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Table of contents
PREFACE
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION
CHAPTER I: WASTE LANDS
CHAPTER II: IN THE WOOL-SHED
CHAPTER III: UP THE RIVER
CHAPTER IV: THE SADDLE
CHAPTER V: THE RIVER AND THE RANGE
CHAPTER VI: INTO EREWHON
CHAPTER VII: FIRST IMPRESSIONS
CHAPTER VIII: IN PRISON
CHAPTER IX: TO THE METROPOLIS
CHAPTER X: CURRENT OPINIONS
CHAPTER XI: SOME EREWHONIAN TRIALS
CHAPTER XII: MALCONTENTS
CHAPTER XIII: THE VIEWS OF THE EREWHONIANS CONCERNING DEATH
CHAPTER XIV: MAHAINA
CHAPTER XV: THE MUSICAL BANKS
CHAPTER XVI: AROWHENA
CHAPTER XVII: YDGRUN AND THE YDGRUNITES
CHAPTER XVIII: BIRTH FORMULAE
CHAPTER XIX: THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN
CHAPTER XX: WHAT THEY MEAN BY IT
CHAPTER XXI: THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON
CHAPTER XXII: THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON—Continued
CHAPTER XXIII: THE BOOK OF THE MACHINES
CHAPTER XXIV: THE MACHINES—continued
CHAPTER XXV: THE MACHINES—concluded
CHAPTER XXVI: THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PROPHET CONCERNING THE RIGHTS OF ANIMALS
CHAPTER XXVII: THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PHILOSOPHER CONCERNING THE RIGHTS OF VEGETABLES
CHAPTER XXVIII: ESCAPE
CHAPTER XXIX: CONCLUSION
Footnotes
PREFACE
Having
been enabled by the kindness of the public to get through an
unusually large edition of “Erewhon” in a very short time, I have
taken the opportunity of a second edition to make some necessary
corrections, and to add a few passages where it struck me that they
would be appropriately introduced; the passages are few, and it is
my
fixed intention never to touch the work again.I
may perhaps be allowed to say a word or two here in reference to
“The
Coming Race,” to the success of which book “Erewhon” has been
very generally set down as due. This is a mistake, though a
perfectly natural one. The fact is that “Erewhon” was
finished, with the exception of the last twenty pages and a
sentence
or two inserted from time to time here and there throughout the
book,
before the first advertisement of “The Coming Race” appeared.
A friend having called my attention to one of the first of these
advertisements, and suggesting that it probably referred to a work
of
similar character to my own, I took “Erewhon” to a well-known
firm of publishers on the 1st of May 1871, and left it in their
hands
for consideration. I then went abroad, and on learning that the
publishers alluded to declined the MS., I let it alone for six or
seven months, and, being in an out-of-the-way part of Italy, never
saw a single review of “The Coming Race,” nor a copy of the
work. On my return, I purposely avoided looking into it until I
had sent back my last revises to the printer. Then I had much
pleasure in reading it, but was indeed surprised at the many little
points of similarity between the two books, in spite of their
entire
independence to one another.I
regret that reviewers have in some cases been inclined to treat the
chapters on Machines as an attempt to reduce Mr. Darwin’s theory to
an absurdity. Nothing could be further from my intention,
and few things would be more distasteful to me than any attempt to
laugh at Mr. Darwin; but I must own that I have myself to thank for
the misconception, for I felt sure that my intention would be
missed,
but preferred not to weaken the chapters by explanation, and knew
very well that Mr. Darwin’s theory would take no harm. The
only question in my mind was how far I could afford to be
misrepresented as laughing at that for which I have the most
profound
admiration. I am surprised, however, that the book at which
such an example of the specious misuse of analogy would seem most
naturally levelled should have occurred to no reviewer; neither
shall
I mention the name of the book here, though I should fancy that the
hint given will suffice.I
have been held by some whose opinions I respect to have denied
men’s
responsibility for their actions. He who does this is an
enemy who deserves no quarter. I should have imagined that I
had been sufficiently explicit, but have made a few additions to
the
chapter on Malcontents, which will, I think, serve to render
further
mistake impossible.An
anonymous correspondent (by the hand-writing presumably a
clergyman)
tells me that in quoting from the Latin grammar I should at any
rate
have done so correctly, and that I should have written “agricolas”
instead of “agricolae”. He added something about any boy in
the fourth form, &c., &c., which I shall not quote, but
which
made me very uncomfortable. It may be said that I must have
misquoted from design, from ignorance, or by a slip of the pen; but
surely in these days it will be recognised as harsh to assign
limits
to the all-embracing boundlessness of truth, and it will be more
reasonably assumed that each of the three possible causes of
misquotation must have had its share in the apparent blunder.
