The Machines (Concluded)

Here followed a very long and untranslatable digression about the different races and families of the then existing machines. The writer attempted to support his theory by pointing out the similarities existing between many machines of a widely different character, which served to show descent from a common ancestor. He divided machines into their genera, subgenera, species, varieties, subvarieties, and so forth. He proved the existence of connecting links between machines that seemed to have very little in common, and showed that many more such links had existed, but had now perished. He pointed out tendencies to reversion, and the presence of rudimentary organs which existed in many machines feebly developed and perfectly useless, yet serving to mark descent from an ancestor to whom the function was actually useful.

What followed was a very long digression about the different races and families of machines then in existence. It was impossible to translate. The writer tried to support his theory by pointing out similarities between many very different kinds of machines. These similarities suggested that the machines descended from a common ancestor. He divided machines into genera, subgenera, species, varieties, subvarieties, and so on. He proved that there were links between machines that seemed to have very little in common. He also showed that many more such links had existed but had since disappeared. He pointed out tendencies to revert to earlier forms. He also noted that many machines had rudimentary organs. These were poorly developed and completely useless. Yet they showed that the machines descended from an ancestor for which the organs had served a useful purpose.

I left the translation of this part of the treatise, which, by the way, was far longer than all that I have given here, for a later opportunity. Unfortunately, I left Erewhon before I could return to the subject; and though I saved my translation and other papers at the hazard of my life, I was a obliged to sacrifice the original work. It went to my heart to do so; but I thus gained ten minutes of invaluable time, without which both Arowhena and myself must have certainly perished.

I put off translating this part of the treatise until later. By the way, it was much longer than all I have included here. Unfortunately, I left Erewhon before I could return to it. Though I saved my translation and other papers at the risk of my life, I had to sacrifice the original work. It broke my heart to do so. But I gained ten invaluable minutes, without which Arowhena and I would certainly have died.

I remember one incident which bears upon this part of the treatise. The gentleman who gave it to me had asked to see my tobacco-pipe; he examined it carefully, and when he came to the little protuberance at the bottom of the bowl he seemed much delighted, and exclaimed that it must be rudimentary. I asked him what he meant.

I remember one incident relevant to this part of the treatise. The gentleman who told me about it had asked to see my tobacco pipe. He examined it carefully. When he came to the little bump at the bottom of the bowl, he seemed delighted. He exclaimed that it must be rudimentary. I asked him what he meant.

“Sir,” he answered, “this organ is identical with the rim at the bottom of a cup; it is but another form of the same function. Its purpose must have been to keep the heat of the pipe from marking the table upon which it rested. You would find, if you were to look up the history of tobacco-pipes, that in early specimens this protuberance was of a different shape to what it is now. It will have been broad at the bottom, and flat, so that while the pipe was being smoked the bowl might rest upon the table without marking it. Use and disuse must have come into play and reduced the function to its present rudimentary condition. I should not be surprised, sir,” he continued, “if, in the course of time, it were to become modified still farther, and to assume the form of an ornamental leaf or scroll, or even a butterfly, while, in some cases, it will become extinct.”

“Sir,” he answered, “this part is the same as the rim at the bottom of a cup. It is just another form of the same feature. Its purpose must have been to stop the heat of the pipe from marking the table it rested on. If you looked up the history of tobacco pipes, you would find that this projection had a different shape in early examples. It would have been broad and flat at the bottom. That way, the bowl could rest on the table without marking it while the pipe was being smoked. Use and disuse must have come into play, reducing the feature to its present undeveloped state. I would not be surprised, sir,” he continued, “if, over time, it changed even further. It might take the form of a decorative leaf or scroll, or even a butterfly. In some cases, it may disappear altogether.”

On my return to England, I looked up the point, and found that my friend was right.

When I returned to England, I looked into the matter and found that my friend was right.

Returning, however, to the treatise, my translation recommences as follows:-

But to return to the treatise, my translation continues as follows:

“May we not fancy that if, in the remotest geological period, some early form of vegetable life had been endowed with the power of reflecting upon the dawning life of animals which was coming into existence alongside of its own, it would have thought itself exceedingly acute if it had surmised that animals would one day become real vegetables? Yet would this be more mistaken than it would be on our part to imagine that because the life of machines is a very different one to our own, there is therefore no higher possible development of life than ours; or that because mechanical life is a very different thing from ours, therefore that it is not life at all?

“Imagine an early form of plant life in the most distant geological past. Suppose it could reflect on the first animal life coming into existence alongside it. It might have thought itself very clever for guessing that animals would one day become true plants. Yet would that guess be any more mistaken than ours? We might imagine that because machine life is very different from ours, no form of life could develop beyond ours. Or we might imagine that because machine life is so different from ours, it is not life at all.

