The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 21
Soon after the arrival of Hulmar and his daughter, we all took our places in the curricles, and set out for the place of meeting. When Ulmene took the seat by her husband's side, I entertained, for a moment, the hope that Ialma would take a seat beside her prospective father; and then Reva—but such half-formed expectations were scattered by a moment's reflection. That was out of the question. As it was, each of the young ladies took one of the children to fill the spare seat in her curricle. Hulmar was thus left to seek a seat beside me, which was offered and accepted as a matter of course.
There was small opportunity for conversation on the way. The whole population seemed to be on wheels. So attractive was the spectacle, that, could I have found a pretext for so doing, I would fain have intrusted to my companion the guidance of the vehicle, so that I could give myself to the enjoyment of the many-hued panorama that moved on flashing wheels beneath the cloudless July sun. We had soon lost sight of the rest of the party, but there could be no doubt as to the road to follow. All that was necessary was, to follow the stream. As might be expected, the pace was much more moderate than when the roads were less thronged. Though our speed was not above ten miles an hour, it required all the skill and attention of a novice to guide our vehicle so as to avoid the suspicion of ignorance.
Of the building to which I followed the stream, and of the service there held, I will say nothing further than that there was much less change in externals than I might have expected. I was chiefly interested in the aspect of the congregation. They really seemed to enjoy the occasion that brought them together. I missed the pervading characteristics of our present congregations,—that air of almost funereal solemnity, that scarcely suppressed expression of superior moral rectitude apt to accompany the performance of a not especially agreeable duty. Instead, there was an air of quiet satisfaction entirely new to me under the circumstances.
The children attended a sort of Sunday-school, where they received instruction in morals, and in the fundamental truths of natural theology. Their instructors were chiefly the young people not yet admitted to the assembly. of those who had definitely adopted a doctrine and a communion.
It was justly considered, that the attempt to force difficult questions upon the notice of immature or unprepared minds will generally result in a permanent aversion to the entire subject of which they form a part. The young people, accordingly, instead of accepting a certain series of propositions of the most abstract character with dutiful resignation, were, on the contrary, usually eager for that more advanced knowledge reserved for their riper years. Nor were they able to gratify a premature curiosity by the reading of works not intended for their perusal.
The explanation of how the perusal of unsuitable works could be prevented forces me to another digression. This prevention was effected by a contrivance, that, more than any of the material achievements I have mentioned, might well excite the envy of those in the present age who are puzzled by the difficulty of reconciling freedom of printing with a proper regard to the reverence that even the heathen satirist claimed as due to youthful purity.
Although, as already mentioned, there was but one universal language, there were two entirely different methods of printing that language. One method was alphabetic, as among us; that is, by means of thirty-six characters —twelve representing vowel sounds—they could spell all the words of their language.
The other method was syllabic, and arose as follows: Some of the causes by which the language had been formed and changed have already been adverted to. The most important cause of change, however, had been the persistent effort, which became at last a fixed tendency, to render the language more euphonious by the suppression of all consonants not required for the separation of the vowel sounds.
The number of different syllabic combinations in use had thus been reduced to about five hundred. To represent all of these, only two hundred and fifty characters were necessary; since, for example, the character representing the syllable pronounced ros (meaning a horse), when used in the reverse position was read sor. These syllabic characters were not arbitrary. They had been indicated by the phonograph, the extensive use of which had re-acted very strongly on pronunciation, by necessitating a clear, precise enunciation of each syllable.
The words of most frequent use in the language had been reduced to monosyllables: there was a large number of dissyllables, a much smaller number of trisyllables; and no words of more than three syllables were tolerated. It had thus become possible to introduce a printed character that held the same relation to ordinary print that shorthand does to current hand.
Books printed in this character were very compact, but could, of course, be read only by those who had learned to distinguish the two hundred and fifty characters above mentioned; as I had already discovered to my cost. I could read the ordinary print, but, at the time now referred to, had mastered only a few dozen of the lonna character, as it was called.
I found the study most fascinating, though sometimes tantalizing. A whole sentence, otherwise clear, would be rendered incomprehensible by the presence of a word necessitating recourse to the syllabary with which Utis had provided me. In this way I was, as it were, gradually spelling my way through Eured Thiusen's book, in which I was becoming more and more interested.
The youth of both sexes were taught these characters by degrees; a complete knowledge of them being regarded as neither necessary, nor, indeed, desirable, till the attainment of majority. There was no deprivation in this, for almost the whole store of intellectual wealth accumulated during so many ages was open to them in the common character. It was strictly prohibited to print in the common character any reading of a kind unsuitable for unripe minds. Short of this, there was complete liberty of printing.
On one occasion, when conversing with Utis on this matter of unsuitable literature, I heard him express himself with the utmost indignation in regard to our carelessness about a matter concerning the highest interests. both of state and family. He could not, indeed, find words strong. enough to utter his amazement at the cynical indifference of our legislators in regard to what the prejudices of his education taught him to look upon as one of the most abominable of crimes,—the pollution of the mind of youth by means of printed filth.
