keep their light and heat to themselves, and not be throwing such strong reflections into the weak eyes of the Grindwellites, and putting in danger the governmental powder-magazine,—­as the machine-offices were sometimes called.  An inundation or bad harvest, producing a famine among the poor, causes great alarm, and the government officers have a time of it, running about distributing alms, or raising money to keep down the price of bread.  Thousands of servants in livery, armed with terrific instruments for the destruction of life, are kept standing on and around the walls of the city, ready at a moment’s notice to shoot down any one who makes any movement or demonstration in a direction contrary to the laws of the machine.  And to support this great crowd of liveried lackeys, the people are squeezed like sponges, till they furnish the necessary money.

The respectable editors of the daily papers go about somewhat as the dogs do in August, with muzzles on their mouths.  They are prohibited from printing more than a hundred words a day.  Any reference to the sunshine, or to any of the subtile and imponderable substances before mentioned, is considered contrary to the order of the machine; to compensate for which, there is great show of gaslight (under glass covers) throughout the city.  Gas and moonshine are the staple subjects of conversation.  Besides lighting the streets and shops, the chief use of fire seems to be for cooking, lighting pipes and cigars, and fireworks to amuse the working classes.

Great attention is paid to polishing and beautifying the outer case of the machine, and the outer surface generally of the city of Grindwell.  Where any portion of the framework has fallen into dilapidation and decay, the gaunt skeleton bones of the ruined structure are decked and covered with leaves and flowers.  Old rusty boilers that are on the verge of bursting are newly painted, varnished, and labelled with letters of gold.  The main-spring, which has grown old and weak, is said to be helped by the secret application of steam,—­and the fires are fed with huge bundles of worthless bank-bills and other paper promises.  The noise of the clanking piston and wheels is drowned by orchestras of music; the roofs and sides of the machine buildings are covered all over with roses; and the smell of smoke and machine oil is prevented by scattering delicious perfumes.  The minds of the populace are turned from the precarious condition of things by all sorts of public amusements, such as mask balls, theatres, operas, public gardens, etc.

But all this does not preserve some persons from the continual apprehension that there will be one day a great and terrific explosion.  Some say the city is sleeping over volcanic fires, which will sooner or later burst up from below and destroy or change the whole upper surface.  The actual state of things might be represented on canvas by a gaping, laughing crowd pressing around a Punch-and-Judy exhibition in the street, beneath a great ruined palace in the process of repairing, where the rickety scaffolding, the loose stones and mortar, and in fact the whole rotten building, may at any moment topple down upon their heads.