Anno Domini 2071 — Part 3

While Bacon had thus been endeavouring to enlighten me on a subject which after all I did not profess to understand, we had reached the aluminium railings of an elegant and lofty edifice, bearing the inscription, National Library.

Naturally enough, I evinced a strong desire to enter, but Bacon remarked that a visit to such a place would take up a good deal of valuable time, that might be turned to a much more pleasurable and profitable account; to which Miss Phantasia added that if the gentlemen chose to enter that labyrinth of learning, she, for her part, preferred a walk in the square; the latter, crossed in all directions by parks and avenues and flower-beds, was moreover crowded with the most exquisite works of ancient and modern sculptors, living illustrations of her former assertion that genuine works of art had not quite died out.

As soon as we had arrived at the opposite side of the square, I fully understood the wisdom of Bacon's remarks.

So far as my eyes reached, I could see a dense cluster of buildings, more resembling a moderately sized town than a depository of literature.

"You see, my friend," Bacon said, "it is imperative here to make up your mind what to see, or else our lady friend will be tired of waiting.

Which branch of human knowledge do you give the preference to?"

I answered that I was especially interested in works of natural science.

"Impossible to think of visiting the buildings in which all these are deposited.

You will have to restrict yourself considerably."

"Well, then, let us confine ourselves to zoology."

"Too much even for the most cursory glance.

It would take us hours to have a mere walk through.

Select a sub-section of zoology."

"Shall we say the literature of entomology?"

"That won't do either; you must keep to one single order of insects."

"Well, then, be good enough to select for yourself," said I; "I'll follow you."

We entered one of the buildings.

How I was surprised to see the crowd of officers and attendants!

some anxious to direct and assist the still greater mass of visitors; others busily engaged in making out tickets and extracts for those scholars who had not time enough to do any such manual work themselves.

I felt that this was an admirable school for young students, who were here able not only to gather a valuable knowledge of books, but also to form themselves into independent thinkers and writers.

Nineteenth-Century Books.

As I looked round, I saw one of the junior attendants engaged in gumming the leaves of a musty book on sheets of collodion, so that one side of the leaf remained at least legible.

I remembered that this was the way in which the papyrus scrolls of Pompeii and Herculaneum were preserved from utter destruction; but how great was my astonishment to see that the title-page of the musty book bore the year mark 1860, Amsterdam.

"So it is with most of the nineteenth-century books," said Bacon.

"Owing to the bleaching properties of chlorine, the paper on which they have been printed got so thin, and mouldy, and worm-eaten, that we have but few works of those days now left;

and that is really to be regretted, for many writings of that time were quite worth preserving."

I must confess that I was sorry to hear this little bit of information, so distressing to an author of that age; but, of course, I was silent, and kept on following my guide through rows and rows of apartments, until we arrived at last at a vast hall, literally crammed with books from top to bottom.

There we paused, and Bacon turned round to address me.

"Now we are among the literature of the two-winged insects; what work do you wish to see?"

But staring at those thousands of volumes of treatises on gnats and flies, I was too much afraid again to betray my ignorance; I felt sure I would hit upon some title or other to convince my guide how little I was au courant of the twenty-first century.

I limited myself to expressing my gratification at what I had already seen, and added that I would not trespass any further upon the obliging courtesy of my friend.

And thus we left the National Library, an institution which they might safely have called the bibliopolis, for indeed it was like a city of books.

As we passed once more through the front gate on our return, we came across a crowd of men who were about to enter, and whom I judged by their dress and appearance to belong to the class of artizans.

I

asked Bacon what business had those people there?

"These are workmen from a neighbouring factory," answered he;

"they come here in turns for an hour every day, in order to read in yonder room, especially set apart for them, such books as the library committee has judged to be adapted to their wants.

Such workmen's libraries exist in all the several quarters of the city, but they are most numerous in the densely populated districts where most factories are to be found."

"And are they well frequented?

And do employers allow their workmen to make use of them?

And have they reduced their wages in consequence?

Are they not afraid that their men will thus become too clever, too well educated?"

