At the central point where it is widest the island of the Utopians extends out for two hundred miles, and nowhere does it get much narrower except where it tapers at the two ends. These ends, as if they enclosed a circle five hundred miles in circumference, give to the island the appearance of a crescent moon, the horns of which are some eleven miles apart. The sea flows between these into a huge bay protected from the winds by the encircling land, which is mostly not rough but calm, like a huge lake.
Consequently almost the entire inner part of the island serves as a harbour, ships crossing it in all directions, to the general advantage of the natives.
What with shallows on the one hand and reefs on the other, the straits into the bay are perilous in the extreme. A single rock, which rises clear of the sea near the centre of the channel and is thus less of a danger, has a tower constructed on it that is manned by a garrison. The other rocks lie under the surface and are treacherous: the channels are known only to the islanders themselves, so it is highly unusual for foreigners to enter the bay unless they have a Utopian pilot. Indeed, the entrance is
scarcely safe even for them unless they plot their course by markers fixed on the shore. Should these be shifted to different sites, they could easily lure the largest enemy fleet to destruction.
On the other side of the island there are frequent harbours, but all points of access are so fortified by nature or by contrivance that a mere handful of defenders can repel a powerful attacking force. A tradition – which is borne out by the lie of the land – claims that the country was not always
surrounded by sea. Instead Utopus, who gave his name to the island by conquest (previously it had been known as Abraxa) and who raised its brutish and uncultivated inhabitants to such a level of civilization and humanity that they now outshine virtually all other nations, having gained victory at his very first landing, caused a channel fifteen miles wide to be excavated at that end of the peninsula joined to the mainland, so surrounding it with the sea. He put not only the natives to work on this project but his own troops as well, so that none would think the labour a disgrace. Since it was divided among so many, the task was completed with amazing speed, so that the neighbouring peoples, who initially mocked the folly of such a scheme, were struck with admiration and awe at its success.
The island has fifty-four cities, all spacious and imposing, which share the same language, customs, institutions and laws; the similarity extends to their layout, and as far as the site allows, to their appearance.1 Those closest to each other are twenty-four miles apart, and none is so remote that it is more than a day’s walk from another. Every year each city sends three mature and experienced citizens to Amaurot to deliberate on the affairs of the island. That particular city, placed as it were at the navel of the country and thus easily accessible to delegates from all parts, serves as the capital.
Agricultural land is so skilfully divided up between the cities that on no side does it extend for less than twelve miles, and on those sides where the towns are further apart it may be much more. No city wants to extend its boundaries since the people regard themselves as cultivators of the soil rather than its exploiters. At convenient intervals throughout the countryside they locate houses stocked with farming equipment, and these are occupied by town dwellers who take it in turns to live in the country.
No rural household has fewer than forty members, men and women, as well as two slaves who are permanently attached to it. Each household is run by a responsible and mature couple, and over every
thirty households is set a phylarch. Every year twenty persons from each household who have
completed a two-year spell in the country return to the town and an identical number is sent out to take their place. These new arrivals are instructed by those who have already been there for a year and are consequently more adept at farming and they, in their turn, will teach those who will arrive in the following year. If all were equally raw and uninstructed in agriculture they might adversely affect the food supply by their lack of skill. This practice of alternating farm workers is the established custom so that no one is forced to spend too long in an arduous way of life against their will, yet many who take an instinctive pleasure in work on the land are allowed to remain for a number of years.
The farm workers till the soil, feed the animals, collect wood and convey it to the city by the easiest route, whether by land or water. They raise countless numbers of chicks by a remarkable method:
rather than hens sitting on the eggs, they incubate a great number of them at a warm, steady
temperature and so hatch them; the chicks, as soon as they emerge from the shells, fix on the humans and follow them rather than their mothers.
They raise only a few horses, and those high-spirited, which they keep solely to train younger men in the art of horseman-ship. For all the work of cultivation and haulage they use oxen, which they allow are inferior to horses where speed is concerned but surpass them in endurance, and are, as they see it, less prone to disease. They are also less trouble and expense to keep, and once they are too old to work they can be used for meat.
Grain they use only for bread, for they drink wine, cider or perry, or plain water, and the latter frequently boiled with honey or liquorice, of which they have ample supplies. Although they measure with great accuracy just how much food each city and its adjacent area consume, they nevertheless produce far more grain and cattle than is necessary for their own use and share the surplus with their neighbours. Whatever items of equipment the farm dwellers need that can’t be found in the country they apply for to the city, and since no exchange is involved they obtain their requirements from the city magistrates without any hassle. In any case, many of them go to the city each month to observe the festival. When the time of harvest draws near the rural phylarchs inform the city magistrates how many helpers will be needed. The harvesters arrive as a body at the agreed time, and with favourable weather they can gather the entire crop within one day.