“But I have heard it said, ‘granted that this is so, and that the vapour-engine has a strength of its own, surely no one will say that it has a will of its own?’ Alas! if we look more closely, we shall find that this does not make against the supposition that the vapour-engine is one of the germs of a new phase of life. What is there in this whole world, or in the worlds beyond it, which has a will of its own? The Unknown and Unknowable only!

“But I have heard people say, ‘Even if this is true and the vapour-engine has strength of its own, surely no one will say that it has a will of its own?’ Alas! If we look more closely, we find that this does not undermine the idea that the vapour-engine is a seed of a new form of life. What in this whole world, or in the worlds beyond it, has a will of its own? Only the Unknown and Unknowable!

“A man is the resultant and exponent of all the forces that have been brought to bear upon him, whether before his birth or afterwards. His action at any moment depends solely upon his constitution, and on the intensity and direction of the various agencies to which he is, and has been, subjected. Some of these will counteract each other; but as he is by nature, and as he has been acted on, and is now acted on from without, so will he do, as certainly and regularly as though he were a machine.

“A man is the product and expression of all the forces that have acted on him, before and after his birth. At any moment, his actions depend solely on his nature and on the strength and direction of those forces. These include both the forces acting on him now and those that have acted on him before. Some of these forces will counteract each other. But his actions will follow from his nature and from the outside forces acting on him, both past and present. He will act as certainly and regularly as if he were a machine.

“We do not generally admit this, because we do not know the whole nature of any one, nor the whole of the forces that act upon him. We see but a part, and being thus unable to generalise human conduct, except very roughly, we deny that it is subject to any fixed laws at all, and ascribe much both of a man’s character and actions to chance, or luck, or fortune; but these are only words whereby we escape the admission of our own ignorance; and a little reflection will teach us that the most daring flight of the imagination or the most subtle exercise of the reason is as much the thing that must arise, and the only thing that can by any possibility arise, at the moment of its arising, as the falling of a dead leaf when the wind shakes it from the tree.

“We do not usually admit this because we do not know anyone’s whole nature or all the forces acting on them. We see only part of the picture, so we can make only very rough generalizations about human behavior. As a result, we deny that it follows any fixed laws at all. We attribute much of a person’s character and actions to chance, luck, or fortune. But these are only words we use to avoid admitting our own ignorance. A little thought will teach us that even the boldest flight of imagination or the subtlest act of reasoning must happen when it does. Nothing else could possibly happen at that moment. The same is true of a dead leaf falling when the wind shakes it from a tree.

“For the future depends upon the present, and the present (whose existence is only one of those minor compromises of which human life is full—for it lives only on sufferance of the past and future) depends upon the past, and the past is unalterable. The only reason why we cannot see the future as plainly as the past, is because we know too little of the actual past and actual present; these things are too great for us, otherwise the future, in its minutest details, would lie spread out before our eyes, and we should lose our sense of time present by reason of the clearness with which we should see the past and future; perhaps we should not be even able to distinguish time at all; but that is foreign. What we do know is, that the more the past and present are known, the more the future can be predicted; and that no one dreams of doubting the fixity of the future in cases where he is fully cognisant of both past and present, and has had experience of the consequences that followed from such a past and such a present on previous occasions. He perfectly well knows what will happen, and will stake his whole fortune thereon.

“The future depends on the present, and the present depends on the past. The past cannot be changed. The present itself is only one of the minor compromises that fill human life. It exists only by the permission of the past and future. The only reason we cannot see the future as clearly as the past is that we know too little of the actual past and present. They are too vast for us to grasp. Otherwise, the future would lie before our eyes in the smallest detail. And we would see the past and future so clearly that we would lose our sense of the present. Perhaps we would not even be able to distinguish time at all. But that is beside the point. What we do know is that the more we know of the past and present, the more we can predict the future. And no one dreams of doubting that the future is fixed when they fully know both the past and present. This is true when they have seen what followed from such a past and present on previous occasions. They know perfectly well what will happen and will stake their whole fortune on it.

“And this is a great blessing; for it is the foundation on which morality and science are built. The assurance that the future is no arbitrary and changeable thing, but that like futures will invariably follow like presents, is the groundwork on which we lay all our plans—the faith on which we do every conscious action of our lives. If this were not so we should be without a guide; we should have no confidence in acting, and hence we should never act, for there would be no knowing that the results which will follow now will be the same as those which followed before.