"With regard to your first two questions--yes; with regard to the latter two--no. So far as employers are concerned, they have long been taught by experience that, by allowing their employés one hour's relaxation daily, they act in their own interest; that is to say, when such an hour's "holiday" be turned to good account by the men themselves, by learning something more about their business, and contributing to their mental development generally.

Besides, what else could have happened, since the continual invention of new machinery has done away with so much of our manual labour?

Naturally enough, a greater demand has set in among the working classes for knowledge and intellectual culture, and this has shown itself in the same proportion as the demand for mere handicraft has subsided."

"Pity, though," said I, "for those who cannot make use of the library."

"Cannot!"

exclaimed my guide; "but the doors are open to every one."

"Except to those who are unable to read, I suppose."

"Unable to read!"

retorted Bacon; "but we are in Europe, my dear sir, not among the Hottentots or Bushmen!

There is not one man or woman amongst us but what can read and write, and even do some arithmetic.

Surely these elements of knowledge are the very first steps on the field of culture, and the sine quâ non of a person's being a useful member of society."

"Do I then understand from your remarks that you have arrived at last at a system of Compulsory Education?"

"Most decidedly, sir!

How could you doubt that for a moment?

If parents are obliged to maintain their children with food and the 'necessaries of life,' why should they not be compelled to look after the nurturing of their minds?"

"Why, because the one is a moral obligation, whereas, if I rightly understand you, school education has been made compulsory by the law; and this would appear to me to be an infringement of individual liberty, and of the rights of parents."

"You did understand me rightly, so far as the law is concerned;

but permit me, sir, to point out to you that you have taken a very one-sided view of the question of compulsion.

You will probably admit that for any properly managed society to exist, every member of the same has to sacrifice a portion of his individual liberty in the interests of the whole of which he forms part.

In many cases such sacrifices are borne without any reluctance or opposition; then, namely, when they are visibly and amply compensated by the many advantages involved in our living in a well-regulated society.

With regard to the much-vaunted rights of parents, it should never be lost sight of that the children have their rights as well; aye, from the moment they enter upon this world; and one of these rights is that they, born in civilized society, where ignorance is excluded as a foreign element, must be somehow enabled to appropriate some culture to themselves.

If now the parents abuse their rights by sheer force it becomes the duty of the state to intervene on behalf of the weaker, and, by legal exactions, protect the children in their future welfare.

This is, at the same time, in the interests of the state;

for the experience of preceding centuries, when compulsory education was not universally recognised, has taught us again and again that the jails of Europe were mostly filled with those that could neither read nor write."

"One more question permit me.

Has not the introduction of compulsory education been accompanied by great, almost insuperable obstacles?"

"That these obstacles were at least not insuperable you may easily gather from the fact that, even in the nineteenth century, the compulsory measure existed in some parts of Germany, and met with no opposition.

Of course, on its application to other countries, some difficulties had at first to be surmounted; for all novelties meet with opposition somewhere, and all changes are fraught with more or less evil somehow.

At first the measure had to be occasionally enforced by the arm of the law, but a very few years sufficed for the legal clause to grow into a popular habit; and the present generation, grown up under its beneficent influence, is so deeply convinced of the indispensability of some elementary knowledge in every member of society, that the law might be safely repealed without fear that any school would lose a single pupil."

[8] Bacon's arguments were by no means lost upon me; nay, it seemed now almost strange and inexplicable to me that in an age when the word "progress" proceeded and was re-echoed from lip to lip, so absolute a sine quâ non of progress could have found opponents.

But then I remembered at the same time that the word progress admitted of more acceptations than one.

I was about to inquire of Bacon in what sense the term was taken in the twenty-first century, when my eye fell upon another row of buildings far greater in extent than those constituting the National Library.

I was informed by my guide that we had arrived at the National Museum.

"Here," said he, "are preserved some glorious works of art and all the most remarkable objects of nature."

"I easily understand," said I, "that even the ordinary tourist would require a couple of days to gratify his morbid curiosity in this enceinte; but could I not see some small department at least of all these sightworthy productions?"

"Well," answered Miss Phantasia, "let us see the collection in the Genealogical Museum;