OF THE RELIGIONS OF THE UTOPIANS

"There are several sorts of religions, not only in different parts of the
island, but even in every town; some worshipping the sun, others the moon
or one of the planets.  Some worship such men as have been eminent in
former times for virtue or glory, not only as ordinary deities, but as
the supreme god.  Yet the greater and wiser sort of them worship none of
these, but adore one eternal, invisible, infinite, and incomprehensible
Deity; as a Being that is far above all our apprehensions, that is spread
over the whole universe, not by His bulk, but by His power and virtue;
Him they call the Father of All, and acknowledge that the beginnings, the
increase, the progress, the vicissitudes, and the end of all things come
only from Him; nor do they offer divine honours to any but to Him alone.
And, indeed, though they differ concerning other things, yet all agree in
this: that they think there is one Supreme Being that made and governs
the world, whom they call, in the language of their country, Mithras.
They differ in this: that one thinks the god whom he worships is this
Supreme Being, and another thinks that his idol is that god; but they all
agree in one principle, that whoever is this Supreme Being, He is also
that great essence to whose glory and majesty all honours are ascribed by
the consent of all nations.

"By degrees they fall off from the various superstitions that are among
them, and grow up to that one religion that is the best and most in
request; and there is no doubt to be made, but that all the others had
vanished long ago, if some of those who advised them to lay aside their
superstitions had not met with some unhappy accidents, which, being
considered as inflicted by heaven, made them afraid that the god whose
worship had like to have been abandoned had interposed and revenged
themselves on those who despised their authority.

"After they had heard from us an account of the doctrine, the course of
life, and the miracles of Christ, and of the wonderful constancy of so
many martyrs, whose blood, so willingly offered up by them, was the chief
occasion of spreading their religion over a vast number of nations, it is
not to be imagined how inclined they were to receive it.  I shall not
determine whether this proceeded from any secret inspiration of God, or
whether it was because it seemed so favourable to that community of
goods, which is an opinion so particular as well as so dear to them;
since they perceived that Christ and His followers lived by that rule,
and that it was still kept up in some communities among the sincerest
sort of Christians.  From whichsoever of these motives it might be, true
it is, that many of them came over to our religion, and were initiated
into it by baptism.  But as two of our number were dead, so none of the
four that survived were in priests' orders, we, therefore, could only
baptise them, so that, to our great regret, they could not partake of the
other sacraments, that can only be administered by priests, but they are
instructed concerning them and long most vehemently for them.  They have
had great disputes among themselves, whether one chosen by them to be a
priest would not be thereby qualified to do all the things that belong to
that character, even though he had no authority derived from the Pope,
and they seemed to be resolved to choose some for that employment, but
they had not done it when I left them.

"Those among them that have not received our religion do not fright any
from it, and use none ill that goes over to it, so that all the while I
was there one man was only punished on this occasion.  He being newly
baptised did, notwithstanding all that we could say to the contrary,
dispute publicly concerning the Christian religion, with more zeal than
discretion, and with so much heat, that he not only preferred our worship
to theirs, but condemned all their rites as profane, and cried out
against all that adhered to them as impious and sacrilegious persons,
that were to be damned to everlasting burnings.  Upon his having
frequently preached in this manner he was seized, and after trial he was
condemned to banishment, not for having disparaged their religion, but
for his inflaming the people to sedition; for this is one of their most
ancient laws, that no man ought to be punished for his religion.  At the
first constitution of their government, Utopus having understood that
before his coming among them the old inhabitants had been engaged in
great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so divided among
themselves, that he found it an easy thing to conquer them, since,
instead of uniting their forces against him, every different party in
religion fought by themselves.  After he had subdued them he made a law
that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavour
to draw others to it by the force of argument and by amicable and modest
ways, but without bitterness against those of other opinions; but that he
ought to use no other force but that of persuasion, and was neither to
mix with it reproaches nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to be
condemned to banishment or slavery.

"This law was made by Utopus, not only for preserving the public peace,
which he saw suffered much by daily contentions and irreconcilable heats,
but because he thought the interest of religion itself required it.  He
judged it not fit to determine anything rashly; and seemed to doubt
whether those different forms of religion might not all come from God,
who might inspire man in a different manner, and be pleased with this
variety; he therefore thought it indecent and foolish for any man to
threaten and terrify another to make him believe what did not appear to
him to be true.  And supposing that only one religion was really true,
and the rest false, he imagined that the native force of truth would at
last break forth and shine bright, if supported only by the strength of
argument, and attended to with a gentle and unprejudiced mind; while, on
the other hand, if such debates were carried on with violence and
tumults, as the most wicked are always the most obstinate, so the best
and most holy religion might be choked with superstition, as corn is with
briars and thorns; he therefore left men wholly to their liberty, that
they might be free to believe as they should see cause; only he made a
solemn and severe law against such as should so far degenerate from the
dignity of human nature, as to think that our souls died with our bodies,
or that the world was governed by chance, without a wise overruling
Providence: for they all formerly believed that there was a state of
rewards and punishments to the good and bad after this life; and they now
look on those that think otherwise as scarce fit to be counted men, since
they degrade so noble a being as the soul, and reckon it no better than a
beast's: thus they are far from looking on such men as fit for human
society, or to be citizens of a well-ordered commonwealth; since a man of
such principles must needs, as oft as he dares do it, despise all their
laws and customs: for there is no doubt to be made, that a man who is
afraid of nothing but the law, and apprehends nothing after death, will
not scruple to break through all the laws of his country, either by fraud
or force, when by this means he may satisfy his appetites.  They never
raise any that hold these maxims, either to honours or offices, nor
employ them in any public trust, but despise them, as men of base and
sordid minds.  Yet they do not punish them, because they lay this down as
a maxim, that a man cannot make himself believe anything he pleases; nor
do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts by threatenings, so that
men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions; which being a sort
of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians: they take care indeed to prevent
their disputing in defence of these opinions, especially before the
common people: but they suffer, and even encourage them to dispute
concerning them in private with their priest, and other grave men, being
confident that they will be cured of those mad opinions by having reason
laid before them.  There are many among them that run far to the other
extreme, though it is neither thought an ill nor unreasonable opinion,
and therefore is not at all discouraged.  They think that the souls of
beasts are immortal, though far inferior to the dignity of the human
soul, and not capable of so great a happiness.  They are almost all of
them very firmly persuaded that good men will be infinitely happy in
another state: so that though they are compassionate to all that are
sick, yet they lament no man's death, except they see him loath to part
with life; for they look on this as a very ill presage, as if the soul,
conscious to itself of guilt, and quite hopeless, was afraid to leave the
body, from some secret hints of approaching misery.  They think that such
a man's appearance before God cannot be acceptable to Him, who being
called on, does not go out cheerfully, but is backward and unwilling, and
is as it were dragged to it.  They are struck with horror when they see
any die in this manner, and carry them out in silence and with sorrow,
and praying God that He would be merciful to the errors of the departed
soul, they lay the body in the ground: but when any die cheerfully, and
full of hope, they do not mourn for them, but sing hymns when they carry
out their bodies, and commending their souls very earnestly to God: their
whole behaviour is then rather grave than sad, they burn the body, and
set up a pillar where the pile was made, with an inscription to the
honour of the deceased.  When they come from the funeral, they discourse
of his good life, and worthy actions, but speak of nothing oftener and
with more pleasure than of his serenity at the hour of death.  They think
such respect paid to the memory of good men is both the greatest
incitement to engage others to follow their example, and the most
acceptable worship that can be offered them; for they believe that though
by the imperfection of human sight they are invisible to us, yet they are
present among us, and hear those discourses that pass concerning
themselves.  They believe it inconsistent with the happiness of departed
souls not to be at liberty to be where they will: and do not imagine them
capable of the ingratitude of not desiring to see those friends with whom
they lived on earth in the strictest bonds of love and kindness: besides,
they are persuaded that good men, after death, have these affections; and
all other good dispositions increased rather than diminished, and
therefore conclude that they are still among the living, and observe all
they say or do.  From hence they engage in all their affairs with the
greater confidence of success, as trusting to their protection; while
this opinion of the presence of their ancestors is a restraint that
prevents their engaging in ill designs.