“And this is a great blessing, because it is the foundation of morality and science. The future is not arbitrary or changeable. We can be sure that the same present conditions will always lead to the same future. This certainty is the basis for all our plans. It is the belief behind every conscious action in our lives. If this were not so, we would have nothing to guide us. We would have no confidence in acting, so we would never act. We could not know whether an action would have the same results it had before.

“Who would plough or sow if he disbelieved in the fixity of the future? Who would throw water on a blazing house if the action of water upon fire were uncertain? Men will only do their utmost when they feel certain that the future will discover itself against them if their utmost has not been done. The feeling of such a certainty is a constituent part of the sum of the forces at work upon them, and will act most powerfully on the best and most moral men. Those who are most firmly persuaded that the future is immutably bound up with the present in which their work is lying, will best husband their present, and till it with the greatest care. The future must be a lottery to those who think that the same combinations can sometimes precede one set of results, and sometimes another. If their belief is sincere they will speculate instead of working: these ought to be the immoral men; the others have the strongest spur to exertion and morality, if their belief is a living one.

“Who would plough or sow if they did not believe the future was fixed? Who would throw water on a burning house if water’s effect on fire were uncertain? People will do their utmost only when they are sure that the future will turn against them if they do not. This certainty is one of the forces acting on them. It will have the greatest effect on the best and most moral people. Those most convinced that the future is unchangeably bound to the present, where their work lies, will use the present best. They will tend it with the greatest care. The future must be a lottery to those who think the same combination of circumstances can produce different results. If they sincerely believe this, they will gamble instead of working. These people ought to be the immoral ones. The others have the strongest incentive to work and behave morally, if their belief is a living one.

“The bearing of all this upon the machines is not immediately apparent, but will become so presently. In the meantime I must deal with friends who tell me that, though the future is fixed as regards inorganic matter, and in some respects with regard to man, yet that there are many ways in which it cannot be considered as fixed. Thus, they say that fire applied to dry shavings, and well fed with oxygen gas, will always produce a blaze, but that a coward brought into contact with a terrifying object will not always result in a man running away. Nevertheless, if there be two cowards perfectly similar in every respect, and if they be subjected in a perfectly similar way to two terrifying agents, which are themselves perfectly similar, there are few who will not expect a perfect similarity in the running away, even though a thousand years intervene between the original combination and its being repeated.

“How all this relates to machines is not immediately clear, but it soon will be. For now, I must address my friends’ objections. They say that the future is fixed for inorganic matter and, in some respects, for humans. Yet they argue that in many ways the future cannot be considered fixed. For example, fire applied to dry shavings and supplied with plenty of oxygen will always produce a blaze. But a coward faced with something terrifying will not always run away. Nevertheless, suppose there are two cowards who are exactly alike in every respect. Suppose each is exposed in exactly the same way to something terrifying, and the two threats are exactly alike. Few people would fail to expect the cowards to run away in exactly the same way. They would expect this even if a thousand years passed between the first encounter and its repetition.

“The apparently greater regularity in the results of chemical than of human combinations arises from our inability to perceive the subtle differences in human combinations—combinations which are never identically repeated. Fire we know, and shavings we know, but no two men ever were or ever will be exactly alike; and the smallest difference may change the whole conditions of the problem. Our registry of results must be infinite before we could arrive at a full forecast of future combinations; the wonder is that there is as much certainty concerning human action as there is; and assuredly the older we grow the more certain we feel as to what such and such a kind of person will do in given circumstances; but this could never be the case unless human conduct were under the influence of laws, with the working of which we become more and more familiar through experience.

“Chemical combinations seem to produce more consistent results than human combinations because we cannot perceive the subtle differences between human combinations. These combinations never occur in exactly the same way twice. We know fire, and we know wood shavings. But no two people have ever been or ever will be exactly alike. The smallest difference may change all the conditions of the problem. We would need an infinite record of results before we could fully predict future combinations. It is a wonder that we can be as certain as we are about human action. And certainly, as we grow older, we feel more certain about what a particular kind of person will do in given circumstances. But that could never happen unless human conduct were governed by laws. Experience makes us increasingly familiar with how those laws work.

“If the above is sound, it follows that the regularity with which machinery acts is no proof of the absence of vitality, or at least of germs which may be developed into a new phase of life. At first sight it would indeed appear that a vapour-engine cannot help going when set upon a line of rails with the steam up and the machinery in full play; whereas the man whose business it is to drive it can help doing so at any moment that he pleases; so that the first has no spontaneity, and is not possessed of any sort of free will, while the second has and is.

