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    In August 2014, in New York City, Hen­ry is expe­ri­enc­ing an unprece­dent­ed sense of peace and hap­pi­ness despite being acute­ly aware of his impend­ing end. This tran­quil­i­ty stems from his deep con­nec­tion with Addie, a remark­able pres­ence in his life that has trans­formed his per­cep­tion of fear and mor­tal­i­ty. Their deci­sion to escape the sti­fling city for the upstate’s nat­ur­al allure leads to an inti­mate jour­ney, filled with reflec­tive moments and poignant recog­ni­tions of the life’s imper­ma­nence. On this trip, Hen­ry grap­ples with the con­cept of farewell, par­tic­u­lar­ly the ago­niz­ing deci­sion to not vis­it his fam­i­ly one last time, a choice that sym­bol­izes his accep­tance of fate and the relin­quish­ing of unre­solved good­byes.

    Amidst the seren­i­ty of their get­away, Hen­ry and Addie indulge in sim­ple plea­sures – buy­ing peach­es, wan­der­ing through state parks, and pic­nick­ing under the stars. These moments are tinged with intro­spec­tion, espe­cial­ly as Hen­ry pon­ders Addie’s long, tumul­tuous exis­tence, marked by both pro­found suf­fer­ing and intense beau­ty. Addie’s affir­ma­tion of her life’s worth despite its tri­als encap­su­lates the com­plex­i­ty of human expe­ri­ence – an acknowl­edg­ment of life’s inher­ent messi­ness and the invalu­able instances of joy amidst sor­row.

    Their return to the city does not bring an end to Hen­ry’s con­tem­pla­tions. A poignant evening with his friends Bea and Rob­bie at the Mer­chant bar offers a sem­blance of nor­mal­cy, yet under­neath lies Hen­ry’s inter­nal farewell, cam­ou­flaged by mun­dane con­ver­sa­tions and laugh­ter. His elab­o­rate pre­tense of an out-of-town vis­it serves as a covert good­bye, spar­ing his friends the bur­den of a for­mal farewell, there­by pre­serv­ing the nat­u­ral­ness of their rela­tion­ship in its final moments.

    Henry’s nar­ra­tive is a pro­found reflec­tion on life, love, and the accep­tance of death. His jour­ney with Addie, filled with love, regret, and accep­tance, against the back­drop of New York and its envi­rons, illus­trates the com­plex­i­ties of human emo­tion and the dif­fi­cult acknowl­edg­ments that come with let­ting go. Their sto­ry, inter­twined between moments of pro­found per­son­al insight and the uni­ver­sal quest for mean­ing, encap­su­lates the bit­ter­sweet sym­pho­ny of life, marked by fleet­ing joys, endur­ing pains, and the inevitable farewells that shape our exis­tence.

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    New York City
    Decem­ber 9, 2013
    XVI

    Hen­ry feels like an out­sider, both at home and now, as he returns to his cam­pus, an envi­ron­ment that nev­er felt like home to him. The fear of dis­ap­point­ment has always loomed over him, and it’s the same feel­ing he car­ries into the dean’s office, where a sur­pris­ing oppor­tu­ni­ty awaits. Three years pri­or, Dean Mel­rose had almost expelled him. Now, he’s offer­ing Hen­ry a tenure posi­tion in the the­ol­o­gy school, a chance that comes once in a life­time for many. This offer throws Hen­ry into intro­spec­tion about what he tru­ly desires, a ques­tion he’s been unable to answer since his school days.

    Ini­tial­ly buoyed by the joy of learn­ing, Hen­ry’s aca­d­e­m­ic jour­ney became daunt­ing as it demand­ed con­crete deci­sions about his future. Teach­ing seemed like a path­way to con­tin­ue his pas­sion for learn­ing, but doubts about his qual­i­fi­ca­tions and beliefs cloud his excite­ment. Hen­ry admits to the dean he does­n’t “believe in God,” a rev­e­la­tion that does­n’t deter the dean, who val­ues aca­d­e­m­ic dis­sent over reli­gious faith. How­ev­er, Hen­ry strug­gles with the idea of fit­ting into an expec­ta­tion, of being seen through a lens of what oth­ers want him to be, rather than who he tru­ly is.