"A little more than two thousand years before your time," he went on, the people of a certain great city were accustomed to sacrifice their children to an idol. What was the opinion of your period regarding this?"
"It was regarded by all that ever heard of it as an abomination, a wickedness almost inconceivable," my reply.
"Yet, in my opinion," said Utis, "their conduct was noble and humane in comparison with that of your contemporaries. In their blind way, these people, whom you so abhorred, were doing their duty as they understood it, while yours shamefully neglected theirs.
"There is a certain tragic grandeur in the idea of a father giving up his best beloved, perhaps his only child, to perish in fiery torments, in order to insure the safety of the commonwealth. We pity, we almost admire, even while we condemn. The fathers of your times I cannot but despise when I think. that, whether from indifference. or cowardice, they allowed devilish miscreants to earn a despicable livelihood by poisoning the mind of youth. To my mind, the fiery death of the young Carthaginian was preferable to the moral death to which the fathers of your period seemed willing to have their children exposed. In the name of common sense and decency, what strange influence was at work, that parents tolerated for a single day the existence of such an iniquity? What were your legislators about? Was property, in those days, of more importance than life, life than moral purity?"
"If you knew any thing of the average character of the legislators then sent from our city," replied I, "you would not be surprised at any thing they did, or left undone. They generally represented, and were themselves of, the lowest of the low. As for the parents, many saw and deplored the evils to which you refer, but could effect little against banded greed, ignorance, and vice. Even when, by great efforts, a useful piece of legislation could be carried through, its execution was intrusted to officials elected mainly through the influence of the vicious classes, with whom they, accordingly, more or less openly sympathized."
"What you say," said Utis musingly, "agrees, upon the whole, with the little we know of the state of things in that misty past. One thing, however, surprises me. All history enforces the truth, that, in general, a people enjoys about as good a government as it deserves; that the character and conduct of the rulers fairly reflect that of the ruled. Do you mean to say, that, in your time, the vicious classes formed a majority of your population?"
"That could hardly be maintained," replied I.
"How, then, could they control the more intelligent majority?" inquired Utis.
"It was the old story of union against disunion," said I. "The vicious classes, or, rather, the more intelligent, who acted as leaders, and whom the rest followed like sheep, knew what they wanted, and took the shortest way to obtain it. The intelligent majority, as you call it, did not, for the most part, know exactly what they wanted, or, when they did know, differed greatly as to the best way of obtaining it. In other words, they belonged to different political parties. Now, a party means organization; and every organization tends to become a mere machine in the hands of those who, for good or evil, have managed to get their hands on the controlling lever. The control of both political machines being, at that time, in the hands of men equally intent on selfish ends, the well-meaning citizen saw himself reduced to impotence between two gangs of corrupt schemers, who adroitly played into each other's hands.
"Besides these two sets of self-seekers, who were, perhaps, rather contemptuously indifferent to, than actively hostile to, morality, there existed a class, small, indeed, in numbers, but powerful for mischief from their loud shrieking and confident self-assertion. This was the new sect of the Phrasolators. Though loud in derision of all they termed superstition, i.e., any thing they did not choose to believe, they were themselves the abject slaves of a strange delusion. Having made to themselves a fine-sounding phrase, the more of a platitude the better, they would straightway fall down and worship it, and invite the work to do likewise.
"The high-priests of this grotesque cult were usually tolerant of a whole pantheon of deified phrases, though naturally reserving their special homage for the pet platitude or catch-word of their own invention, in the worship of which they sometimes played strange antics. No devout Romanist ever believed more implicitly in the virtues of some favorite relic than did the followers of this new sect in the efficacy of high-sounding phrases for the regeneration of mankind. Phrases were to eradicate ingrained vices: the magic power of phrases was to change the nature of human wolves. If the maltreated sheep complained that the said wolves showed small sign of the promised change, the complainers were either silenced by an eloquently phrased denial of the facts, or were comforted by the assurance, that wolves would at last cease to rend if not irritated,—would lose their taste for mutton if allowed time to satiate their appetites.
"Their patronage was an injury, even to what was intrinsically valuable. Liberty of the Press, Trial by Jury, Popular Government, had the misfortune to be placed among the idols of the Phrasolators. All associated with these phrases, or asserted to be so, was too sacred for discussion: criticism was sacrilege. No matter though the press became a poisoned fountain, the jury system a mere convenience for facilitating the escape of criminals, the suffrage the cogged dice of political tricksters: no change was to be tolerated, except in the direction of further degradation.
"These phrasemongers were frequently themselves of pure life and character, though the more or less indirect abetters of vice, of much culture though little common sense. The mischief they effected was chiefly by the cloak of decency their advocacy would throw over a cause that would have fared but poorly if left in its naked deformity to the advocacy of its natural guardians."