"They despise and laugh at auguries, and the other vain and superstitious
ways of divination, so much observed among other nations; but have great
reverence for such miracles as cannot flow from any of the powers of
nature, and look on them as effects and indications of the presence of
the Supreme Being, of which they say many instances have occurred among
them; and that sometimes their public prayers, which upon great and
dangerous occasions they have solemnly put up to God, with assured
confidence of being heard, have been answered in a miraculous manner.

"They think the contemplating God in His works, and the adoring Him for
them, is a very acceptable piece of worship to Him.

"There are many among them that upon a motive of religion neglect
learning, and apply themselves to no sort of study; nor do they allow
themselves any leisure time, but are perpetually employed, believing that
by the good things that a man does he secures to himself that happiness
that comes after death.  Some of these visit the sick; others mend
highways, cleanse ditches, repair bridges, or dig turf, gravel, or stone.
Others fell and cleave timber, and bring wood, corn, and other
necessaries, on carts, into their towns; nor do these only serve the
public, but they serve even private men, more than the slaves themselves
do: for if there is anywhere a rough, hard, and sordid piece of work to
be done, from which many are frightened by the labour and loathsomeness
of it, if not the despair of accomplishing it, they cheerfully, and of
their own accord, take that to their share; and by that means, as they
ease others very much, so they afflict themselves, and spend their whole
life in hard labour: and yet they do not value themselves upon this, nor
lessen other people's credit to raise their own; but by their stooping to
such servile employments they are so far from being despised, that they
are so much the more esteemed by the whole nation.

"Of these there are two sorts: some live unmarried and chaste, and
abstain from eating any sort of flesh; and thus weaning themselves from
all the pleasures of the present life, which they account hurtful, they
pursue, even by the hardest and painfullest methods possible, that
blessedness which they hope for hereafter; and the nearer they approach
to it, they are the more cheerful and earnest in their endeavours after
it.  Another sort of them is less willing to put themselves to much toil,
and therefore prefer a married state to a single one; and as they do not
deny themselves the pleasure of it, so they think the begetting of
children is a debt which they owe to human nature, and to their country;
nor do they avoid any pleasure that does not hinder labour; and therefore
eat flesh so much the more willingly, as they find that by this means
they are the more able to work: the Utopians look upon these as the wiser
sect, but they esteem the others as the most holy.  They would indeed
laugh at any man who, from the principles of reason, would prefer an
unmarried state to a married, or a life of labour to an easy life: but
they reverence and admire such as do it from the motives of religion.
There is nothing in which they are more cautious than in giving their
opinion positively concerning any sort of religion.  The men that lead
those severe lives are called in the language of their country
Brutheskas, which answers to those we call Religious Orders.

"Their priests are men of eminent piety, and therefore they are but few,
for there are only thirteen in every town, one for every temple; but when
they go to war, seven of these go out with their forces, and seven others
are chosen to supply their room in their absence; but these enter again
upon their employments when they return; and those who served in their
absence, attend upon the high priest, till vacancies fall by death; for
there is one set over the rest.  They are chosen by the people as the
other magistrates are, by suffrages given in secret, for preventing of
factions: and when they are chosen, they are consecrated by the college
of priests.  The care of all sacred things, the worship of God, and an
inspection into the manners of the people, are committed to them.  It is
a reproach to a man to be sent for by any of them, or for them to speak
to him in secret, for that always gives some suspicion: all that is
incumbent on them is only to exhort and admonish the people; for the
power of correcting and punishing ill men belongs wholly to the Prince,
and to the other magistrates: the severest thing that the priest does is
the excluding those that are desperately wicked from joining in their
worship: there is not any sort of punishment more dreaded by them than
this, for as it loads them with infamy, so it fills them with secret
horrors, such is their reverence to their religion; nor will their bodies
be long exempted from their share of trouble; for if they do not very
quickly satisfy the priests of the truth of their repentance, they are
seized on by the Senate, and punished for their impiety.  The education
of youth belongs to the priests, yet they do not take so much care of
instructing them in letters, as in forming their minds and manners
aright; they use all possible methods to infuse, very early, into the
tender and flexible minds of children, such opinions as are both good in
themselves and will be useful to their country, for when deep impressions
of these things are made at that age, they follow men through the whole
course of their lives, and conduce much to preserve the peace of the
government, which suffers by nothing more than by vices that rise out of
ill opinions.  The wives of their priests are the most extraordinary
women of the whole country; sometimes the women themselves are made
priests, though that falls out but seldom, nor are any but ancient widows
chosen into that order.

"None of the magistrates have greater honour paid them than is paid the
priests; and if they should happen to commit any crime, they would not be
questioned for it; their punishment is left to God, and to their own
consciences; for they do not think it lawful to lay hands on any man, how
wicked soever he is, that has been in a peculiar manner dedicated to God;
nor do they find any great inconvenience in this, both because they have
so few priests, and because these are chosen with much caution, so that
it must be a very unusual thing to find one who, merely out of regard to
his virtue, and for his being esteemed a singularly good man, was raised
up to so great a dignity, degenerate into corruption and vice; and if
such a thing should fall out, for man is a changeable creature, yet,
there being few priests, and these having no authority but what rises out
of the respect that is paid them, nothing of great consequence to the
public can proceed from the indemnity that the priests enjoy.