    Leav­ing the dean’s office, Hen­ry grap­ples with the real­i­ty of the offer and his place in the world. He pon­ders over it as he returns to his rou­tine, feel­ing the weight of expec­ta­tions and the yearn­ing for authen­tic­i­ty. The bot­tle of whisky and the non-judg­men­tal per­cep­tions of those around him only add to his sense of alien­ation. Hen­ry is trapped in a cycle of expec­ta­tions and lies, from minor flat­ter­ies to sig­nif­i­cant life choic­es, illus­trat­ing the empti­ness of fit­ting into a mold­ed iden­ti­ty that does­n’t align with one’s true self. The chap­ter reflects Hen­ry’s inter­nal con­flict with soci­etal roles and expec­ta­tions, jux­ta­pos­ing his per­son­al truth against the back­drop of a world eager to see him through their lens, a theme that res­onates deeply in the nar­ra­tive.

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    Le Mans, France, on July 31, 1714, serves as the set­ting where Addie revis­its the city for the first time in over a decade since she last came with her father. Upon her return, alone and with­out any of the com­forts of her pre­vi­ous vis­it, she imme­di­ate­ly encoun­ters the bustling life of the city but feels pro­found­ly dis­con­nect­ed and out of place. As she wan­ders, seek­ing some­thing famil­iar yet unknown even to her­self, she expe­ri­ences a series of minor calami­ties, includ­ing nar­row­ly avoid­ing a cart, annoy­ing a local woman, and find­ing the city vast­ly changed from her mem­o­ries.

    Her sense of alien­ation grows as she real­izes how much she, and the city, have trans­formed. The Le Mans she remem­bered with fond­ness now seems men­ac­ing and unwel­com­ing. Attempt­ing to sur­vive, she stum­bles upon an inn and decides to stealth­ily pro­cure resources from the sta­bles, lead­ing to an unfor­tu­nate con­fronta­tion with a sta­ble hand. Caught try­ing to take items from the sta­ble, Addie resorts to vio­lence to escape, injur­ing the sta­ble hand with a knife she found and con­se­quent­ly get­ting wound­ed her­self.

    Mirac­u­lous­ly, her wounds heal almost instant­ly, evi­denc­ing the super­nat­ur­al pact she has unknow­ing­ly embraced that grants her immor­tal­i­ty but at a twist­ed cost. This mag­i­cal restora­tion only under­lines her iso­la­tion and the bar­gain’s real impli­ca­tions. Despite the phys­i­cal heal­ing, the inci­dent leaves psy­cho­log­i­cal scars and rein­forces her real­iza­tion about her changed essence and exis­tence. Addie’s encounter in Le Mans ends with her leav­ing the city, bear­ing no phys­i­cal evi­dence of her ordeal but a deep­er under­stand­ing of her new, cursed life where she is doomed to be for­got­ten by those she meets, and any impact she makes is mys­te­ri­ous­ly undone.

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    You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
    I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