“If the argument above is sound, the regular way machines operate does not prove that they lack life. Nor does it prove that they lack germs that may develop into a new form of life. At first, it may seem that a steam engine has no choice but to move. It must move when it is on rails, with steam up and its machinery fully engaged. But the man whose job is to drive it can stop driving whenever he chooses. So the engine has no spontaneity or free will of any kind, while the man has both.

“This is true up to a certain point; the driver can stop the engine at any moment that he pleases, but he can only please to do so at certain points which have been fixed for him by others, or in the case of unexpected obstructions which force him to please to do so. His pleasure is not spontaneous; there is an unseen choir of influences around him, which make it impossible for him to act in any other way than one. It is known beforehand how much strength must be given to these influences, just as it is known beforehand how much coal and water are necessary for the vapour-engine itself; and curiously enough it will be found that the influences brought to bear upon the driver are of the same kind as those brought to bear upon the engine—that is to say, food and warmth. The driver is obedient to his masters, because he gets food and warmth from them, and if these are withheld or given in insufficient quantities he will cease to drive; in like manner the engine will cease to work if it is insufficiently fed. The only difference is, that the man is conscious about his wants, and the engine (beyond refusing to work) does not seem to be so; but this is temporary, and has been dealt with above.

“This is true up to a point. The driver can stop the engine whenever he wants. But he can only want to stop at certain points that others have fixed for him. Or unexpected obstacles can force him to want to stop. His wishes are not spontaneous. An unseen choir of influences surrounds him, making it impossible for him to act in any other way. The strength these influences need is known beforehand. In the same way, the amount of coal and water the steam engine needs is known beforehand. And, curiously enough, the influences acting on the driver are of the same kind as those acting on the engine: food and warmth. The driver obeys his masters because they give him food and warmth. If they withhold these or give him too little, he will stop driving. In the same way, the engine will stop working if it is not fed enough. The only difference is that the man is conscious of his wants. The engine does not seem to be conscious of its wants, apart from refusing to work. But this difference is temporary, as discussed above.

“Accordingly, the requisite strength being given to the motives that are to drive the driver, there has never, or hardly ever, been an instance of a man stopping his engine through wantonness. But such a case might occur; yes, and it might occur that the engine should break down: but if the train is stopped from some trivial motive it will be found either that the strength of the necessary influences has been miscalculated, or that the man has been miscalculated, in the same way as an engine may break down from an unsuspected flaw; but even in such a case there will have been no spontaneity; the action will have had its true parental causes: spontaneity is only a term for man’s ignorance of the gods.

“So, given strong enough motives to drive the driver, hardly any man has ever stopped his engine on a whim. But such a case could occur. Yes, and the engine could break down too. But if the train is stopped for some trivial reason, something has been miscalculated. Either the necessary influences were not strong enough, or the man was not what he was thought to be. An engine can break down in the same way because of an unsuspected flaw. But even then, there would have been no spontaneity. The action would have had its true parent causes. Spontaneity is only a word for man's ignorance of the gods.

“Is there, then, no spontaneity on the part of those who drive the driver?”

“Then do those who drive the driver have no spontaneity?”

Here followed an obscure argument upon this subject, which I have thought it best to omit. The writer resumes:—“After all then it comes to this, that the difference between the life of a man and that of a machine is one rather of degree than of kind, though differences in kind are not wanting. An animal has more provision for emergency than a machine. The machine is less versatile; its range of action is narrow; its strength and accuracy in its own sphere are superhuman, but it shows badly in a dilemma; sometimes when its normal action is disturbed, it will lose its head, and go from bad to worse like a lunatic in a raging frenzy: but here, again, we are met by the same consideration as before, namely, that the machines are still in their infancy; they are mere skeletons without muscles and flesh.

An obscure argument on this subject followed, but I thought it best to leave it out. The writer continues: “After all, the difference between the life of a man and that of a machine is mainly one of degree, not kind. Still, there are differences in kind. An animal is better equipped to deal with emergencies than a machine. A machine is less versatile, and its range of action is narrow. Its strength and accuracy in its own sphere are superhuman, but it fares badly in a dilemma. Sometimes, when its normal action is disrupted, it loses its head and goes from bad to worse, like a lunatic in a raging frenzy. But here again we face the same consideration as before. Machines are still in their infancy. They are mere skeletons without muscles or flesh.