"They have, indeed, very few of them, lest greater numbers sharing in the
same honour might make the dignity of that order, which they esteem so
highly, to sink in its reputation; they also think it difficult to find
out many of such an exalted pitch of goodness as to be equal to that
dignity, which demands the exercise of more than ordinary virtues.  Nor
are the priests in greater veneration among them than they are among
their neighbouring nations, as you may imagine by that which I think
gives occasion for it.

"When the Utopians engage in battle, the priests who accompany them to
the war, apparelled in their sacred vestments, kneel down during the
action (in a place not far from the field), and, lifting up their hands
to heaven, pray, first for peace, and then for victory to their own side,
and particularly that it may be gained without the effusion of much blood
on either side; and when the victory turns to their side, they run in
among their own men to restrain their fury; and if any of their enemies
see them or call to them, they are preserved by that means; and such as
can come so near them as to touch their garments have not only their
lives, but their fortunes secured to them; it is upon this account that
all the nations round about consider them so much, and treat them with
such reverence, that they have been often no less able to preserve their
own people from the fury of their enemies than to save their enemies from
their rage; for it has sometimes fallen out, that when their armies have
been in disorder and forced to fly, so that their enemies were running
upon the slaughter and spoil, the priests by interposing have separated
them from one another, and stopped the effusion of more blood; so that,
by their mediation, a peace has been concluded on very reasonable terms;
nor is there any nation about them so fierce, cruel, or barbarous, as not
to look upon their persons as sacred and inviolable.

"The first and the last day of the month, and of the year, is a festival;
they measure their months by the course of the moon, and their years by
the course of the sun: the first days are called in their language the
Cynemernes, and the last the Trapemernes, which answers in our language,
to the festival that begins or ends the season.

"They have magnificent temples, that are not only nobly built, but
extremely spacious, which is the more necessary as they have so few of
them; they are a little dark within, which proceeds not from any error in
the architecture, but is done with design; for their priests think that
too much light dissipates the thoughts, and that a more moderate degree
of it both recollects the mind and raises devotion.  Though there are
many different forms of religion among them, yet all these, how various
soever, agree in the main point, which is the worshipping the Divine
Essence; and, therefore, there is nothing to be seen or heard in their
temples in which the several persuasions among them may not agree; for
every sect performs those rites that are peculiar to it in their private
houses, nor is there anything in the public worship that contradicts the
particular ways of those different sects.  There are no images for God in
their temples, so that every one may represent Him to his thoughts
according to the way of his religion; nor do they call this one God by
any other name but that of Mithras, which is the common name by which
they all express the Divine Essence, whatsoever otherwise they think it
to be; nor are there any prayers among them but such as every one of them
may use without prejudice to his own opinion.

"They meet in their temples on the evening of the festival that concludes
a season, and not having yet broke their fast, they thank God for their
good success during that year or month which is then at an end; and the
next day, being that which begins the new season, they meet early in
their temples, to pray for the happy progress of all their affairs during
that period upon which they then enter.  In the festival which concludes
the period, before they go to the temple, both wives and children fall on
their knees before their husbands or parents and confess everything in
which they have either erred or failed in their duty, and beg pardon for
it.  Thus all little discontents in families are removed, that they may
offer up their devotions with a pure and serene mind; for they hold it a
great impiety to enter upon them with disturbed thoughts, or with a
consciousness of their bearing hatred or anger in their hearts to any
person whatsoever; and think that they should become liable to severe
punishments if they presumed to offer sacrifices without cleansing their
hearts, and reconciling all their differences.  In the temples the two
sexes are separated, the men go to the right hand, and the women to the
left; and the males and females all place themselves before the head and
master or mistress of the family to which they belong, so that those who
have the government of them at home may see their deportment in public.
And they intermingle them so, that the younger and the older may be set
by one another; for if the younger sort were all set together, they
would, perhaps, trifle away that time too much in which they ought to
beget in themselves that religious dread of the Supreme Being which is
the greatest and almost the only incitement to virtue.

"They offer up no living creature in sacrifice, nor do they think it
suitable to the Divine Being, from whose bounty it is that these
creatures have derived their lives, to take pleasure in their deaths, or
the offering up their blood.  They burn incense and other sweet odours,
and have a great number of wax lights during their worship, not out of
any imagination that such oblations can add anything to the divine nature
(which even prayers cannot do), but as it is a harmless and pure way of
worshipping God; so they think those sweet savours and lights, together
with some other ceremonies, by a secret and unaccountable virtue, elevate
men's souls, and inflame them with greater energy and cheerfulness during
the divine worship.

"All the people appear in the temples in white garments; but the priest's
vestments are parti-coloured, and both the work and colours are
wonderful.  They are made of no rich materials, for they are neither
embroidered nor set with precious stones; but are composed of the plumes
of several birds, laid together with so much art, and so neatly, that the
true value of them is far beyond the costliest materials.  They say, that
in the ordering and placing those plumes some dark mysteries are
represented, which pass down among their priests in a secret tradition
concerning them; and that they are as hieroglyphics, putting them in mind
of the blessing that they have received from God, and of their duties,
both to Him and to their neighbours.  As soon as the priest appears in
those ornaments, they all fall prostrate on the ground, with so much
reverence and so deep a silence, that such as look on cannot but be
struck with it, as if it were the effect of the appearance of a deity.
After they have been for some time in this posture, they all stand up,
upon a sign given by the priest, and sing hymns to the honour of God,
some musical instruments playing all the while.  These are quite of
another form than those used among us; but, as many of them are much
sweeter than ours, so others are made use of by us.  Yet in one thing
they very much exceed us: all their music, both vocal and instrumental,
is adapted to imitate and express the passions, and is so happily suited
to every occasion, that, whether the subject of the hymn be cheerful, or
formed to soothe or trouble the mind, or to express grief or remorse, the
music takes the impression of whatever is represented, affects and
kindles the passions, and works the sentiments deep into the hearts of
the hearers.  When this is done, both priests and people offer up very
solemn prayers to God in a set form of words; and these are so composed,
that whatsoever is pronounced by the whole assembly may be likewise
applied by every man in particular to his own condition.  In these they
acknowledge God to be the author and governor of the world, and the
fountain of all the good they receive, and therefore offer up to him
their thanksgiving; and, in particular, bless him for His goodness in
ordering it so, that they are born under the happiest government in the
world, and are of a religion which they hope is the truest of all others;
but, if they are mistaken, and if there is either a better government, or
a religion more acceptable to God, they implore His goodness to let them
know it, vowing that they resolve to follow him whithersoever he leads
them; but if their government is the best, and their religion the truest,
then they pray that He may fortify them in it, and bring all the world
both to the same rules of life, and to the same opinions concerning
Himself, unless, according to the unsearchableness of His mind, He is
pleased with a variety of religions.  Then they pray that God may give
them an easy passage at last to Himself, not presuming to set limits to
Him, how early or late it should be; but, if it may be wished for without
derogating from His supreme authority, they desire to be quickly
delivered, and to be taken to Himself, though by the most terrible kind
of death, rather than to be detained long from seeing Him by the most
prosperous course of life.  When this prayer is ended, they all fall down
again upon the ground; and, after a little while, they rise up, go home
to dinner, and spend the rest of the day in diversion or military
exercises.