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    65
    destroy, through­out a dis­tance almost indef­i­nite; at least I put it mod­est­ly
    when I say from 500 to 600 miles. And their math­e­mat­i­cal sci­ence as
    applied to such pur­pose is so nice­ly accu­rate, that on the report of some
    observ­er in an air-boat, any mem­ber of the vril depart­ment can esti­mate
    unerr­ing­ly the nature of inter­ven­ing obsta­cles, the height to which the
    pro­jec­tile instru­ment should be raised, and the extent to which it should be
    charged, so as to reduce to ash­es with­in a space of time too short for me to
    ven­ture to spec­i­fy it, a cap­i­tal twice as vast as Lon­don.
    Cer­tain­ly these Ana are won­der­ful math­e­mati­cians- won­der­ful for the
    adap­ta­tion of the inven­tive fac­ul­ty to prac­ti­cal uses. 71 I went with my
    host and his daugh­ter Zee over the great pub­lic muse­um, which occu­pies a
    wing in the Col­lege of Sages, and in which are hoard­ed, as curi­ous
    spec­i­mens of the igno­rant and blun­der­ing exper­i­ments of ancient times,
    many con­trivances on which we pride our­selves as recent achieve­ments.
    In one depart­ment, care­less­ly thrown aside as obso­lete lum­ber, are tubes
    for destroy­ing life by metal­lic balls and an inflam­ma­ble pow­der, on the
    prin­ci­ple of our can­nons and cat­a­pults, and even still more mur­der­ous than
    our lat­est improve­ments.
    My host spoke of these with a smile of con­tempt, such as an artillery
    offi­cer might bestow on the bows and arrows of the Chi­nese. In anoth­er
    depart­ment there were mod­els of vehi­cles and ves­sels worked by steam,
    and of an air-bal­loon which might have been con­struct­ed by Mont­golfi­er.
    “Such,” said Zee, with an air of med­i­ta­tive wis­dom- “such were the fee­ble
    tri­flings with nature of our sav­age fore­fa­thers, ere they had even a
    glim­mer­ing per­cep­tion of the prop­er­ties of vril!”
    This young Gy was a mag­nif­i­cent spec­i­men of the mus­cu­lar force to
    which the females of her coun­try attain. Her fea­tures were beau­ti­ful, like
    those of all her race: nev­er in the upper world have I seen a face so grand
    and so fault­less, but her devo­tion to the sev­er­er stud­ies had giv­en to her
    coun­te­nance an expres­sion of abstract thought which ren­dered it
    some­what stern when in repose; and such a stern­ness became for­mi­da­ble
    when observed in con­nec­tion with her ample shoul­ders and lofty stature.
    She was tall even for a Gy, and I saw her lift up a can­non as eas­i­ly as I
    could lift a pock­et-pis­tol. Zee inspired me with a pro­found ter­ror- a

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    ter­ror which increased when we came into a depart­ment of the muse­um
    appro­pri­at­ed to mod­els of con­trivances worked by the agency of vril; for
    here, mere­ly by a cer­tain play of her vril staff, she her­self stand­ing at a
    dis­tance, she put into move­ment large and weighty sub­stances. She
    seemed to endow them with intel­li­gence, and to make them 72comprehend
    and obey her com­mand. She set com­pli­cat­ed pieces of machin­ery into
    move­ment, arrest­ed the move­ment or con­tin­ued it, until, with­in an
    incred­i­bly short time, var­i­ous kinds of raw mate­r­i­al were repro­duced as
    sym­met­ri­cal works of art, com­plete and per­fect. What­ev­er effect
    mes­merism or elec­tro-biol­o­gy pro­duces over the nerves and mus­cles of
    ani­mat­ed objects, this young Gy pro­duced by the motions of her slen­der
    rod over the springs and wheels of life­less mech­a­nism.
    When I men­tioned to my com­pan­ions my aston­ish­ment at this
    influ­ence over inan­i­mate mat­ter- while own­ing that, in our world, I had
    wit­nessed phe­nom­e­na which showed that over cer­tain liv­ing organ­i­sa­tions
    cer­tain oth­er liv­ing organ­i­sa­tions could estab­lish an influ­ence gen­uine in
    itself, but often exag­ger­at­ed by creduli­ty or craft- Zee, who was more
    inter­est­ed in such sub­jects than her father, bade me stretch forth my hand,
    and then, plac­ing it beside her own, she called my atten­tion to cer­tain
    dis­tinc­tions of type and char­ac­ter. In the first place, the thumb of the Gy
    (and, as I after­wards noticed, of all that race, male or female) was much
    larg­er, at once longer and more mas­sive, than is found with our species
    above ground. There is almost, in this, as great a dif­fer­ence as there is
    between the thumb of a man and that of a goril­la. Sec­ond­ly, the palm is
    pro­por­tion­al­ly thick­er than ours- the tex­ture of the skin infi­nite­ly fin­er and
    soft­er- its aver­age warmth is greater. More remark­able than all this, is a
    vis­i­ble nerve, per­cep­ti­ble under the skin, which starts from the wrist
    skirt­ing the ball of the thumb, and branch­ing, fork-like, at the roots of the
    fore and mid­dle fin­gers. “With your slight for­ma­tion of thumb,” said the
    philo­soph­i­cal young Gy, “and with the absence of the nerve which you
    find more or less devel­oped in the hands of our race, you can nev­er
    achieve oth­er than imper­fect and fee­ble pow­er over the agency of vril; but
    so far as the nerve is con­cerned, that is not found in the hands of our
    ear­li­est prog­en­i­tors, nor in those of the rud­er tribes with­out the pale of the