The art of writing things that shall sound right and yet be wrong
has
made so many reputations, and affords comfort to such a large
number
of readers, that I could not venture to neglect it; the Latin
grammar, however, is a subject on which some of the younger members
of the community feel strongly, so I have now written “agricolas”.
I have also parted with the word “infortuniam” (though not
without regret), but have not dared to meddle with other similar
inaccuracies.For
the inconsistencies in the book, and I am aware that there are not
a
few, I must ask the indulgence of the reader. The blame,
however, lies chiefly with the Erewhonians themselves, for they
were
really a very difficult people to understand. The most glaring
anomalies seemed to afford them no intellectual inconvenience;
neither, provided they did not actually see the money dropping out
of
their pockets, nor suffer immediate physical pain, would they
listen
to any arguments as to the waste of money and happiness which their
folly caused them. But this had an effect of which I have
little reason to complain, for I was allowed almost to call them
life-long self-deceivers to their faces, and they said it was quite
true, but that it did not matter.I
must not conclude without expressing my most sincere thanks to my
critics and to the public for the leniency and consideration with
which they have treated my adventures.
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION
My
publisher wishes me to say a few words about the genesis of the
work,
a revised and enlarged edition of which he is herewith laying
before
the public. I therefore place on record as much as I can
remember on this head after a lapse of more than thirty
years.The
first part of “Erewhon” written was an article headed “Darwin
among the Machines,” and signed Cellarius. It was written in
the Upper Rangitata district of the Canterbury Province (as it then
was) of New Zealand, and appeared at Christchurch in the Press
Newspaper, June 13, 1863. A copy of this article is indexed
under my books in the British Museum catalogue. In passing, I
may say that the opening chapters of “Erewhon” were also drawn
from the Upper Rangitata district, with such modifications as I
found
convenient.A
second article on the same subject as the one just referred to
appeared in the Press shortly after the first, but I have no copy.
It treated Machines from a different point of view, and was the
basis
of pp. 270-274 of the present edition of “Erewhon.” This
view ultimately led me to the theory I put forward in “Life and
Habit,” published in November 1877. I have put a bare outline
of this theory (which I believe to be quite sound) into the mouth
of
an Erewhonian philosopher in Chapter XXVII. of this book.In
1865 I rewrote and enlarged “Darwin among the Machines” for the
Reasoner, a paper published in London by Mr. G. J. Holyoake. It
appeared July 1, 1865, under the heading, “The Mechanical
Creation,” and can be seen in the British Museum. I again
rewrote and enlarged it, till it assumed the form in which it
appeared in the first edition of “Erewhon.”The
next part of “Erewhon” that I wrote was the “World of the
Unborn,” a preliminary form of which was sent to Mr. Holyoake’s
paper, but as I cannot find it among those copies of the Reasoner
that are in the British Museum, I conclude that it was not
accepted.
I have, however, rather a strong fancy that it appeared in some
London paper of the same character as the Reasoner, not very long
after July 1, 1865, but I have no copy.I
also wrote about this time the substance of what ultimately became
the Musical Banks, and the trial of a man for being in a
consumption. These four detached papers were, I believe, all
that was written of “Erewhon” before 1870. Between 1865 and
1870 I wrote hardly anything, being hopeful of attaining that
success
as a painter which it has not been vouchsafed me to attain, but in
the autumn of 1870, just as I was beginning to get occasionally
hung
at Royal Academy exhibitions, my friend, the late Sir F. N. (then
Mr.) Broome, suggested to me that I should add somewhat to the
articles I had already written, and string them together into a
book. I was rather fired by the idea, but as I only worked at
the MS. on Sundays it was some months before I had completed
it.I
see from my second Preface that I took the book to Messrs. Chapman
&
Hall May 1, 1871, and on their rejection of it, under the advice of
one who has attained the highest rank among living writers, I let
it
sleep, till I took it to Mr. Trübner early in 1872. As regards
its rejection by Messrs. Chapman & Hall, I believe their reader
advised them quite wisely. They told me he reported that it was
a philosophical work, little likely to be popular with a large
circle
of readers. I hope that if I had been their reader, and the
book had been submitted to myself, I should have advised them to
the
same effect.
“
Erewhon”
appeared with the last day or two of March 1872. I attribute
its unlooked-for success mainly to two early favourable reviews—the
first in the Pall Mall Gazette of April 12, and the second in the
Spectator of April 20. There was also another cause. I
was complaining once to a friend that though “Erewhon” had met
with such a warm reception, my subsequent books had been all of
them
practically still-born. He said, “You forget one charm that
‘Erewhon’ had, but which none of your other books can have.”