“For how many emergencies is an oyster adapted? For as many as are likely to happen to it, and no more. So are the machines; and so is man himself. The list of casualties that daily occur to man through his want of adaptability is probably as great as that occurring to the machines; and every day gives them some greater provision for the unforeseen. Let any one examine the wonderful self-regulating and self-adjusting contrivances which are now incorporated with the vapour-engine, let him watch the way in which it supplies itself with oil; in which it indicates its wants to those who tend it; in which, by the governor, it regulates its application of its own strength; let him look at that store-house of inertia and momentum the fly-wheel, or at the buffers on a railway carriage; let him see how those improvements are being selected for perpetuity which contain provision against the emergencies that may arise to harass the machines, and then let him think of a hundred thousand years, and the accumulated progress which they will bring unless man can be awakened to a sense of his situation, and of the doom which he is preparing for himself.⁶

“How many emergencies is an oyster adapted to handle? As many as are likely to happen to it, and no more. The same is true of machines and of man himself. The number of accidents that happen to man each day because he cannot adapt is probably as great as the number that happen to machines. And every day, machines become better prepared for the unexpected. Look at the remarkable self-regulating and self-adjusting devices now built into the steam engine. Watch how it supplies itself with oil and signals its needs to the people who tend it. Watch how its governor regulates the use of its own power. Look at the flywheel, which stores inertia and momentum, or at the buffers on a railway carriage. See how improvements are being chosen for lasting use when they protect machines against emergencies that might trouble them. Then think of a hundred thousand years and the progress that will accumulate over that time. Think of the doom man is preparing for himself, unless he can be awakened to his situation.⁶

“The misery is that man has been blind so long already. In his reliance upon the use of steam he has been betrayed into increasing and multiplying. To withdraw steam power suddenly will not have the effect of reducing us to the state in which we were before its introduction; there will be a general break-up and time of anarchy such as has never been known; it will be as though our population were suddenly doubled, with no additional means of feeding the increased number. The air we breathe is hardly more necessary for our animal life than the use of any machine, on the strength of which we have increased our numbers, is to our civilisation; it is the machines which act upon man and make him man, as much as man who has acted upon and made the machines; but we must choose between the alternative of undergoing much present suffering, or seeing ourselves gradually superseded by our own creatures, till we rank no higher in comparison with them, than the beasts of the field with ourselves.

“The misery is that humanity has already been blind for so long. Relying on steam power has led us to increase and multiply. Suddenly giving up steam power will not return us to the state we were in before it was introduced. Society will break down, and there will be a time of anarchy such as has never been known. It will be as if our population had suddenly doubled, with no additional means of feeding the extra people. The air we breathe is hardly more necessary to our physical life than machines are to our civilisation. We have relied on machines to increase our numbers. Machines shape us and make us human, just as much as we have shaped and made them. But we must choose between suffering greatly now and seeing ourselves gradually replaced by our own creations. Eventually, we would rank no higher beside them than the beasts of the field rank beside us.

“Herein lies our danger. For many seem inclined to acquiesce in so dishonourable a future. They say that although man should become to the machines what the horse and dog are to us, yet that he will continue to exist, and will probably be better off in a state of domestication under the beneficent rule of the machines than in his present wild condition. We treat our domestic animals with much kindness. We give them whatever we believe to be the best for them; and there can be no doubt that our use of meat has increased their happiness rather than detracted from it. In like manner there is reason to hope that the machines will use us kindly, for their existence will be in a great measure dependent upon ours; they will rule us with a rod of iron, but they will not eat us; they will not only require our services in the reproduction and education of their young, but also in waiting upon them as servants; in gathering food for them, and feeding them; in restoring them to health when they are sick; and in either burying their dead or working up their deceased members into new forms of mechanical existence.

“Here lies our danger. Many people seem willing to accept such a dishonorable future. They say that humans might become to machines what horses and dogs are to us. But humans would still exist. They would probably be better off domesticated under the kind rule of machines than in their present wild state. We treat our domestic animals with great kindness. We give them whatever we believe is best for them. And there can be no doubt that eating their meat has increased their happiness rather than diminished it. In the same way, there is reason to hope that machines will treat us kindly. Their existence will depend greatly on ours. They will rule us with an iron rod, but they will not eat us. They will need our help to reproduce and educate their young. They will also need us to serve them, gather their food, and feed them. They will need us to restore them to health when they are sick. And they will need us either to bury their dead or turn them into new forms of mechanical life.

“The very nature of the motive power which works the advancement of the machines precludes the possibility of man’s life being rendered miserable as well as enslaved. Slaves are tolerably happy if they have good masters, and the revolution will not occur in our time, nor hardly in ten thousand years, or ten times that. Is it wise to be uneasy about a contingency which is so remote? Man is not a sentimental animal where his material interests are concerned, and though here and there some ardent soul may look upon himself and curse his fate that he was not born a vapour-engine, yet the mass of mankind will acquiesce in any arrangement which gives them better food and clothing at a cheaper rate, and will refrain from yielding to unreasonable jealousy merely because there are other destinies more glorious than their own.