    The Com­ing Race
    67
    Vril-ya. It has been slow­ly devel­oped 73in the course of gen­er­a­tions,
    com­menc­ing in the ear­ly achieve­ments, and increas­ing with the
    con­tin­u­ous exer­cise, of the vril pow­er; there­fore, in the course of one or
    two thou­sand years, such a nerve may pos­si­bly be engen­dered in those
    high­er beings of your race, who devote them­selves to that para­mount
    sci­ence through which is attained com­mand over all the sub­tler forces of
    nature per­me­at­ed by vril. But when you talk of mat­ter as some­thing in
    itself inert and motion­less, your par­ents or tutors sure­ly can­not have left
    you so igno­rant as not to know that no form of mat­ter is motion­less and
    inert: every par­ti­cle is con­stant­ly in motion and con­stant­ly act­ed upon by
    agen­cies, of which heat is the most appar­ent and rapid, but vril the most
    sub­tle, and, when skil­ful­ly wield­ed, the most pow­er­ful. So that, in fact,
    the cur­rent launched by my hand and guid­ed by my will does but ren­der
    quick­er and more potent the action which is eter­nal­ly at work upon every
    par­ti­cle of mat­ter, how­ev­er inert and stub­born it may seem. If a heap of
    met­al be not capa­ble of orig­i­nat­ing a thought of its own, yet, through its
    inter­nal sus­cep­ti­bil­i­ty to move­ment, it obtains the pow­er to receive the
    thought of the intel­lec­tu­al agent at work on it; by which, when con­veyed
    with a suf­fi­cient force of the vril pow­er, it is as much com­pelled to obey as
    if it were dis­placed by a vis­i­ble bod­i­ly force. It is ani­mat­ed for the time
    being by the soul thus infused into it, so that one may almost say that it
    lives and rea­sons. With­out this we could not make our automa­ta sup­ply
    the place of ser­vants.
    I was too much in awe of the thews and the learn­ing of the young Gy
    to haz­ard the risk of argu­ing with her. I had read some­where in my
    school­boy days that a wise man, dis­put­ing with a Roman Emper­or,
    sud­den­ly drew in his horns; and when the emper­or asked him whether he
    had noth­ing fur­ther to say on his side of the ques­tion, replied, “Nay,
    Cae­sar, there is no argu­ing against a rea­son­er who com­mands ten legions.”
    74 Though I had a secret per­sua­sion that, what­ev­er the real effects of vril
    upon mat­ter, Mr. Fara­day could have proved her a very shal­low
    philoso­pher as to its extent or its caus­es, I had no doubt that Zee could
    have brained all the Fel­lows of the Roy­al Soci­ety, one after the oth­er, with
    a blow of her fist. Every sen­si­ble man knows that it is use­less to argue