I asked what? and was answered, “The sound of a new voice, and of
an unknown voice.”The
first edition of “Erewhon” sold in about three weeks; I had not
taken moulds, and as the demand was strong, it was set up again
immediately. I made a few unimportant alterations and
additions, and added a Preface, of which I cannot say that I am
particularly proud, but an inexperienced writer with a head
somewhat
turned by unexpected success is not to be trusted with a preface.
I made a few further very trifling alterations before moulds were
taken, but since the summer of 1872, as new editions were from time
to time wanted, they have been printed from stereos then
made.Having
now, I fear, at too great length done what I was asked to do, I
should like to add a few words on my own account. I am still
fairly well satisfied with those parts of “Erewhon” that were
repeatedly rewritten, but from those that had only a single writing
I
would gladly cut out some forty or fifty pages if I could.This,
however, may not be, for the copyright will probably expire in a
little over twelve years. It was necessary, therefore, to
revise the book throughout for literary inelegancies—of which I
found many more than I had expected—and also to make such
substantial additions as should secure a new lease of life—at any
rate for the copyright. If, then, instead of cutting out, say
fifty pages, I have been compelled to add about sixty invitâ
Minervâ—the blame rests neither with my publisher nor with me, but
with the copyright laws. Nevertheless I can assure the reader
that, though I have found it an irksome task to take up work which
I
thought I had got rid of thirty years ago, and much of which I am
ashamed of, I have done my best to make the new matter savour so
much
of the better portions of the old, that none but the best critics
shall perceive at what places the gaps of between thirty and forty
years occur.Lastly,
if my readers note a considerable difference between the literary
technique of “Erewhon” and that of “Erewhon Revisited,” I
would remind them that, as I have just shown, “Erewhon” look
something like ten years in writing, and even so was written with
great difficulty, while “Erewhon Revisited” was written easily
between November 1900 and the end of April 1901. There is no
central idea underlying “Erewhon,” whereas the attempt to realise
the effect of a single supposed great miracle dominates the whole
of
its successor. In “Erewhon” there was hardly any story, and
little attempt to give life and individuality to the characters; I
hope that in “Erewhon Revisited” both these defects have been in
great measure avoided. “Erewhon” was not an organic whole,
“Erewhon Revisited” may fairly claim to be one.
Nevertheless, though in literary workmanship I do not doubt that
this
last-named book is an improvement on the first, I shall be
agreeably
surprised if I am not told that “Erewhon,” with all its faults,
is the better reading of the two.
CHAPTER I: WASTE LANDS
If
the reader will excuse me, I will say nothing of my antecedents,
nor
of the circumstances which led me to leave my native country; the
narrative would be tedious to him and painful to myself.
Suffice it, that when I left home it was with the intention of
going
to some new colony, and either finding, or even perhaps purchasing,
waste crown land suitable for cattle or sheep farming, by which
means
I thought that I could better my fortunes more rapidly than in
England.It
will be seen that I did not succeed in my design, and that however
much I may have met with that was new and strange, I have been
unable
to reap any pecuniary advantage.It
is true, I imagine myself to have made a discovery which, if I can
be
the first to profit by it, will bring me a recompense beyond all
money computation, and secure me a position such as has not been
attained by more than some fifteen or sixteen persons, since the
creation of the universe. But to this end I must possess myself
of a considerable sum of money: neither do I know how to get it,
except by interesting the public in my story, and inducing the
charitable to come forward and assist me. With this hope I now
publish my adventures; but I do so with great reluctance, for I
fear
that my story will be doubted unless I tell the whole of it; and
yet
I dare not do so, lest others with more means than mine should get
the start of me. I prefer the risk of being doubted to that of
being anticipated, and have therefore concealed my destination on
leaving England, as also the point from which I began my more
serious
and difficult journey.My
chief consolation lies in the fact that truth bears its own
impress,
and that my story will carry conviction by reason of the internal
evidences for its accuracy. No one who is himself honest will
doubt my being so.I
reached my destination in one of the last months of 1868, but I
dare
not mention the season, lest the reader should gather in which
hemisphere I was. The colony was one which had not been opened
up even to the most adventurous settlers for more than eight or
nine
years, having been previously uninhabited, save by a few tribes of
savages who frequented the seaboard. The part known to
Europeans consisted of a coast-line about eight hundred miles in
length (affording three or four good harbours), and a tract of
country extending inland for a space varying from two to three
hundred miles, until it a reached the offshoots of an exceedingly
lofty range of mountains, which could be seen from far out upon the
plains, and were covered with perpetual snow. The coast was
perfectly well known both north and south of the tract to which I
have alluded, but in neither direction was there a single harbour
for
five hundred miles, and the mountains, which descended almost into
the sea, were covered with thick timber, so that none would think
of
settling.With
this bay of land, however, the case was different. The harbours
were sufficient; the country was timbered, but not too heavily; it
was admirably suited for agriculture; it also contained millions on
millions of acres of the most beautifully grassed country in the
world, and of the best suited for all manner of sheep and cattle.