“The very nature of the force driving the advance of machines makes it impossible for them to make human life miserable as well as enslave humanity. Slaves are reasonably happy if they have good masters. And the revolution will not happen in our time, or even, hardly, in ten thousand years or ten times that long. Is it wise to worry about a possibility so far off? People are not sentimental when their material interests are at stake. Here and there, a passionate soul may reflect on his life and curse his fate for not being born a vapour-engine. But most people will accept any arrangement that gives them better food and clothing at a lower price. They will not give in to unreasonable jealousy merely because others have more glorious destinies than their own.

“The power of custom is enormous, and so gradual will be the change, that man’s sense of what is due to himself will be at no time rudely shocked; our bondage will steal upon us noiselessly and by imperceptible approaches; nor will there ever be such a clashing of desires between man and the machines as will lead to an encounter between them. Among themselves the machines will war eternally, but they will still require man as the being through whose agency the struggle will be principally conducted. In point of fact there is no occasion for anxiety about the future happiness of man so long as he continues to be in any way profitable to the machines; he may become the inferior race, but he will be infinitely better off than he is now. Is it not then both absurd and unreasonable to be envious of our benefactors? And should we not be guilty of consummate folly if we were to reject advantages which we cannot obtain otherwise, merely because they involve a greater gain to others than to ourselves?

“The power of custom is enormous, and the change will be so gradual that it will never rudely shock our sense of what we deserve. Our bondage will creep up on us silently, by almost unnoticeable steps. Nor will the desires of humans and machines ever clash enough to lead to a confrontation between them. The machines will fight among themselves forever, but they will still need humans to carry on most of the struggle for them. In fact, there is no reason to worry about humanity’s future happiness as long as humans remain useful to the machines in any way. Humans may become the inferior race, but they will be infinitely better off than they are now. So isn’t it absurd and unreasonable to envy our benefactors? And wouldn’t we be utterly foolish to reject benefits we cannot get any other way, merely because others gain more from them than we do?

“With those who can argue in this way I have nothing in common. I shrink with as much horror from believing that my race can ever be superseded or surpassed, as I should do from believing that even at the remotest period my ancestors were other than human beings. Could I believe that ten hundred thousand years ago a single one of my ancestors was another kind of being to myself, I should lose all self-respect, and take no further pleasure or interest in life. I have the same feeling with regard to my descendants, and believe it to be one that will be felt so generally that the country will resolve upon putting an immediate stop to all further mechanical progress, and upon destroying all improvements that have been made for the last three hundred years. I would not urge more than this. We may trust ourselves to deal with those that remain, and though I should prefer to have seen the destruction include another two hundred years, I am aware of the necessity for compromising, and would so far sacrifice my own individual convictions as to be content with three hundred. Less than this will be insufficient.”

“I have nothing in common with people who argue this way. I recoil in horror at the thought that my race could ever be replaced or surpassed. I would feel the same horror at the thought that my ancestors, even in the distant past, were not human beings. If I could believe that a single one of my ancestors was a different kind of being from me a million years ago, I would lose all self-respect. I would take no further pleasure or interest in life. I feel the same way about my descendants. I believe this feeling will be so widespread that the country will resolve to stop all further mechanical progress immediately. It will also resolve to destroy all improvements made in the last three hundred years. I would not urge more than this. We can trust ourselves to deal with the improvements that remain. I would prefer to see the destruction cover another two hundred years. But I recognize the need for compromise. I am willing to set aside my own convictions enough to be content with three hundred years. Anything less will not be enough.”

This was the conclusion of the attack which led to the destruction of machinery throughout Erewhon. There was only one serious attempt to answer it. Its author said that machines were to be regarded as a part of man’s own physical nature, being really nothing but extra-corporeal limbs. Man, he said, was a machinate mammal. The lower animals keep all their limbs at home in their own bodies, but many of man’s are loose, and lie about detached, now here and now there, in various parts of the world—some being kept always handy for contingent use, and others being occasionally hundreds of miles away. A machine is merely a supplementary limb; this is the be all and end all of machinery. We do not use our own limbs other than as machines; and a leg is only a much better wooden leg than any one can manufacture.