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    68
    with any ordi­nary female upon mat­ters he com­pre­hends; but to argue with
    a Gy sev­en feet high upon the mys­ter­ies of vril,- as well argue in a desert,
    and with a simoon!
    Amid the var­i­ous depart­ments to which the vast build­ing of the
    Col­lege of Sages was appro­pri­at­ed, that which inter­est­ed me most was
    devot­ed to the archae­ol­o­gy of the Vril-ya, and com­prised a very ancient
    col­lec­tion of por­traits. In these the pig­ments and ground­work employed
    were of so durable a nature that even pic­tures said to be exe­cut­ed at dates
    as remote as those in the ear­li­est annals of the Chi­nese, retained much
    fresh­ness of colour. In exam­in­ing this col­lec­tion, two things espe­cial­ly
    struck me:- first, that the pic­tures said to be between 6000 and 7000 years
    old were of a much high­er degree of art than any pro­duced with­in the last
    3000 or 4000 years; and, sec­ond, that the por­traits with­in the for­mer
    peri­od much more resem­bled our own upper world and Euro­pean types of
    coun­te­nance. Some of them, indeed remind­ed me of the Ital­ian heads
    which look out from the can­vas­es of Tit­ian- speak­ing of ambi­tion or craft,
    of care or of grief, with fur­rows in which the pas­sions have passed with
    iron ploughshare. These were the coun­te­nances of men who had lived in
    strug­gle and con­flict before the dis­cov­ery of the latent forces of vril had
    changed the char­ac­ter of soci­ety- men who had fought with each oth­er for
    pow­er or fame as we in the upper world fight.
    The type of face began to evince a marked change about a thou­sand
    years after the vril rev­o­lu­tion, becom­ing then, with each gen­er­a­tion, more
    serene, and in that seren­i­ty more 75terribly dis­tinct from the faces of
    labour­ing and sin­ful men; while in pro­por­tion as the beau­ty and the
    grandeur of the coun­te­nance itself became more ful­ly devel­oped, the art of
    the painter became more tame and monot­o­nous.
    But the great­est curios­i­ty in the col­lec­tion was that of three por­traits
    belong­ing to the pre-his­tor­i­cal age, and, accord­ing to myth­i­cal tra­di­tion,
    tak­en by the orders of a philoso­pher, whose ori­gin and attrib­ut­es were as
    much mixed up with sym­bol­i­cal fable as those of an Indi­an Budh or a
    Greek Prometheus.
    >From this mys­te­ri­ous per­son­age, at once a sage and a hero, all the
    prin­ci­pal sec­tions of the Vril-ya race pre­tend to trace a com­mon ori­gin.

