintaining the incompatibility of tolerance and conviction, each
    gaining ground only at the expense of the other, are we not following
    the wrong star? Calvin was doubtless less pleasant to live with than the
    Greek skeptic; but, since clear definition of issues is the first step
    in judgment, the following of the harsher example may clear the way for
    those battles of thought which change the boundaries of its territories,
    when diplomacies accomplish nothing.

    Socrates, according to Plato, must have spent a good many hours and days
    in buttonholing young men on the streets of Athens, and pricking the
    airy bubbles of the catchwords which they used so glibly. His inveterate
    questioning often seemed to lead only to a deadlock. "What _is_ this
    justice, this temperance, this courage, of which you seem so sure?"–he
    would ask, and, after leading them a merry chase along the mazes of
    thought, brought them to the reluctant conclusion that virtue is not so
    simple, after all. There was something of the spirit of the detective in
    this sleuthing among ideas, this quick recognition and rejection of
    clues. What Socrates was chiefly trying to do–and no wonder he was
    accused of corrupting the young men!–was to cultivate in his
    interlocutors the rare art of questioning, to extirpate in them the
    prevalent stupidity of taking things for granted.

    But Socrates did not cure the world of using catchwords. In war, in
    politics, in religion, even in science, they still pass for the coin of
    the realm. They are always dangerous: for they always delude one into
    thinking to be easy that which is in truth most difficult. There is
    hardly a virtue which we can have without crowding out another virtue.
    We of the twentieth century have taken tolerance for granted, as if it
    were as much to be expected as good manners. And we have scarcely
    thought to ask the price for which it is bought.

    If it is only a utilitarian matter of social policy, to be relinquished
    when that policy changes, we have done foolishly to exalt it as a moral
    virtue. If we must choose between tolerance and our sense of
    ascertainable truth in the world, our eyes should be open to the terms
    of that choice; if we must have a slogan, shall it be, Live and Let
    Live, or The Truth is Mighty and Shall Prevail? If, on the other hand,
    the field of tolerance is limited to cases in which we are indifferent
    or skeptical, much is to be gained in humility and sincerity by the
    frank avowal. We may cut the Gordian knot, and boldly accept the
    paradox. In any case, something is gained, if only that we have asked,
    What do we mean by tolerance?

    THE NEO-PARNASSIANS

    "… But I would implore them to abstain from wearing their
    knees out before the shrine of the ugly and grotesque when
    there is all the beauty of the world for the choosing."–SIR
    JOHNSTONE FORBES-ROBERTSON.

    Away back in the dark ages, when the kindergarten was still an
    experiment, a stern elderly person–doubtless a relic of the yet earlier
    age in which children addressed their mother as "Honoured Madam," and
    never sat down in their father's presence–a person of far-seeing but
    ruthless mind, would every now and then arise to predict that Froebel
    and his disciples, by making things too easy for the infant
    intelligence, would produce a spineless generation, with the mentality
    of rubber dolls. Changing the figure, with apparently an eye upon the
    dentist, this pessimist would point out that a pap-fed race could have
    occasion for, and therefore would develop, no teeth.

    It is far from my purpose to venture, with presumptuous foot, into the
    happy fields of pedagogy: it is only that certain straws, gyrating in
    the intellectual zephyrs of the moment, have arrested an inquiring eye,
    and awakened a mental question as to how far the disaffected prophet may
    have been right. Is the multiplication-table set to music, and gayly
    sung rather than acquired with labor and sorrow in the dark watches of
    the study-hour after school, really responsible for a contemporary
    mental condition which seems to demand that even the simplest short
    story be expounded by the editor, in type which dwarfs the title, lest
    the readers' brains grope vainly for its meaning? Have our early
    fumblings with strips of many-colored paper rendered us incapable of
    coping with even the most obvious canvas? Were those well-beloved blocks
    and cubes the true instigators of Csaky, Brancusi, Delaunay, and the
    rest–sculptors who last year set us gasping? Did "Birdie in the
    treetop" blaze the trail for the divers exponents of "interpretative
    dancing?" Most harrowing of all, have the "finger-plays" of babyhood,
    designed for the gradual awakening of the child's consciousness to his
    five senses and his little ego, led up to the reverberating chaos of
    words which we are now called upon seriously to regard as poetry?