The climate was temperate, and very healthy; there were no wild
animals, nor were the natives dangerous, being few in number and of
an intelligent tractable disposition.It
may be readily understood that when once Europeans set foot upon
this
territory they were not slow to take advantage of its capabilities.
Sheep and cattle were introduced, and bred with extreme rapidity;
men
took up their 50,000 or 100,000 acres of country, going inland one
behind the other, till in a few years there was not an acre between
the sea and the front ranges which was not taken up, and stations
either for sheep or cattle were spotted about at intervals of some
twenty or thirty miles over the whole country. The front ranges
stopped the tide of squatters for some little time; it was thought
that there was too much snow upon them for too many months in the
year,—that the sheep would get lost, the ground being too difficult
for shepherding,—that the expense of getting wool down to the
ship’s side would eat up the farmer’s profits,—and that the
grass was too rough and sour for sheep to thrive upon; but one
after
another determined to try the experiment, and it was wonderful how
successfully it turned out. Men pushed farther and farther into
the mountains, and found a very considerable tract inside the front
range, between it and another which was loftier still, though even
this was not the highest, the great snowy one which could be seen
from out upon the plains. This second range, however, seemed to
mark the extreme limits of pastoral country; and it was here, at a
small and newly founded station, that I was received as a cadet,
and
soon regularly employed. I was then just twenty-two years
old.I
was delighted with the country and the manner of life. It was
my daily business to go up to the top of a certain high mountain,
and
down one of its spurs on to the flat, in order to make sure that no
sheep had crossed their boundaries. I was to see the sheep, not
necessarily close at hand, nor to get them in a single mob, but to
see enough of them here and there to feel easy that nothing had
gone
wrong; this was no difficult matter, for there were not above eight
hundred of them; and, being all breeding ewes, they were pretty
quiet.There
were a good many sheep which I knew, as two or three black ewes,
and
a black lamb or two, and several others which had some
distinguishing
mark whereby I could tell them. I would try and see all these,
and if they were all there, and the mob looked large enough, I
might
rest assured that all was well. It is surprising how soon the
eye becomes accustomed to missing twenty sheep out of two or three
hundred. I had a telescope and a dog, and would take bread and
meat and tobacco with me. Starting with early dawn, it would be
night before I could complete my round; for the mountain over which
I
had to go was very high. In winter it was covered with snow,
and the sheep needed no watching from above. If I were to see
sheep dung or tracks going down on to the other side of the
mountain
(where there was a valley with a stream—a mere
cul de sac), I was
to follow them, and look out for sheep; but I never saw any, the
sheep always descending on to their own side, partly from habit,
and
partly because there was abundance of good sweet feed, which had
been
burnt in the early spring, just before I came, and was now
deliciously green and rich, while that on the other side had never
been burnt, and was rank and coarse.It
was a monotonous life, but it was very healthy and one does not
much
mind anything when one is well. The country was the grandest
that can be imagined. How often have I sat on the mountain side
and watched the waving downs, with the two white specks of huts in
the distance, and the little square of garden behind them; the
paddock with a patch of bright green oats above the huts, and the
yards and wool-sheds down on the flat below; all seen as through
the
wrong end of a telescope, so clear and brilliant was the air, or as
upon a colossal model or map spread out beneath me. Beyond the
downs was a plain, going down to a river of great size, on the
farther side of which there were other high mountains, with the
winter’s snow still not quite melted; up the river, which ran
winding in many streams over a bed some two miles broad, I looked
upon the second great chain, and could see a narrow gorge where the
river retired and was lost. I knew that there was a range still
farther back; but except from one place near the very top of my own
mountain, no part of it was visible: from this point, however, I
saw,
whenever there were no clouds, a single snow-clad peak, many miles
away, and I should think about as high as any mountain in the
world.