"Thus have I described to you, as particularly as I could, the
Constitution of that commonwealth, which I do not only think the best in
the world, but indeed the only commonwealth that truly deserves that
name.  In all other places it is visible that, while people talk of a
commonwealth, every man only seeks his own wealth; but there, where no
man has any property, all men zealously pursue the good of the public,
and, indeed, it is no wonder to see men act so differently, for in other
commonwealths every man knows that, unless he provides for himself, how
flourishing soever the commonwealth may be, he must die of hunger, so
that he sees the necessity of preferring his own concerns to the public;
but in Utopia, where every man has a right to everything, they all know
that if care is taken to keep the public stores full no private man can
want anything; for among them there is no unequal distribution, so that
no man is poor, none in necessity, and though no man has anything, yet
they are all rich; for what can make a man so rich as to lead a serene
and cheerful life, free from anxieties; neither apprehending want
himself, nor vexed with the endless complaints of his wife?  He is not
afraid of the misery of his children, nor is he contriving how to raise a
portion for his daughters; but is secure in this, that both he and his
wife, his children and grand-children, to as many generations as he can
fancy, will all live both plentifully and happily; since, among them,
there is no less care taken of those who were once engaged in labour, but
grow afterwards unable to follow it, than there is, elsewhere, of these
that continue still employed.  I would gladly hear any man compare the
justice that is among them with that of all other nations; among whom,
may I perish, if I see anything that looks either like justice or equity;
for what justice is there in this: that a nobleman, a goldsmith, a
banker, or any other man, that either does nothing at all, or, at best,
is employed in things that are of no use to the public, should live in
great luxury and splendour upon what is so ill acquired, and a mean man,
a carter, a smith, or a ploughman, that works harder even than the beasts
themselves, and is employed in labours so necessary, that no commonwealth
could hold out a year without them, can only earn so poor a livelihood
and must lead so miserable a life, that the condition of the beasts is
much better than theirs?  For as the beasts do not work so constantly, so
they feed almost as well, and with more pleasure, and have no anxiety
about what is to come, whilst these men are depressed by a barren and
fruitless employment, and tormented with the apprehensions of want in
their old age; since that which they get by their daily labour does but
maintain them at present, and is consumed as fast as it comes in, there
is no overplus left to lay up for old age.

"Is not that government both unjust and ungrateful, that is so prodigal
of its favours to those that are called gentlemen, or goldsmiths, or such
others who are idle, or live either by flattery or by contriving the arts
of vain pleasure, and, on the other hand, takes no care of those of a
meaner sort, such as ploughmen, colliers, and smiths, without whom it
could not subsist?  But after the public has reaped all the advantage of
their service, and they come to be oppressed with age, sickness, and
want, all their labours and the good they have done is forgotten, and all
the recompense given them is that they are left to die in great misery.
The richer sort are often endeavouring to bring the hire of labourers
lower, not only by their fraudulent practices, but by the laws which they
procure to be made to that effect, so that though it is a thing most
unjust in itself to give such small rewards to those who deserve so well
of the public, yet they have given those hardships the name and colour of
justice, by procuring laws to be made for regulating them.

"Therefore I must say that, as I hope for mercy, I can have no other
notion of all the other governments that I see or know, than that they
are a conspiracy of the rich, who, on pretence of managing the public,
only pursue their private ends, and devise all the ways and arts they can
find out; first, that they may, without danger, preserve all that they
have so ill-acquired, and then, that they may engage the poor to toil and
labour for them at as low rates as possible, and oppress them as much as
they please; and if they can but prevail to get these contrivances
established by the show of public authority, which is considered as the
representative of the whole people, then they are accounted laws; yet
these wicked men, after they have, by a most insatiable covetousness,
divided that among themselves with which all the rest might have been
well supplied, are far from that happiness that is enjoyed among the
Utopians; for the use as well as the desire of money being extinguished,
much anxiety and great occasions of mischief is cut off with it, and who
does not see that the frauds, thefts, robberies, quarrels, tumults,
contentions, seditions, murders, treacheries, and witchcrafts, which are,
indeed, rather punished than restrained by the severities of law, would
all fall off, if money were not any more valued by the world?  Men's
fears, solicitudes, cares, labours, and watchings would all perish in the
same moment with the value of money; even poverty itself, for the relief
of which money seems most necessary, would fall.  But, in order to the
apprehending this aright, take one instance:--

"Consider any year, that has been so unfruitful that many thousands have
died of hunger; and yet if, at the end of that year, a survey was made of
the granaries of all the rich men that have hoarded up the corn, it would
be found that there was enough among them to have prevented all that
consumption of men that perished in misery; and that, if it had been
distributed among them, none would have felt the terrible effects of that
scarcity: so easy a thing would it be to supply all the necessities of
life, if that blessed thing called money, which is pretended to be
invented for procuring them was not really the only thing that obstructed
their being procured!

"I do not doubt but rich men are sensible of this, and that they well
know how much a greater happiness it is to want nothing necessary, than
to abound in many superfluities; and to be rescued out of so much misery,
than to abound with so much wealth: and I cannot think but the sense of
every man's interest, added to the authority of Christ's commands, who,
as He was infinitely wise, knew what was best, and was not less good in
discovering it to us, would have drawn all the world over to the laws of
the Utopians, if pride, that plague of human nature, that source of so
much misery, did not hinder it; for this vice does not measure happiness
so much by its own conveniences, as by the miseries of others; and would
not be satisfied with being thought a goddess, if none were left that
were miserable, over whom she might insult.  Pride thinks its own
happiness shines the brighter, by comparing it with the misfortunes of
other persons; that by displaying its own wealth they may feel their
poverty the more sensibly.  This is that infernal serpent that creeps
into the breasts of mortals, and possesses them too much to be easily
drawn out; and, therefore, I am glad that the Utopians have fallen upon
this form of government, in which I wish that all the world could be so
wise as to imitate them; for they have, indeed, laid down such a scheme
and foundation of policy, that as men live happily under it, so it is
like to be of great continuance; for they having rooted out of the minds
of their people all the seeds, both of ambition and faction, there is no
danger of any commotions at home; which alone has been the ruin of many
states that seemed otherwise to be well secured; but as long as they live
in peace at home, and are governed by such good laws, the envy of all
their neighbouring princes, who have often, though in vain, attempted
their ruin, will never be able to put their state into any commotion or
disorder."