Their Cities, in particular Amaurot
Anyone who knows one of their cities knows the lot, for they are all as alike as the nature of the site allows. Accordingly I shall give a picture of just one of them, and it does not greatly matter which.
But why not Amaurot? It is the pre-eminent city since the others defer to it as the seat of the federal senate; what’s more, it is the best known to me as I lived there continuously for five years.
Now, Amaurot is seated against a gently sloping hill and is almost square in its layout. The shorter side begins just below the crest of the hill and runs down to the river Anyder; the side that then
extends along the bank is rather longer. The Anyder rises in a small spring eighty miles above
Amaurot, but other streams flow into it, two of them quite large, so that by the time it passes the city it is half a mile across. It continues, growing even larger, until after sixty miles it merges with the sea.
The river is tidal for the whole stretch between the coast and the city and even some miles above, ebbing and flowing with a powerful current every six hours. As the sea comes in, its waves fill the
course of the Anyder for thirty miles, pushing back the flow of the river; even further up it turns the water brackish, but beyond that the river sweetens and is fresh when it flows past the city.2 As the tide ebbs, the wholesome water follows it almost to the mouth of the river.
The city is linked to the opposite bank of the river by a bridge that rests not on wooden supports or piles but on handsome stone-built spans. This stands at the upper end of the city, that which is furthest from the sea, so that ships can pass along its whole length without hindrance.3 There is in addition a second stream, not so large but pleasant and tranquil, which rises in the hill on which the city stands and flows through its centre, following the slope of the land, before joining the waters of the Anyder.
The source and head of this stream are just outside the city, but the Amaurotans have included them within the defensive walls in case, given a hostile attack, the enemy might attempt to block and divert the waters or pollute them. Water is distributed from this source to the lower parts of the city by means of earthenware ducts, and where the character of the ground prevents this, rain water collected in huge cisterns proves just as effective.
The town is defended by a high, thick wall with numerous towers and bastions, and on three sides this is enclosed by a dry moat, deep as well as wide, and blocked with thorn hedges, while on the fourth side the river itself acts as the moat. The streets are laid out with a view both to the flow of traffic and to protection from the wind. The buildings are far from mean, with matching terraces facing each other along the length of the street, the façades separated by a carriageway twenty feet across. At the back of the houses is a large garden which extends the length of the block and is wholly enclosed by the rear walls of the buildings. No house is without doors opening both onto the street and into the garden; these double doors, which yield to a touch of the hand and close of themselves, permit anyone to enter.4 As a result no place is ever private: indeed they exchange the actual houses by lot every tenth year.
The Utopians are devoted to their gardens and in them they cultivate vines, fruit trees, herbs and flowers with such care and skill that I have never seen any more productive or pleasing to the eye.
This enthusiasm for gardening derives not only from the pleasure it gives of itself but also from the competition between blocks for the best kept garden. Certainly, you won’t easily encounter anything in the entire city that is more useful and delightful to the citizens, and for that reason it seems that the founder of the city must have given priority to the creation of such gardens. It is said that the basic plan of the city was laid down at the outset by Utopus himself, but he left to posterity the work of adornment and improvement, which he recognized could hardly be achieved in a single lifetime. On the basis of their records, which cover 1,760 years from the capture of the island,5 and are accurately and diligently preserved in writing, the earliest houses were low, like huts or poor rustic dwellings, and made from odd bits of timber, the walls rendered with mud and the conical roofs thatched with straw. But nowadays every house is three storeys high and elegantly constructed: the wall-facings are built of flint, quarry-stone or burned bricks, the inner cavity being filled with rubble. The roofs are now flat and covered with a form of cement that costs next-to-nothing but can withstand the threat of fire and is more weather resistant than lead. Draughts are excluded from the windows by means of glass (of which they have ample quantities), or sometimes by linen treated with clear oil or gum – which has the effect of making it both more translucent and more resistant to the wind.