    Let the responsibility rest where it may, we have been relentlessly
    herded and driven far by those who in this day and generation assume to
    mold our opinions for us. We have survived the onslaught of Cubism,
    Futurism, St. Vitism and what not, in art: is there anything in stone or
    bronze, or on canvas, that can now take us by surprise? We have outlived
    the shock, and can even derive pleasure from the spectacle, of our
    elders joyously cavorting between the tables when we ask them out to
    dine; other times, other manners. We have learned to listen unabashed
    and with the proper modicum of concern while Sweet-and-twenty, who has
    been to the "movies" and knows whereof she speaks, discourses between
    the soup and fish upon themes erstwhile supposed to be undiscussible,
    unless by physicians and students of sociology. We can even look without
    remonstrance upon our nearest and dearest attired only less frankly than
    Josephine when she essayed to convince the world of the superiority of
    her challenged charms to those of Madame Tallien. We have had hitherto
    one refuge when all this grew too much for us: we could exclaim, if we
    still had the hardihood to quote Tennyson, "I will bury myself in my
    books"–of course omitting the remainder of the line, which is
    "unsocial." Now this stronghold also has been battered down. If we seek
    diversion in a story which is really a story, and not a tract–if we
    venture still to take pleasure in those who until to-day have been
    considered poets–we are upheld to the contumely of our fellows as
    "primitive," "elementary," and our beliefs are made a by-word and a
    hissing in the public prints. Ours not to reason why, ours not to make
    reply: we are expected to go for artistic and literary pabulum where we
    are sent–"forty feeding as one," like Wordsworth's cattle; and perhaps,
    to borrow once more from the Light Brigade, ours but to do and die,
    intellectually, may be the result.

    Doubtless most of the "advanced investigators" (inspired circumlocution
    of M. Andre Salmon) in both art and literature are sincere; yet it seems
    an almost unavoidable conclusion that this epidemic which is upon us in
    many forms, all disagreeable and unnecessary, like any other epidemic,
    arises from a physiological condition akin to the tarantism which once
    swept southern Europe, giving the tarantella its name, and not to be
    cured even by the startling method of burying the victim up to the neck
    in earth. The mythic spider having bitten him, whirl he must, until he
    drop exhausted. Crueler than the earlier spider of whose bite noble Tom
    Thumb died, the ferocious arachnid of our day, like the _Lycosa
    tarantula_ of the Middle Ages, is ravaging at will, and sparing no age,
    sex, or previous condition of activity. The "bite" may not prove fatal:
    but while the madness lasts, clarity of vision, calm and coherent
    utterance, are not to be expected. The dervish-like frenzy of literary
    and artistic production will of course eventually wear itself out; but
    until it does, those who by Heaven's mercy have been spared the
    infection can only, with what patience the gods vouchsafe, stand out of
    the way and look on, deafened by the insistent remedial strains.

    Even as heat-waves above the summer fields and sands cause fixed objects
    to shimmer and fluctuate before the eyes, sometimes creating actual
    mirage, so the extraordinary brain-waves of our day seem to influence
    human conduct and, necessarily, its reflex, achievement in art and
    letters. It is not that both subject and handling are so often grotesque
    or deplorable; it is not–though the spread of any epidemic is
    regrettable–that more and more worthy craftsmen fall victims,
    hypnotised by others' gyral eccentricities, and by what a recent
    promulgator of the cult terms "the strident and colossal song." It is
    that these, clamoring for their own prepossession, deny us ours!

    "Dolly," besought the heroine of Miss Broughton's first novel, the novel
    which created a school of fiction, and which her unsuspecting father
    told her was unfit for her, a young woman, to read: "Dolly, am I so very
    ugly? Look!" Her sister, thus adjured, surveyed the appealing face. "I
    do not admire you," she returned, calmly. "But that is no reason why
    some one should not!" Cannot the apostles of the tarantist persuasion,
    in its varying manifestations, show us an equal liberality? They do not
    admire what one of them has summed up as "the completely solved,
    tabulated, indexed problems of the past:" but may not others who do be
    permitted to enjoy them in peace, unobjurgated? Those who are labelled
    "early-Victorian," "primitive," "elementary," are usually possessed of
    the ornament, no less out of date, of a meek and quiet spirit; and, if
    let alone, will continue on their unobtrusive way, neither assailing nor
    disparaging schools whose inspirations do not attract them. Why may they
    not be permitted to adhere to their ideals, unwhipt of neo-justice?–since
    the untrammelled tarantist proclaims with no hesitating voice his right
    to stand up, naked and unashamed, for his own!