When Raphael had thus made an end of speaking, though many things
occurred to me, both concerning the manners and laws of that people, that
seemed very absurd, as well in their way of making war, as in their
notions of religion and divine matters--together with several other
particulars, but chiefly what seemed the foundation of all the rest,
their living in common, without the use of money, by which all nobility,
magnificence, splendour, and majesty, which, according to the common
opinion, are the true ornaments of a nation, would be quite taken
away--yet since I perceived that Raphael was weary, and was not sure
whether he could easily bear contradiction, remembering that he had taken
notice of some, who seemed to think they were bound in honour to support
the credit of their own wisdom, by finding out something to censure in
all other men's inventions, besides their own, I only commended their
Constitution, and the account he had given of it in general; and so,
taking him by the hand, carried him to supper, and told him I would find
out some other time for examining this subject more particularly, and for
discoursing more copiously upon it.  And, indeed, I shall be glad to
embrace an opportunity of doing it.  In the meanwhile, though it must be
confessed that he is both a very learned man and a person who has
obtained a great knowledge of the world, I cannot perfectly agree to
everything he has related.  However, there are many things in the
commonwealth of Utopia that I rather wish, than hope, to see followed in
our governments.

There are several different religions in Utopia. Some worship the sun, moon or planets, but the wisest people worship one infinite and eternal God, whom they call Mithras. When Hythloday's party told the Utopians about Christianity, many were eager to convert, and were baptized. Those who did not convert refrained from trying to persuade others against converting. Only one Christian convert was punished: he had loudly condemned the Utopian religion as profane, and those who practiced it as sacrilegious and worthy to burn in hell forever. He was tried and condemned to banishment - not for his religion, but for inciting rebellion. A Utopian law ensures freedom of religion. It was passed by the founder of Utopia, Utopus, who had noticed that the inhabitants were always quarreling about religion. Under this law, people are allowed to try to persuade others to follow their religion, but are forbidden to use violence or to insult those who hold different beliefs. Utopus believed it was possible that all religions came from God, who liked variety. Utopus did outlaw atheism, which includes the belief that the soul dies with the body. The Utopians view atheism as degrading to the soul. They believe that an atheist, because he does not fear God's justice, will not hesitate to break all the laws and customs of the country. They do not punish atheists, but they despise them and bar them from public office. Because they believe that good men will enjoy divine bliss after death, they do not grieve when someone dies. But if he was unwilling to die, they are concerned for his soul, because they take it as a sign that the soul was afraid to leave the body because of some guilt. When a person dies cheerfully, they sing hymns while they bury him, and afterwards talk of his good life and worthy deeds. They think that the spirits of the dead are free to visit the living, and hear what is said about them. Divination is dismissed as superstition, but the Utopians have great reverence for miracles, which they believe are effects of the presence of God. They approve of contemplating God in his works. Certain Utopians believe that divine bliss after death is earned, and neglect learning in favor of doing public service like visiting the sick and repairing roads. Some of these people live celibate lives and abstain from eating meat; others prefer to marry, have children, and do not deny themselves any pleasure. The Utopians revere the first group as more holy, but they think the second group is wiser. All matters of religion and morals are looked after by the priests. In cases of extreme wickedness, a priest may exclude a person from communal worship, but all other punishments are the responsibility of the magistrates and the Prince. The Utopians think there is no more shameful punishment than being excluded from worship. If the person does not repent, the priest turns them over to the Senate for punishment. Priests are also responsible for the education of children. The priests believe that the academic detail of the lessons is less important than forming the children's minds and manners so that they become good people and useful members of society. Both men and women can become priests. If a priest should commit a crime, which is extremely rare because they are chosen with such care, he is not questioned for it: his punishment is left to God. When the Utopians are at war, the priests accompany the soldiers into battle and during the action, pray for peace first, and then for victory for the Utopians. If the Utopian soldiers are victorious, the priests run into the midst of the action to prevent any more bloodshed. All Utopians worship in the same temples, since they all agree on worshipping the divine essence. Sects that have rituals peculiar to themselves perform them at home. In the temples, there are no images of God, so that everyone can think of him according to his own belief. Before going to the temple, wives and children kneel before their husband or parents and confess any faults, and ask forgiveness. Thus when they go to the temple, their consciences are clear and their differences reconciled. At the temple, they praise God as the source of all the good that they receive, and thank him for giving them the best system of government in the world and the truest religion. They add the request that if they are mistaken and there is a better form of government or religion, that God should reveal it to them. They pray that they may be received easily into his presence when the time comes for them to die. Then they return home and spend the rest of the day in leisure pursuits or military exercises. Hythloday ends his description of Utopia by saying that he believes it is not only the best government in the world, but the only commonwealth that deserves the name, since everyone pursues the good of all of the people. This is unlike any other society, where everyone seeks only his own wealth. In Utopia, no one owns anything, yet everyone is rich, as everyone has sufficient for his needs. Hythloday points out that in other societies, there is no justice or equity, for those who do least service to the public, such as noblemen and goldsmiths, live in the most luxury, while those who work hard for the public good, like farmers, struggle to make a living. What is more, when such laborers are too old or ill to work, society leaves them to die in misery. Hythloday gives his view of contemporary European society as a conspiracy of the rich enabling them to pursue their own ends. They are supported by laws that they themselves established to protect their own interests. The rich are not happy, however, since their wealth makes them vulnerable to all kinds of financially motivated crimes, such as robbery, murder, and fraud. Without money, a society is free of such crimes and also of a large burden of anxieties. Hythloday believes that the only thing that prevents societies adopting the Utopian system is pride, which prompts men to measure their happiness by the misery of others. More reflects on Hythloday's account. He thinks that there are many absurdities in the Utopian system, chief among them being doing away with money, without which all the magnificence and splendor "which, according to the common opinion, are the true ornaments of a nation," would be quite taken away. However, More adds that there are many things in the Utopian system that he would like to see adopted in European governments, though he is not hopeful that this will happen.