This was the conclusion of the attack that led to the destruction of machinery throughout Erewhon. There was only one serious attempt to answer it. Its author said that machines should be seen as part of man’s physical nature. They were really nothing but limbs outside the body. Man, he said, was a machinate mammal. Lower animals keep all their limbs at home in their bodies. But many of man’s limbs are separate from his body and lie scattered around the world. Some are always kept handy in case they are needed. Others are sometimes hundreds of miles away. A machine is simply an extra limb. That is all machinery is. We use our own limbs only as machines. And a leg is simply a much better wooden leg than anyone can make.

“Observe a man digging with a spade; his right fore-arm has become artificially lengthened, and his hand has become a joint. The handle of the spade is like the knob at the end of the humerus; the shaft is the additional bone, and the oblong iron plate is the new form of the hand which enables its possessor to disturb the earth in a way to which his original hand was unequal. Having thus modified himself, not as other animals are modified, by circumstances over which they have had not even the appearance of control, but having, as it were, taken forethought and added a cubit to his stature, civilisation began to dawn upon the race, the social good offices, the genial companionship of friends, the art of unreason, and all those habits of mind which most elevate man above the lower animals, in the course of time ensued.

“Watch a man digging with a spade. His right forearm has been artificially lengthened, and his hand has become a joint. The spade’s handle is like the knob at the end of the upper arm bone. Its shaft is the extra bone, and its oblong iron blade is the new form of the hand. This new hand lets its owner dig into the earth in a way his original hand could not. He has thus changed himself, but not as other animals are changed. They are changed by circumstances over which they have not even the appearance of control. He has, as it were, planned ahead and added a cubit to his height. With this, civilisation began to dawn upon the human race. In time, people came to help one another and enjoy the warm company of friends. They also developed the art of unreason and all those habits of mind that most elevate man above the lower animals.

“Thus civilisation and mechanical progress advanced hand in hand, each developing and being developed by the other, the earliest accidental use of the stick having set the ball rolling, and the prospect of advantage keeping it in motion. In fact, machines are to be regarded as the mode of development by which human organism is now especially advancing, every past invention being an addition to the resources of the human body. Even community of limbs is thus rendered possible to those who have so much community of soul as to own money enough to pay a railway fare; for a train is only a seven-leagued foot that five hundred may own at once.”

“Civilization and mechanical progress advanced together, each developing and being developed by the other. The first accidental use of a stick set this process in motion. The prospect of advantage kept it going. In fact, machines should be seen as the means by which the human organism is now chiefly advancing. Every past invention has added to the resources of the human body. Machines even make it possible for people to share limbs. They need only have enough in common to afford a train fare. For a train is just a seven-league foot that five hundred people can own at once.”

The one serious danger which this writer apprehended was that the machines would so equalise men’s powers, and so lessen the severity of competition, that many persons of inferior physique would escape detection and transmit their inferiority to their descendants. He feared that the removal of the present pressure might cause a degeneracy of the human race, and indeed that the whole body might become purely rudimentary, the man himself being nothing but soul and mechanism, an intelligent but passionless principle of mechanical action.

The only serious danger this writer feared was that machines would make people’s abilities more equal and competition less severe. As a result, many people with inferior physiques would go undetected and pass their inferiority on to their descendants. He feared that removing the present pressure might cause the human race to degenerate. Indeed, the whole body might become nothing more than a vestige. A person would then be nothing but soul and machinery, an intelligent but passionless force directing mechanical action.

“How greatly,” he wrote, “do we not now live with our external limbs? We vary our physique with the seasons, with age, with advancing or decreasing wealth. If it is wet we are furnished with an organ commonly called an umbrella, and which is designed for the purpose of protecting our clothes or our skins from the injurious effects of rain. Man has now many extra-corporeal members, which are of more importance to him than a good deal of his hair, or at any rate than his whiskers. His memory goes in his pocket-book. He becomes more and more complex as he grows older; he will then be seen with see-engines, or perhaps with artificial teeth and hair: if he be a really well-developed specimen of his race, he will be furnished with a large box upon wheels, two horses, and a coachman.”

“How much we now depend on our external limbs!” he wrote. “We change our bodies with the seasons, as we age, and as we grow richer or poorer. If it rains, we have an organ commonly called an umbrella. Its purpose is to protect our clothes or our skin from the harmful effects of rain. Man now has many body parts outside his body. These are more important to him than much of his hair, or at least than his whiskers. He carries his memory in his pocketbook. He becomes more and more complex as he grows older. Then he can be seen with see-engines, or perhaps with artificial teeth and hair. If he is a truly well-developed specimen of his race, he will have a large box on wheels, two horses, and a coachman.”