    There is one certain result of intellectual or any other sort of
    bullying; present forcibly enough to any man that he is merely a worm,
    and he is bound in the nature of things to "turn," with what vigor he
    may–and as the late Sir William Gilbert well said, "Devil blame the
    worms!" Tell a man often enough, and contemptuously enough, that he
    doesn't know what he is talking about, and his most cherished beliefs
    are only so much junk, and you inevitably goad him into nailing his
    colors to the mast. The holy martyrs need not have died for their
    convictions if they had not been badgered into, not merely holding, but
    flaunting them! Again, to fall back upon my Gilbert, "versifier" and
    master of "smart-aleckry" though it seems he was, as measured by a
    recent standard–

    "I hate to preach, I hate to prate,
    I'm no fanatic croaker;"

    and I am driven to couch my lance and gallop into the lists chiefly by a
    modern form of challenge unrecognized of Chivalry: "My ladye is fairest
    because yours is foul and void of grace!" Your lady is fairest?–no man
    has a better right than you to think so, or to say so: but it is
    unknightly to attempt bolstering up her claims by a personal attack upon
    _my_ ladye, whose charms I justifiably hold to be supreme. The glaive
    being down, there is nothing for it but the onset–and may the best man
    win!

    In less archaic phrase, no man who knows his Milton and his Wordsworth
    can sit silent and be told that "when a perfect sonnet" (a _perfect_
    sonnet, remember!) "is duly whittled out, it is usually found to be
    worth about as much as a well-crocheted lambrequin"–whatever that may
    be. No man who has delighted in his Praed, his Ingoldsby, his Locker,
    Calverley, Lang, Austin Dobson, Owen Seaman and the rest, can see them
    all swept into the scrap-heap as "worn out–an exhibition of adroitness
    … for impressing a circus audience!" No man can hear with patience the
    undoubted fact that the blank verse of Shakspeare and Milton was
    "written quite without rhyme," adduced, with an air of giving light to
    them that sit in darkness, by way of supporting a hurly-burly of words
    which has been well compared to "pumpkins rolling over a barn-floor."
    That blank verse does not rhyme is too "elementary" to need discussion:
    and the Eocene minds which still read Shakspeare, Milton, and even
    Tennyson, are thoroughly aware that the construction of blank verse is
    governed by no less rigorous rules than the sonnet or the dainty old
    French forms which Austin Dobson and our own Bunner made exquisite in
    English. But the foe of rhyme is by no means limited to blank verse in
    support of his thesis: experiments in unrhymed metre are by no means
    new. Bulwer tamed the Latin verse-forms to eat out of his hand; Ossian
    and his collateral descendant, "Fiona Macleod," made chamber music of
    the wild harp of the Gael; Aldrich, in his youth, went far toward
    establishing his fame with the _Ballad of Baby Bell_: Charles Henry
    Lueders, untimely dead a generation ago, achieved a gem in his brief
    dirge, _The Four Winds_. One may be a poet without ever having written a
    line in metre. It is doubtful whether Mrs. Meynell's well-won
    reputation–a reputation which brought her, in a "popular ballot" for
    England's laureateship, nearly six thousand votes, and a place second
    only to Rudyard Kipling–does not rest quite as much upon the poetic
    beauty of her essays as upon her verse. "The mighty engine of English
    prose" is always available for the writer with "a message;" Lincoln did
    not elect to "sing" his Gettysburg address, which no recent bard whom it
    has been my privilege to read has surpassed. If the bearer of the
    "message" have not the sense of music which produces that perfection of
    rhythm needing no grace of rhyme; if he object to rhyme "because,"
    according to a recent candid outburst, "it is so confoundedly hard to
    find!" the lyre and even the oaten pipe are not for him. Nothing is
    easier to compass, in either prose or metre, than the cryptic, the
    portentous; the bellow of the trombone, the thud of the big drum, will
    always cause some one to listen, at least long enough to find out what
    is causing the disturbance. But neither Vorticist, Polyrhythmicist, nor
    any other specialist in Parnassian wares, need flatter himself that
    lines of assorted lengths, huddled like jack-straws, make poetry. If any
    message be there, it is obscured and marred by its uncouth disguise; if
    there be no message, the "work" has even less excuse for being. I am far
    from denying the right of every one to express himself in whatever way
    he think fit: it is wholly his own affair, and it may be, like
    Benedick's hypothetical lady's hair, "of what color it please God." But
    if it be neither verse nor honest prose–if it be cacophony for mere
    cacophony's sake–he who takes in vain for it the name of poetry, does
    it little service.

  • The United States Constitution

    The United States Constitution

    Aproximadamente 4.709 palavras.

    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.

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    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
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    This document does NOT include the amendments, as the Bill of Rights was
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    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 United States Bill of Rights

    Aproximadamente 496 palavras.

    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

    The Time Machine

    Aproximadamente 32.887 palavras.

    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.