. This section on religion confirms that Thomas More, a devout Catholic who was martyred by an emerging Protestant regime for his beliefs, was tolerant of differences in people's beliefs but saw social and political disunity as an evil. Utopians have freedom of religion enshrined in law, and they have different beliefs. But everyone shares a common belief in the basis of all their religions: a God who is the source of all good, and the immortal soul, and thus they are able to worship together. No one is allowed to force his beliefs on anyone, thus removing the danger of the violent quarrels between sects that divided many European countries in Thomas More's time. It is suggested, however, that Thomas More believed Christianity to be the superior religion, by the fact that many Utopians choose to convert when Hythloday's party tells them about it. Critics note that the differences between the Utopian religion and the orthodox Catholic religion match those reforms that were being suggested for the Catholic church in Thomas More's time. The would-be reformers include Erasmus, Thomas More's friend. Hythloday emphasizes that the Utopian priests are extremely pious and few in number; reformers of the Catholic church attacked what they saw as the excessive number of priests and their lax moral and spiritual standards. Some reformers wanted to see fewer images of sacred figures like Christ and the Virgin Mary, as they thought it distracted worshippers from a pure understanding of God; Utopian churches have no such images. It is not clear whether Thomas More supported such reforms. One radical way in which Thomas More was years ahead even of the reformers was in allowing women priests in Utopia. Most Christian churches began to ordain women as priests only in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and as of 2006 the Roman Catholic church still holds out against the practice. The character More's comment that there are many "absurd" things about Utopian society is much disputed by critics, who disagree about whether the author Thomas More wrote Utopia as a non-serious fantasy or as a serious manifesto for an ideal society. However, what follows this comment gives an important clue. The character More mentions as the foundation of all the "absurd" aspects of Utopia their living in common "without the use of money." The absence of money, he says, would remove all nobility, magnificence, and splendor, "which, according to the common opinion, are the true ornaments of a nation . " The insertion of "according to common opinion" distances the author from this view and makes it ironic: while the conservative character More reflects conventional European prejudices in finding Utopian ideas absurd, the author Thomas More recognizes that this is only the "common opinion" in a corrupt society. The fact that the author Thomas More does not elaborate on why the character More dismisses Utopian systems as absurd suggests that he does not agree with him. If the author Thomas More did agree with the character More in this, he would expound the arguments against Utopian systems. In Utopia, Thomas More presents with conviction and passion a picture of a state where nobility and magnificence, far from being the "true ornaments of a nation," are scorned, and nowhere does he give credence to the opposite view. He makes clear that these superficial vanities are valued by the "common opinion" of less enlightened and more destructive societies, but the very fact that those societies are less enlightened and more destructive throws their values into disgrace. In truth, Thomas More needed to claim that Utopian ideas were absurd in order to protect himself. He was a close advisor to King Henry VIII, a statesman, and a renowned lawyer, and thus he was careful of his reputation and safety. Hiding behind a veil of irony and his fictional conservative namesake "More" was the way he chose to stay out of trouble.


Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair
by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead,
carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and
close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin,
and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.

Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty
minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome
well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing.
Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably
fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet.
On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as
on a tree that was to come down in good time--remorseless twins they are
for striding through their human forests, notching as they go--while the
countenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the
same deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away
with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for
his deeper operations.

Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the
heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat,
whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the
distant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed,
in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him
so unexpectedly.

'The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, 'be not only in
name but in fact Dombey and Son;' and he added, in a tone of luxurious
satisfaction, with his eyes half-closed as if he were reading the name
in a device of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the same time;
'Dom-bey and Son!'

The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of
endearment to Mrs Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation,
as being a man but little used to that form of address): and said, 'Mrs
Dombey, my--my dear.'

A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady's face as
she raised her eyes towards him.

'He will be christened Paul, my--Mrs Dombey--of course.'

She feebly echoed, 'Of course,' or rather expressed it by the motion of
her lips, and closed her eyes again.

'His father's name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather's! I wish his
grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the
necessity of writing Junior,' said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious
autograph on his knee; 'but it is merely of a private and personal
complexion. It doesn't enter into the correspondence of the House.
Its signature remains the same.' And again he said 'Dombey and Son,' in
exactly the same tone as before.

Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey's life. The earth
was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made
to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships;
rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against
their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their orbits, to
preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common
abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference
to them. A. D. had no concern with Anno Domini, but stood for anno
Dombei--and Son.

He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and
death, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the
sole representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been married,
ten--married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him; whose
happiness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken spirit
to the dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such idle talk was
little likely to reach the ears of Mr Dombey, whom it nearly concerned;
and probably no one in the world would have received it with such utter
incredulity as he, if it had reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt
in hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and
girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr Dombey would have reasoned:
That a matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things,
be gratifying and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the
hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a House, could not fail
to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast of the least
ambitious of her sex. That Mrs Dombey had entered on that social
contract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a genteel and wealthy
station, even without reference to the perpetuation of family Firms:
with her eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey had had
daily practical knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs Dombey
had always sat at the head of his table, and done the honours of his
house in a remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs Dombey
must have been happy. That she couldn't help it.

Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed.
With only one; but that one certainly involving much. With the drawback
of hope deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very
correctly tells us, Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way;
for his highest distinct idea even of Scripture, if examined, would
have been found to be; that as forming part of a general whole, of which
Dombey and Son formed another part, it was therefore to be commended
and upheld) maketh the heart sick. They had been married ten years, and
until this present day on which Mr Dombey sat jingling and jingling his
heavy gold watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side of the bed,
had had no issue.

--To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some six
years before, and the child, who had stolen into the chamber unobserved,
was now crouching timidly, in a corner whence she could see her mother's
face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In the capital of the
House's name and dignity, such a child was merely a piece of base coin
that couldn't be invested--a bad Boy--nothing more.

Mr Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment, however,
that he felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents, even to
sprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little daughter.

So he said, 'Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if
you like, I daresay. Don't touch him!'

The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat, which,
with a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, embodied
her idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her mother's face
immediately, and she neither moved nor answered.

'Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing
else,' said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous
opinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.'

Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the
child had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide
her face in her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection
very much at variance with her years.

'Oh Lord bless me!' said Mr Dombey, rising testily. 'A very ill-advised
and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for Miss
Florence's nurse. Really the person should be more care-'

'Wait! I--had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have the goodness to step
upstairs again perhaps. I'll go down. I'll go down. I needn't beg you,'
he added, pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire, 'to take
particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs ----'

'Blockitt, Sir?' suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded
gentility, who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely
offered it as a mild suggestion.

'Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.'

'No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born--'

'Ay, ay, ay,' said Mr Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and
slightly bending his brows at the same time. 'Miss Florence was all very
well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish
a destiny. A destiny, little fellow!' As he thus apostrophised the
infant he raised one of his hands to his lips, and kissed it; then,
seeming to fear that the action involved some compromise of his dignity,
went, awkwardly enough, away.

Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense
reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was
walking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the
unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed
the case for the last six weeks, among all his patients, friends, and
acquaintances, as one to which he was in hourly expectation day and
night of being summoned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Pep.

'Well, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice,
muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; 'do you find that your dear
lady is at all roused by your visit?'

'Stimulated as it were?' said the family practitioner faintly: bowing at
the same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, 'Excuse my putting in a
word, but this is a valuable connexion.'

Mr Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so
little of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He
said that it would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would
walk upstairs again.

'Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps,
'that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess--I beg your
pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there
is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity,
which we would rather--not--'

'See,' interposed the family practitioner with another inclination of
the head.

'Quite so,' said Doctor Parker Peps, 'which we would rather not see. It
would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby--excuse me: I should say of
Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases--'

'So very numerous,' murmured the family practitioner--'can't be expected
I'm sure--quite wonderful if otherwise--Doctor Parker Peps's West-End
practice--'

'Thank you,' said the Doctor, 'quite so. It would appear, I was
observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from
which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong--'

'And vigorous,' murmured the family practitioner.

'Quite so,' assented the Doctor--'and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins here,
who from his position of medical adviser in this family--no one better
qualified to fill that position, I am sure.'

'Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. '"Praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley!"'

'You are good enough,' returned Doctor Parker Peps, 'to say so. Mr
Pilkins who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient's
constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in
forming our opinions in these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that
Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance;
and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey--I beg your
pardon; Mrs Dombey--should not be--'

'Able,' said the family practitioner.

'To make,' said Doctor Parker Peps.

'That effort,' said the family practitioner.

'Successfully,' said they both together.

'Then,' added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, 'a crisis might
arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.'

With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then,
on the motion--made in dumb show--of Doctor Parker Peps, they went
upstairs; the family practitioner opening the room door for that
distinguished professional, and following him out, with most obsequious
politeness.

To record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this
intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom
it could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but
he certainly had a sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and
decay, he would be very sorry, and that he would find a something gone
from among his plate and furniture, and other household possessions,
which was well worth the having, and could not be lost without sincere
regret. Though it would be a cool, business-like, gentlemanly,
self-possessed regret, no doubt.

His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, first by the
rustling of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking
into the room of a lady rather past the middle age than otherwise but
dressed in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tightness of
her bodice, who, running up to him with a kind of screw in her face and
carriage, expressive of suppressed emotion, flung her arms around his
neck, and said, in a choking voice,

'My dear Paul! He's quite a Dombey!'

'Well, well!' returned her brother--for Mr Dombey was her brother--'I
think he is like the family. Don't agitate yourself, Louisa.'

'It's very foolish of me,' said Louisa, sitting down, and taking out her
pocket-handkerchief, 'but he's--he's such a perfect Dombey!'

Mr Dombey coughed.

'It's so extraordinary,' said Louisa; smiling through her tears,
which indeed were not overpowering, 'as to be perfectly ridiculous. So
completely our family. I never saw anything like it in my life!'

'But what is this about Fanny, herself?' said Mr Dombey. 'How is Fanny?'

'My dear Paul,' returned Louisa, 'it's nothing whatever. Take my word,
it's nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like
what I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort
is necessary. That's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!--But I daresay
she'll make it; I have no doubt she'll make it. Knowing it to be
required of her, as a duty, of course she'll make it. My dear Paul, it's
very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky from head
to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you for a glass of wine
and a morsel of that cake.'

Mr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray on
the table.

'I shall not drink my love to you, Paul,' said Louisa: 'I shall drink to
the little Dombey. Good gracious me!--it's the most astonishing thing I
ever knew in all my days, he's such a perfect Dombey.'

Quenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh which
terminated in tears, Louisa cast up her eyes, and emptied her glass.

'I know it's very weak and silly of me,' she repeated, 'to be so trembly
and shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings so completely
to get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I should have
fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear
Fanny, and that tiddy ickle sing.' These last words originated in a
sudden vivid reminiscence of the baby.

They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.

'Mrs Chick,' said a very bland female voice outside, 'how are you now,
my dear friend?'

'My dear Paul,' said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat,
'it's Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here
without her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very
particular friend Miss Tox.'

The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figure, wearing such
a faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers
call 'fast colours' originally, and to have, by little and little,
washed out. But for this she might have been described as the very pink
of general propitiation and politeness. From a long habit of listening
admiringly to everything that was said in her presence, and looking at
the speakers as if she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions
of their images upon her soul, never to part with the same but with
life, her head had quite settled on one side. Her hands had contracted
a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of their own accord as in
involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. She
had the softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose, stupendously
aquiline, had a little knob in the very centre or key-stone of the
bridge, whence it tended downwards towards her face, as in an invincible
determination never to turn up at anything.

Miss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain
character of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear
odd weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were
sometimes perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious,
of all her collars, frills, tuckers, wristbands, and other gossamer
articles--indeed of everything she wore which had two ends to it
intended to unite--that the two ends were never on good terms, and
wouldn't quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for
winter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up on end in
rampant manner, and were not at all sleek. She was much given to the
carrying about of small bags with snaps to them, that went off like
little pistols when they were shut up; and when full-dressed, she wore
round her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a fishy old eye,
with no approach to speculation in it. These and other appearances of a
similar nature, had served to propagate the opinion, that Miss Tox was
a lady of what is called a limited independence, which she turned to
the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief,
and suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or
three, originated in her habit of making the most of everything.

'I am sure,' said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, 'that to have
the honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which I have
long sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My dear Mrs
Chick--may I say Louisa!'

Mrs Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the foot of her
wine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice, 'God
bless you!'

'My dear Louisa then,' said Miss Tox, 'my sweet friend, how are you
now?'

'Better,' Mrs Chick returned. 'Take some wine. You have been almost as
anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.'

Mr Dombey of course officiated, and also refilled his sister's glass,
which she (looking another way, and unconscious of his intention)
held straight and steady the while, and then regarded with great
astonishment, saying, 'My dear Paul, what have you been doing!'

'Miss Tox, Paul,' pursued Mrs Chick, still retaining her hand, 'knowing
how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of
to-day, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in
expectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I
promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.'