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    69
    The por­traits are of the philoso­pher him­self, of his grand­fa­ther, and
    great-grand­fa­ther. They are all at full length. The philoso­pher is attired
    in a long tunic which seems to form a loose suit of scaly armour, bor­rowed,
    per­haps, from some fish or rep­tile, but the feet and hands are exposed: the
    dig­its in both are won­der­ful­ly long, and webbed. He has lit­tle or no
    per­cep­ti­ble throat, and a low reced­ing fore­head, not at all the ide­al of a
    sage’s. He has bright brown promi­nent eyes, a very wide mouth and high
    cheek­bones, and a mud­dy com­plex­ion. Accord­ing to tra­di­tion, this
    philoso­pher had lived to a patri­ar­chal age, extend­ing over many cen­turies,
    and he remem­bered dis­tinct­ly in mid­dle life his grand­fa­ther as sur­viv­ing,
    and in child­hood his great-grand­fa­ther; the por­trait of the first he had tak­en,
    or caused to be tak­en, while yet alive- that of the lat­ter was tak­en from his
    effi­gies in mum­my. The por­trait of his grand­fa­ther had the fea­tures and
    aspect of the philoso­pher, only much more exag­ger­at­ed: he was not
    dressed, and the colour of his body was sin­gu­lar; the breast and stom­ach
    yel­low, the shoul­ders and legs of a dull bronze hue: the great-grand­fa­ther
    was a mag­nif­i­cent spec­i­men of the Batra­chi­an genus, a Giant Frog, ‘pur et
    sim­ple.’
    Among the pithy say­ings which, accord­ing to tra­di­tion, the
    philoso­pher bequeathed to pos­ter­i­ty in rhyth­mi­cal form and 76sententious
    brevi­ty, this is notably record­ed: “Hum­ble your­selves, my descen­dants; the
    father of your race was a ‘twat’ (tad­pole): exalt your­selves, my descen­dants,
    for it was the same Divine Thought which cre­at­ed your father that
    devel­ops itself in exalt­ing you.”
    Aph-Lin told me this fable while I gazed on the three Batra­chi­an
    por­traits. I said in reply: “You make a jest of my sup­posed igno­rance and
    creduli­ty as an une­d­u­cat­ed Tish, but though these hor­ri­ble daubs may be of
    great antiq­ui­ty, and were intend­ed, per­haps, for some rude cara­ca­ture, I
    pre­sume that none of your race even in the less enlight­ened ages, ever
    believed that the great-grand­son of a Frog became a sen­ten­tious
    philoso­pher; or that any sec­tion, I will not say of the lofty Vril-ya, but of
    the mean­est vari­eties of the human race, had its ori­gin in a Tad­pole.”
    “Par­don me,” answered Aph-Lin: “in what we call the Wran­gling or
    Philo­soph­i­cal Peri­od of His­to­ry, which was at its height about sev­en

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    thou­sand years ago, there was a very dis­tin­guished nat­u­ral­ist, who proved
    to the sat­is­fac­tion of numer­ous dis­ci­ples such ana­log­i­cal and anatom­i­cal
    agree­ments in struc­ture between an An and a Frog, as to show that out of
    the one must have devel­oped the oth­er. They had some dis­eases in
    com­mon; they were both sub­ject to the same par­a­sit­i­cal worms in the
    intestines; and, strange to say, the An has, in his struc­ture, a swim­ming-
    blad­der, no longer of any use to him, but which is a rudi­ment that clear­ly
    proves his descent from a Frog. Nor is there any argu­ment against this
    the­o­ry to be found in the rel­a­tive dif­fer­ence of size, for there are still
    exis­tent in our world Frogs of a size and stature not infe­ri­or to our own,
    and many thou­sand years ago they appear to have been still larg­er.”
    “I under­stand that,” said I, “because Frogs this enor­mous are,
    accord­ing to our emi­nent geol­o­gists, who per­haps saw them in dreams,
    said to have been dis­tin­guished inhab­i­tants of the upper world before the
    Del­uge; and such Frogs are exact­ly the crea­tures like­ly to have flour­ished
    in the lakes and morass­es of your sub­ter­ranean regions. But pray,
    pro­ceed.” 77 “In the Wran­gling Peri­od of His­to­ry, what­ev­er one sage
    assert­ed anoth­er sage was sure to con­tra­dict. In fact, it was a max­im in
    that age, that the human rea­son could only be sus­tained aloft by being
    tossed to and fro in the per­pet­u­al motion of con­tra­dic­tion; and there­fore
    anoth­er sect of philoso­phers main­tained the doc­trine that the An was not
    the descen­dant of the Frog, but that the Frog was clear­ly the improved
    devel­op­ment of the An. The shape of the Frog, tak­en gen­er­al­ly, was
    much more sym­met­ri­cal than that of the An; beside the beau­ti­ful
    con­for­ma­tion of its low­er limbs, its flanks and shoul­ders the major­i­ty of
    the Ana in that day were almost deformed, and cer­tain­ly ill-shaped.
    Again, the Frog had the pow­er to live alike on land and in water- a mighty
    priv­i­lege, par­tak­ing of a spir­i­tu­al essence denied to the An, since the
    dis­use of his swim­ming-blad­der clear­ly proves his degen­er­a­tion from a
    high­er devel­op­ment of species. Again, the ear­li­er races of the Ana seem
    to have been cov­ered with hair, and, even to a com­par­a­tive­ly recent date,
    hir­sute bush­es deformed the very faces of our ances­tors, spread­ing wild
    over their cheeks and chins, as sim­i­lar bush­es, my poor Tish, spread wild
    over yours. But the object of the high­er races of the Ana through