It was this writer who originated the custom of classifying men by their horse-power, and who divided them into genera, species, varieties, and subvarieties, giving them names from the hypothetical language which expressed the number of limbs which they could command at any moment. He showed that men became more highly and delicately organised the more nearly they approached the summit of opulence, and that none but millionaires possessed the full complement of limbs with which mankind could become incorporate.

This writer started the practice of classifying men by their horsepower. He divided them into genera, species, varieties, and subvarieties. He gave them names from a hypothetical language that expressed how many limbs they could command at any moment. He showed that men became more highly and delicately organized as they approached the height of wealth. He also showed that only millionaires possessed the full number of limbs that human beings could incorporate into themselves.

“Those mighty organisms,” he continued, “our leading bankers and merchants, speak to their congeners through the length and breadth of the land in a second of time; their rich and subtle souls can defy all material impediment, whereas the souls of the poor are clogged and hampered by matter, which sticks fast about them as treacle to the wings of a fly, or as one struggling in a quicksand: their dull ears must take days or weeks to hear what another would tell them from a distance, instead of hearing it in a second as is done by the more highly organised classes. Who shall deny that one who can tack on a special train to his identity, and go wheresoever he will whensoever he pleases, is more highly organised than he who, should he wish for the same power, might wish for the wings of a bird with an equal chance of getting them; and whose legs are his only means of locomotion? That old philosophic enemy, matter, the inherently and essentially evil, still hangs about the neck of the poor and strangles him: but to the rich, matter is immaterial; the elaborate organisation of his extra-corporeal system has freed his soul.

“Those mighty organisms,” he continued, “our leading bankers and merchants, can speak to their peers across the whole country in a second. Their rich and subtle souls can overcome every material obstacle. The souls of the poor, however, are weighed down and held back by matter. It clings to them like treacle to a fly’s wings, or like quicksand to someone struggling in it. Their dull ears must wait days or weeks to hear what someone far away has to tell them. The more highly organized classes hear it in a second. “Who can deny that a man who can add a special train to his identity is more highly organized? He can go wherever and whenever he pleases. A poor man, by contrast, has only his legs to get around. If he wished for the same power, he might as well wish for a bird’s wings. He would have just as much chance of getting them. “That old enemy of philosophy, matter, which is inherently and essentially evil, still hangs around the poor man’s neck and strangles him. But to the rich man, matter is immaterial. The elaborate organization of the system outside his body has freed his soul.

“This is the secret of the homage which we see rich men receive from those who are poorer than themselves: it would be a grave error to suppose that this deference proceeds from motives which we need be ashamed of: it is the natural respect which all living creatures pay to those whom they recognise as higher than themselves in the scale of animal life, and is analogous to the veneration which a dog feels for man. Among savage races it is deemed highly honourable to be the possessor of a gun, and throughout all known time there has been a feeling that those who are worth most are the worthiest.”

“This is why poorer people show such respect to rich men. It would be a serious mistake to suppose that this respect comes from motives we should be ashamed of. It is the natural respect all living creatures show those they recognize as higher than themselves on the scale of animal life. It is like the reverence a dog feels for a human being. Among savage races, owning a gun is thought highly honorable. And throughout all known history, people have felt that those who are worth the most are the worthiest.”

And so he went on at considerable length, attempting to show what changes in the distribution of animal and vegetable life throughout the kingdom had been caused by this and that of man’s inventions, and in what way each was connected with the moral and intellectual development of the human species: he even allotted to some the share which they had had in the creation and modification of man’s body, and that which they would hereafter have in its destruction; but the other writer was considered to have the best of it, and in the end succeeded in destroying all the inventions that had been discovered for the preceding 271 years, a period which was agreed upon by all parties after several years of wrangling as to whether a certain kind of mangle which was much in use among washerwomen should be saved or no. It was at last ruled to be dangerous, and was just excluded by the limit of 271 years. Then came the reactionary civil wars which nearly ruined the country, but which it would be beyond my present scope to describe.

And so he went on at considerable length. He tried to show how various human inventions had changed the distribution of animal and plant life throughout the kingdom. He also tried to show how each invention was connected to the moral and intellectual development of the human species. He even assigned some inventions a share in the creation and modification of the human body, and in its future destruction. But the other writer was thought to have won the argument. In the end, he succeeded in destroying all inventions discovered during the previous 271 years. All sides had agreed on that period after several years of arguing about whether to save a type of mangle widely used by washerwomen. It was finally ruled dangerous and just fell within the 271-year limit. Then came the reactionary civil wars, which nearly ruined the country. But describing them would be beyond my present scope.