Magistrates
Annually each group of thirty families elects an official, known in their ancient language as a syphogrant but now called a phylarch. Over every group of ten syphogrants is placed an officer originally called a tranibor and now a proto-or chief phylarch. In due course all the syphogrants, two hundred of them,6 having sworn an oath to choose the man they judge best fitted, elect as governor by a secret ballot one out of four candidates put forward by the people, for one is chosen from each quarter of the city to be proposed to the senate. The governor ’s office is held for life, unless he is deprived on suspicion of favouring tyranny, while the tranibors face re-election every year, though they are not usually changed without good reason. The remaining officials hold office for a single year.
The tranibors attend on the governor in council every third day, and more often should business require it: there they discuss public affairs and resolve private disputes – that’s if there should be any, for they are extremely rare. Two of the syphogrants are always admitted to meetings of the senate, a different pair each day. It is stipulated that no issue relating to the public interest may be settled unless it has been debated in the senate on three separate days, and it is a capital offence to devise schemes about public matters outside the senate or the popular assembly. The purpose behind these rules, they claim, is to prevent any conspiracy by the governor and the tranibors to alter the constitution and oppress the people. For this reason all issues judged to be of importance are referred to the assembly of syphogrants and they, having discussed the matter with the households they represent, consult among themselves and then report their conclusions to the senate. On occasion a question may be placed before the general council of the whole island. It’s also accepted practice in the senate that business is never discussed on the day that it is raised, but deferred to the following session.7 This is in case someone, after blurting out the first idea that enters his head, should then concentrate on bolstering his own proposals rather than those that might benefit the commonwealth, preferring to risk the general welfare rather than his own reputation, and all because of a perverse and stupid fear that he might have appeared too hasty at the outset. He should have had the sense in the first place to speak with due consideration rather than impetuosity.
Occupations
Agriculture is the one activity common to all, both men and women, and from which no one is
exempt. They are instructed in it from childhood, partly in school where they learn the principles, and partly through expeditions to nearby farms where they learn as if through play,8 not simply looking on but joining in the work as an opportunity for exercise. In addition to agriculture – which is, as I have said, common to all – everyone is trained in a particular craft such as processing wool, linen making, masonry, metal working or carpentry. There is no other kind of work that occupies any significant number. Their mode of dress is the same throughout the island and through all stages of life, except for distinctions between the sexes and between the married and the single. By no means unattractive, it’s practical for physical activity and adapts to hot or cold weather; each family, as I say, makes its own garments.
Everyone – and that is not just the men but the women as well – learns one of the approved crafts.
As the weaker sex the women take on the lighter ones, for the most part working wool and flax; the more strenuous crafts are entrusted to the men. The majority of children are brought up in the
occupation of their father, for almost all of them are drawn to it by nature, but if someone is drawn to another craft he’s adopted into a family that practises it, care being taken both by his father and by the authorities to check that he is placed with a sober and reliable householder. Moreover, if someone has mastered one trade and desires to learn another, this is allowed in the same way. When he has
mastered both he follows the one he prefers, unless the city has need of one more than the other.
The principal and almost sole function of the syphogrants is to oversee and ensure that no one sits around idle but that everyone works diligently at their craft; at the same time, no one has to be worn out like a beast of burden, toiling from dawn to nightfall. Such an abject state is worse than slavery, and yet it’s the common fate of workers just about everywhere, except among the Utopians.9 Out of the twenty-four equal hours into which they divide day and night they allow just six to work: three hours before noon when they go to lunch, after which they allow two hours of the afternoon to a siesta, then three further hours of work are concluded with supper. Counting the first hour after midday as one o’clock, they retire to bed at about eight and sleep for eight hours.
The spare time between working, sleeping and eating is left to the preference of the individual, not to fritter away in high living or idleness but to pursue some chosen interest distinct from their usual work. Most of them employ these intervals of leisure in intellectual pursuits, for it’s the regular practice to have public lectures daily before dawn; only those who have been marked out for literary studies are required to attend, but a great number – men and women from every calling – go along as well to hear one or other of the lectures, depending on their interests. But should anyone prefer to devote this time to their craft, as is the case with many who aren’t drawn to speculative studies, this
The spare time between working, sleeping and eating is left to the preference of the individual, not to fritter away in high living or idleness but to pursue some chosen interest distinct from their usual work. Most of them employ these intervals of leisure in intellectual pursuits, for it’s the regular practice to have public lectures daily before dawn; only those who have been marked out for literary studies are required to attend, but a great number – men and women from every calling – go along as well to hear one or other of the lectures, depending on their interests. But should anyone prefer to devote this time to their craft, as is the case with many who aren’t drawn to speculative studies, this