Never shall I forget the utter loneliness of the prospect—only the
little far-away homestead giving sign of human handiwork;—the
vastness of mountain and plain, of river and sky; the marvellous
atmospheric effects—sometimes black mountains against a white sky,
and then again, after cold weather, white mountains against a black
sky—sometimes seen through breaks and swirls of cloud—and
sometimes, which was best of all, I went up my mountain in a fog,
and
then got above the mist; going higher and higher, I would look down
upon a sea of whiteness, through which would be thrust innumerable
mountain tops that looked like islands.I
am there now, as I write; I fancy that I can see the downs, the
huts,
the plain, and the river-bed—that torrent pathway of desolation,
with its distant roar of waters. Oh, wonderful! wonderful! so
lonely and so solemn, with the sad grey clouds above, and no sound
save a lost lamb bleating upon the mountain side, as though its
little heart were breaking. Then there comes some lean and
withered old ewe, with deep gruff voice and unlovely aspect,
trotting
back from the seductive pasture; now she examines this gully, and
now
that, and now she stands listening with uplifted head, that she may
hear the distant wailing and obey it. Aha! they see, and rush
towards each other. Alas! they are both mistaken; the ewe is
not the lamb’s ewe, they are neither kin nor kind to one another,
and part in coldness. Each must cry louder, and wander farther
yet; may luck be with them both that they may find their own at
nightfall. But this is mere dreaming, and I must proceed.I
could not help speculating upon what might lie farther up the river
and behind the second range. I had no money, but if I could
only find workable country, I might stock it with borrowed capital,
and consider myself a made man. True, the range looked so vast,
that there seemed little chance of getting a sufficient road
through
it or over it; but no one had yet explored it, and it is wonderful
how one finds that one can make a path into all sorts of places
(and
even get a road for pack-horses), which from a distance appear
inaccessible; the river was so great that it must drain an inner
tract—at least I thought so; and though every one said it would be
madness to attempt taking sheep farther inland, I knew that only
three years ago the same cry had been raised against the country
which my master’s flock was now overrunning. I could not keep
these thoughts out of my head as I would rest myself upon the
mountain side; they haunted me as I went my daily rounds, and grew
upon me from hour to hour, till I resolved that after shearing I
would remain in doubt no longer, but saddle my horse, take as much
provision with me as I could, and go and see for myself.But
over and above these thoughts came that of the great range itself.
What was beyond it? Ah! who could say? There was no one
in the whole world who had the smallest idea, save those who were
themselves on the other side of it—if, indeed, there was any one at
all. Could I hope to cross it? This would be the highest
triumph that I could wish for; but it was too much to think of yet.
I would try the nearer range, and see how far I could go. Even
if I did not find country, might I not find gold, or diamonds, or
copper, or silver? I would sometimes lie flat down to drink out
of a stream, and could see little yellow specks among the sand;
were
these gold? People said no; but then people always said there
was no gold until it was found to be abundant: there was plenty of
slate and granite, which I had always understood to accompany gold;
and even though it was not found in paying quantities here, it
might
be abundant in the main ranges. These thoughts filled my head,
and I could not banish them.
CHAPTER II: IN THE WOOL-SHED
At
last shearing came; and with the shearers there was an old native,
whom they had nicknamed Chowbok—though, I believe, his real name
was Kahabuka. He was a sort of chief of the natives, could
speak a little English, and was a great favourite with the
missionaries. He did not do any regular work with the shearers,
but pretended to help in the yards, his real aim being to get the
grog, which is always more freely circulated at shearing-time: he
did
not get much, for he was apt to be dangerous when drunk; and very
little would make him so: still he did get it occasionally, and if
one wanted to get anything out of him, it was the best bribe to
offer
him. I resolved to question him, and get as much information
from him as I could. I did so. As long as I kept to
questions about the nearer ranges, he was easy to get on with—he
had never been there, but there were traditions among his tribe to
the effect that there was no sheep-country, nothing, in fact, but
stunted timber and a few river-bed flats. It was very difficult
to reach; still there were passes: one of them up our own river,
though not directly along the river-bed, the gorge of which was not
practicable; he had never seen any one who had been there: was
there
to not enough on this side? But when I came to the main range,
his manner changed at once. He became uneasy, and began to
prevaricate and shuffle. In a very few minutes I could see that
of this too there existed traditions in his tribe; but no efforts
or
coaxing could get a word from him about them. At last I hinted
about grog, and presently he feigned consent: I gave it him; but as
soon as he had drunk it he began shamming intoxication, and then
went
to sleep, or pretended to do so, letting me kick him pretty hard
and
never budging.
I
was angry, for I had to go without my own grog and had got nothing
out of him; so the next day I determined that he should tell me
before I gave him any, or get none at all.
Accordingly,
when night came and the shearers had knocked off work and had their
supper, I got my share of rum in a tin pannikin and made a sign to
Chowbok to follow me to the wool-shed, which he willingly did,
slipping out after me, and no one taking any notice of either of
us.