'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox. 'Don't say so.'

'It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul,' resumed his
sister; 'one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in
general, as it's very natural they should be--we have no business to
expect they should be otherwise--but to which we attach some interest.'

'Miss Tox is very good,' said Mr Dombey.

'And I do say, and will say, and must say,' pursued his sister, pressing
the foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox's hand, at each of the three
clauses, 'that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to the
occasion. I call "Welcome little Dombey" Poetry, myself!'

'Is that the device?' inquired her brother.

'That is the device,' returned Louisa.

'But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox in
a tone of low and earnest entreaty, 'that nothing but the--I have some
difficulty in expressing myself--the dubiousness of the result would
have induced me to take so great a liberty: "Welcome, Master Dombey,"
would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you
know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope,
excuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.' Miss
Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which
that gentleman graciously acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of
Dombey and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was so palatable
to him, that his sister, Mrs Chick--though he affected to consider her
a weak good-natured person--had perhaps more influence over him than
anybody else.

'My dear Paul,' that lady broke out afresh, after silently contemplating
his features for a few moments, 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry
when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that dear baby
upstairs.'

'Well!' said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, 'after this, I forgive Fanny
everything!'

It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that it
did her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her
sister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, except her having married her
brother--in itself a species of audacity--and her having, in the course
of events, given birth to a girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs Chick
had frequently observed, was not quite what she had expected of her, and
was not a pleasant return for all the attention and distinction she had
met with.

Mr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the two
ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic.

'I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my dear,'
said Louisa. Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much. 'And as to
his property, my dear!'

'Ah!' said Miss Tox, with deep feeling.

'Im-mense!'

'But his deportment, my dear Louisa!' said Miss Tox. 'His presence! His
dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half
so replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so
uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary
Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it!' said Miss Tox. 'That's
what I should designate him.'

'Why, my dear Paul!' exclaimed his sister, as he returned, 'you look
quite pale! There's nothing the matter?'

'I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny--'

'Now, my dear Paul,' returned his sister rising, 'don't believe it. Do
not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of what
importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried
by what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know
better. Really I'm surprised at them.'

'I hope I know, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, stiffly, 'how to bear myself
before the world.'

'Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be
ignorant and base indeed who doubted it.'

'Ignorant and base indeed!' echoed Miss Tox softly.

'But,' pursued Louisa, 'if you have any reliance on my experience, Paul,
you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort on
Fanny's part. And that effort,' she continued, taking off her bonnet,
and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, 'she must
be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now, my dear
Paul, come upstairs with me.'

Mr Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister for the
reason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an experienced
and bustling matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at once, to the sick
chamber.

The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little
daughter to her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same
intensity as before, and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek
from her mother's face, or looked on those who stood around, or spoke,
or moved, or shed a tear.

'Restless without the little girl,' the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey. 'We
found it best to have her in again.'

'Can nothing be done?' asked Mr Dombey.

The Doctor shook his head. 'We can do no more.'

The windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without.

The scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in
the room, but had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady
breathed.

There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical
attendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion
and so little hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment diverted from her
purpose. But presently summoning courage, and what she called presence
of mind, she sat down by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone
of one who endeavours to awaken a sleeper:

'Fanny! Fanny!'

There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey's watch
and Doctor Parker Peps's watch, which seemed in the silence to be
running a race.

'Fanny, my dear,' said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, 'here's Mr
Dombey come to see you. Won't you speak to him? They want to lay your
little boy--the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I
think--in bed; but they can't till you rouse yourself a little. Don't
you think it's time you roused yourself a little? Eh?'

She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking
round at the bystanders, and holding up her finger.

'Eh?' she repeated, 'what was it you said, Fanny? I didn't hear you.'

No word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey's watch and Dr Parker Peps's watch
seemed to be racing faster.

'Now, really, Fanny my dear,' said the sister-in-law, altering her
position, and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite
of herself, 'I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don't rouse
yourself. It's necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very
great and painful effort which you are not disposed to make; but this is
a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never yield, when so much
depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if you don't!'

The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches seemed
to jostle, and to trip each other up.

'Fanny!' said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. 'Only look
at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me;
will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!'

The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the
Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having
understood the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her
perfectly colourless face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without
loosening her hold in the least.

The whisper was repeated.

'Mama!' said the child.

The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of
consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids
trembled, and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile
was seen.

'Mama!' cried the child sobbing aloud. 'Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!'

The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child, aside
from the face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay there; how
little breath there was to stir them!

Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother
drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world.

Mr. Dombey, the wealthy head of the shipping company Dombey & Son, is delighted with the birth of his son, an event he has long hoped for. He makes it clear that he already prefers his son to his six-year-old daughter, Florence. His sister, Louisa Chick and Louisa's friend Miss Tox are also very pleased with this event. However, amidst the celebrations of the birth, Mrs. Dombey dies

The opening chapters introduce the web of characters whose lives will intersect over the course of the novel. Several of the major themes immediately become clear. A number of different family dynamics are presented and contrasted. Mr. Dombey is able to give his children economic privilege and elevated social standing, but he also sees them as projections of his own ego. He values his infant son because of the potential for continuing a family legacy, and is not only disinterested in, but also actively jealous of Florence. On the other hand, the Toodle family, or Uncle Sol and his nephew Walter, while in much more precarious economic straits, and in fact dependent on the Dombeys for their income, show much more genuine love. The idea of families being created from unlikely combinations of individuals, which will reoccur as eclectic groups of characters form bonds throughout the novel, takes root as it becomes clear that Susan Nipper and Richards are the ones actually providing love to Florence and Paul. At the same time, their position as working-class employees ensures that they are viewed with suspicion: Mr. Dombey insists on isolating Richards from her family, and even renaming her, because he fears what influence she might have on Paul. Efforts to insulate the Dombey children, however, prove unsuccessful. There is an irony to the impetus for the catastrophic expedition to Stagg's Garden: a misguided belief on Dombey's part that he is benefiting Biler Toodle by providing him with some form of education only makes his mother more aware of the poignancy of him growing up without her. Not only the decision to leave the Dombey mansion, but also to take the children to a working class neighborhood, would be a direct reflection of Dombey's worst fears for his son. And while Florence does indeed have a traumatic experience, her horizon is also permanently broadened by the contact she makes with Walter and his uncle. Without this serendipity, she would almost certainly never have encountered someone from so far outside of her own social position. Despite Dombey's attempts to control his children, just as he controls his business, the complex social and economic web around him will still impact his life.