When we got down to the wool-shed we lit a tallow candle, and
having
stuck it in an old bottle we sat down upon the wool bales and began
to smoke. A wool-shed is a roomy place, built somewhat on the
same plan as a cathedral, with aisles on either side full of pens
for
the sheep, a great nave, at the upper end of which the shearers
work,
and a further space for wool sorters and packers. It always
refreshed me with a semblance of antiquity (precious in a new
country), though I very well knew that the oldest wool-shed in the
settlement was not more than seven years old, while this was only
two. Chowbok pretended to expect his grog at once, though we
both of us knew very well what the other was after, and that we
were
each playing against the other, the one for grog the other for
information.
We
had a hard fight: for more than two hours he had tried to put me
off
with lies but had carried no conviction; during the whole time we
had
been morally wrestling with one another and had neither of us
apparently gained the least advantage; at length, however, I had
become sure that he would give in ultimately, and that with a
little
further patience I should get his story out of him. As upon a
cold day in winter, when one has churned (as I had often had to
do),
and churned in vain, and the butter makes no sign of coming, at
last
one tells by the sound that the cream has gone to sleep, and then
upon a sudden the butter comes, so I had churned at Chowbok until I
perceived that he had arrived, as it were, at the sleepy stage, and
that with a continuance of steady quiet pressure the day was mine.
On a sudden, without a word of warning, he rolled two bales of wool
(his strength was very great) into the middle of the floor, and on
the top of these he placed another crosswise; he snatched up an
empty
wool-pack, threw it like a mantle over his shoulders, jumped upon
the
uppermost bale, and sat upon it. In a moment his whole form was
changed. His high shoulders dropped; he set his feet close
together, heel to heel and toe to toe; he laid his arms and hands
close alongside of his body, the palms following his thighs; he
held
his head high but quite straight, and his eyes stared right in
front
of him; but he frowned horribly, and assumed an expression of face
that was positively fiendish. At the best of times Chowbok was
very ugly, but he now exceeded all conceivable limits of the
hideous. His mouth extended almost from ear to ear, grinning
horribly and showing all his teeth; his eyes glared, though they
remained quite fixed, and his forehead was contracted with a most
malevolent scowl.
I
am afraid my description will have conveyed only the ridiculous
side
of his appearance; but the ridiculous and the sublime are near, and
the grotesque fiendishness of Chowbok’s face approached this last,
if it did not reach it. I tried to be amused, but I felt a sort
of creeping at the roots of my hair and over my whole body, as I
looked and wondered what he could possibly be intending to signify.
He continued thus for about a minute, sitting bolt upright, as
stiff
as a stone, and making this fearful face. Then there came from
his lips a low moaning like the wind, rising and falling by
infinitely small gradations till it became almost a shriek, from
which it descended and died away; after that, he jumped down from
the
bale and held up the extended fingers of both his hands, as one who
should say “Ten,” though I did not then understand him.
For
myself I was open-mouthed with astonishment. Chowbok rolled the
bales rapidly into their place, and stood before me shuddering as
in
great fear; horror was written upon his face—this time quite
involuntarily—as though the natural panic of one who had committed
an awful crime against unknown and superhuman agencies. He
nodded his head and gibbered, and pointed repeatedly to the
mountains. He would not touch the grog, but, after a few
seconds he made a run through the wool-shed door into the
moonlight;
nor did he reappear till next day at dinner-time, when he turned
up,
looking very sheepish and abject in his civility towards
myself.
Of
his meaning I had no conception. How could I? All I could
feel sure of was, that he had a meaning which was true and awful to
himself. It was enough for me that I believed him to have given
me the best he had and all he had. This kindled my imagination
more than if he had told me intelligible stories by the hour
together. I knew not what the great snowy ranges might conceal,
but I could no longer doubt that it would be something well worth
discovering.
I
kept aloof from Chowbok for the next few days, and showed no desire
to question him further; when I spoke to him I called him Kahabuka,
which gratified him greatly: he seemed to have become afraid of me,
and acted as one who was in my power. Having therefore made up
my mind that I would begin exploring as soon as shearing was over,
I
thought it would be a good thing to take Chowbok with me; so I told
him that I meant going to the nearer ranges for a few days’
prospecting, and that he was to come too. I made him promises
of nightly grog, and held out the chances of finding gold. I
said nothing about the main range, for I knew it would frighten
him.
I would get him as far up our own river as I could, and trace it if
possible to its source. I would then either go on by myself, if
I felt my courage equal to the attempt, or return with Chowbok.
So, as soon as ever shearing was over and the wool sent off, I
asked
leave of absence, and obtained it. Also, I bought an old
pack-horse and pack-saddle, so that I might take plenty of
provisions, and blankets, and a small tent. I was to ride and
find fords over the river; Chowbok was to follow and lead the
pack-horse, which would also carry him over the fords. My
master let me have tea and sugar, ship’s biscuits, tobacco, and
salt mutton, with two or three bottles of good brandy; for, as the
wool was now sent down, abundance of provisions would come up with
the empty drays.
Everything
being now ready, all the hands on the station turned out to see us
off, and we started on our journey, not very long after the summer
solstice of 1870.
CHAPTER III: UP THE RIVER
The
first day we had an easy time, following up the great flats by the
river side, which had already been twice burned, so that there was
no
dense undergrowth to check us, though the ground was often rough,
and
we had to go a good deal upon the riverbed. Towards nightfall
we had made a matter of some five-and-twenty miles, and camped at
the
point where the river entered upon the gorge.
The
weather was delightfully warm, considering that the valley in which
we were encamped must have been at least two thousand feet above
the
level of the sea. The river-bed was here about a mile and a
half broad and entirely covered with shingle over which the river
ran
in many winding channels, looking, when seen from above, like a
tangled skein of ribbon, and glistening in the sun. We knew
that it was liable to very sudden and heavy freshets; but even had
we
not known it, we could have seen it by the snags of trees, which
must
have been carried long distances, and by the mass of vegetable and
mineral débris
which was banked against their lower side, showing that at times
the
whole river-bed must be covered with a roaring torrent many feet in
depth and of ungovernable fury. At present the river was low,
there being but five or six streams, too deep and rapid for even a
strong man to ford on foot, but to be crossed safely on horseback.
On either side of it there were still a few acres of flat, which
grew
wider and wider down the river, till they became the large plains
on
which we looked from my master’s hut. Behind us rose the
lowest spurs of the second range, leading abruptly to the range
itself; and at a distance of half a mile began the gorge, where the
river narrowed and became boisterous and terrible. The beauty
of the scene cannot be conveyed in language. The one side of
the valley was blue with evening shadow, through which loomed
forest
and precipice, hillside and mountain top; and the other was still
brilliant with the sunset gold. The wide and wasteful river
with its ceaseless rushing—the beautiful water-birds too, which
abounded upon the islets and were so tame that we could come close
up
to them—the ineffable purity of the air—the solemn peacefulness
of the untrodden region—could there be a more delightful and
exhilarating combination?
We
set about making our camp, close to some large bush which came down
from the mountains on to the flat, and tethered out our horses upon
ground as free as we could find it from anything round which they
might wind the rope and get themselves tied up. We dared not
let them run loose, lest they might stray down the river home
again.
We then gathered wood and lit the fire. We filled a tin
pannikin with water and set it against the hot ashes to boil.
When the water boiled we threw in two or three large pinches of tea
and let them brew.
We
had caught half a dozen young ducks in the course of the day—an
easy matter, for the old birds made such a fuss in attempting to
decoy us away from them—pretending to be badly hurt as they say the
plover does—that we could always find them by going about in the
opposite direction to the old bird till we heard the young ones
crying: then we ran them down, for they could not fly though they
were nearly full grown. Chowbok plucked them a little and
singed them a good deal. Then we cut them up and boiled them in
another pannikin, and this completed our preparations.
When
we had done supper it was quite dark. The silence and freshness
of the night, the occasional sharp cry of the wood-hen, the ruddy
glow of the fire, the subdued rushing of the river, the sombre
forest, and the immediate foreground of our saddles packs and
blankets, made a picture worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas
Poussin. I call it to mind and delight in it now, but I did not
notice it at the time. We next to never know when we are well
off: but this cuts two ways,—for if we did, we should perhaps know
better when we are ill off also; and I have sometimes thought that
there are as many ignorant of the one as of the other. He who
wrote, “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona nôrint agricolas,” might
have written quite as truly, “O infortunatos nimium sua si mala
nôrint”; and there are few of us who are not protected from the
keenest pain by our inability to see what it is that we have done,
what we are suffering, and what we truly are. Let us be
grateful to the mirror for revealing to us our appearance
only.
We
found as soft a piece of ground as we could—though it was all
stony—and having collected grass and so disposed of ourselves that
we had a little hollow for our hip-bones, we strapped our blankets
around us and went to sleep. Waking in the night I saw the
stars overhead and the moonlight bright upon the mountains. The
river was ever rushing; I heard one of our horses neigh to its
companion, and was assured that they were still at hand; I had no
care of mind or body, save that I had doubtless many difficulties
to
overcome; there came upon me a delicious sense of peace, a fulness
of
contentment which I do not believe can be felt by any but those who
have spent days consecutively on horseback, or at any rate in the
open air.
Next
morning we found our last night’s tea-leaves frozen at the bottom
of the pannikins, though it was not nearly the beginning of autumn;
we breakfasted as we had supped, and were on our way by six
o’clock.
In half an hour we had entered the gorge, and turning round a
corner
we bade farewell to the last sight of my master’s country.
The
gorge was narrow and precipitous; the river was now only a few
yards
wide, and roared and thundered against rocks of many tons in
weight;
the sound was deafening, for there was a great volume of water.
We were two hours in making less than a mile, and that with danger,
sometimes in the river and sometimes on the rock. There was
that damp black smell of rocks covered with slimy vegetation, as
near
some huge waterfall where spray is ever rising. The air was
clammy and cold. I cannot conceive how our horses managed to
keep their footing, especially the one with the pack, and I dreaded
the having to return almost as much as going forward. I suppose
this lasted three miles, but it was well midday when the gorge got
a
little wider, and a small stream came into it from a tributary
valley. Farther progress up the main river was impossible, for
the cliffs descended like walls; so we went up the side stream,
Chowbok seeming to think that here must be the pass of which
reports
existed among his people. We now incurred less of actual danger
but more fatigue, and it was only after infinite trouble, owing to
the rocks and tangled vegetation, that we got ourselves and our
horses upon the saddle from which this small stream descended; by
that time clouds had descended upon us, and it was raining heavily.
Moreover, it was six o’clock and we were tired out, having made
perhaps six miles in twelve hours.
On
the saddle there was some coarse grass which was in full seed, and
therefore very nourishing for the horses; also abundance of anise
and
sow-thistle, of which they are extravagantly fond, so we turned
them
loose and prepared to camp. Everything was soaking wet and we
were half-perished with cold; indeed we were very uncomfortable.
There was brushwood about, but we could get no fire till we had
shaved off the wet outside of some dead branches and filled our
pockets with the dry inside chips. Having done this we managed
to start a fire, nor did we allow it to go out when we had once
started it; we pitched the tent and by nine o’clock were
comparatively warm and dry. Next morning it was fine; we broke
camp, and after advancing a short distance we found that, by
descending over ground less difficult than yesterday’s, we should
come again upon the river-bed, which had opened out above the
gorge;
but it was plain at a glance that there was no available sheep
country, nothing but a few flats covered with scrub on either side
the river, and mountains which were perfectly worthless. But we
could see the main range. There was no mistake about this.
The glaciers were tumbling down the mountain sides like cataracts,
and seemed actually to descend upon the river-bed; there could be
no
serious difficulty in reaching them by following up the river,
which
was wide and open; but it seemed rather an objectless thing to do,
for the main range looked hopeless, and my curiosity about the
nature
of the country above the gorge was now quite satisfied; there was
no
money in it whatever, unless there should be minerals, of which I
saw
no more signs than lower down.
However,
I resolved that I would follow the river up, and not return until I
was compelled to do so. I would go up every branch as far as I
could, and wash well for gold. Chowbok liked seeing me do this,
but it never came to anything, for we did not even find the colour.
His dislike of the main range appeared to have worn off, and he
made
no objections to approaching it. I think he thought there was
no danger of my trying to cross it, and he was not afraid of
anything
on this side; besides, we might find gold. But the fact was
that he had made up his mind what to do if he saw me getting too
near
it.
We
passed three weeks in exploring, and never did I find time go more
quickly. The weather was fine, though the nights got very
cold. We followed every stream but one, and always found it
lead us to a glacier which was plainly impassable, at any rate
without a larger party and ropes. One stream remained, which I
should have followed up already, had not Chowbok said that he had
risen early one morning while I was yet asleep, and after going up
it
for three or four miles, had seen that it was impossible to go
farther. I had long ago discovered that he was a great liar, so
I was bent on going up myself: in brief, I did so: so far from
being
impossible, it was quite easy travelling; and after five or six
miles
I saw a saddle at the end of it, which, though covered deep in
snow,
was not glaciered, and which did verily appear to be part of the
main
range itself. No words can express the intensity of my
delight. My blood was all on fire with hope and elation; but on
looking round for Chowbok, who was behind me, I saw to my surprise
and anger that he had turned back, and was going down the valley as
hard as he could. He had left me.
CHAPTER IV: THE SADDLE
I cooeyed to him, but he would not hear. I ran after him, but
he had got too good a start. Then I sat down on a stone and thought
the matter carefully over. It was plain that Chowbok had designedly
attempted to keep me from going up this valley, yet he had shown no
unwillingness to follow me anywhere else. What could this mean,
unless that I was now upon [...]