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    count­less gen­er­a­tions has been to erase all ves­tige of con­nec­tion with
    hairy ver­te­bra­ta, and they have grad­u­al­ly elim­i­nat­ed that debas­ing
    cap­il­lary excre­ment by the law of sex­u­al selec­tion; the Gy-ei nat­u­ral­ly
    pre­fer­ring youth or the beau­ty of smooth faces. But the degree of the
    Frog in the scale of the ver­te­bra­ta is shown in this, that he has no hair at all,
    not even on his head. He was born to that hair­less per­fec­tion which the
    most beau­ti­ful of the Ana, despite the cul­ture of incal­cu­la­ble ages, have
    not yet attained. The won­der­ful com­pli­ca­tion and del­i­ca­cy of a Frog’s
    ner­vous sys­tem and arte­r­i­al cir­cu­la­tion were shown by this school to be
    more sus­cep­ti­ble of enjoy­ment than our infe­ri­or, or at least sim­pler,
    phys­i­cal frame allows us to be. The exam­i­na­tion of a Frog’s hand, if I
    may use that expres­sion, account­ed for its 78keener sus­cep­ti­bil­i­ty to love,
    and to social life in gen­er­al. In fact, gre­gar­i­ous and ama­to­ry as are the
    Ana, Frogs are still more so. In short, these two schools raged against
    each oth­er; one assert­ing the An to be the per­fect­ed type of the Frog; the
    oth­er that the Frog was the high­est devel­op­ment of the An. The moral­ists
    were divid­ed in opin­ion with the nat­u­ral­ists, but the bulk of them sided
    with the Frog-pref­er­ence school. They said, with much plau­si­bil­i­ty, that
    in moral con­duct (viz., in the adher­ence to rules best adapt­ed to the health
    and wel­fare of the indi­vid­ual and the com­mu­ni­ty) there could be no doubt
    of the vast supe­ri­or­i­ty of the Frog. All his­to­ry showed the whole­sale
    immoral­i­ty of the human race, the com­plete dis­re­gard, even by the most
    renowned amongst them, of the laws which they acknowl­edged to be
    essen­tial to their own and the gen­er­al hap­pi­ness and well­be­ing. But the
    sever­est crit­ic of the Frog race could not detect in their man­ners a sin­gle
    aber­ra­tion from the moral law tac­it­ly recog­nised by them­selves. And
    what, after all, can be the prof­it of civil­i­sa­tion if supe­ri­or­i­ty in moral
    con­duct be not the aim for which it strives, and the test by which its
    progress should be judged?
    “In fine, the adher­ents of this the­o­ry pre­sumed that in some remote
    peri­od the Frog race had been the improved devel­op­ment of the Human;
    but that, from some caus­es which defied ratio­nal con­jec­ture, they had not
    main­tained their orig­i­nal posi­tion in the scale of nature; while the Ana,
    though of infe­ri­or organ­i­sa­tion, had, by dint less of their virtues than their

    The Com­ing Race
    72
    vices, such as feroc­i­ty and cun­ning, grad­u­al­ly acquired ascen­dan­cy, much
    as among the human race itself tribes utter­ly bar­barous have, by
    supe­ri­or­i­ty in sim­i­lar vices, utter­ly destroyed or reduced into
    insignif­i­cance tribes orig­i­nal­ly excelling them in men­tal gifts and cul­ture.
    Unhap­pi­ly these dis­putes became involved with the reli­gious notions of
    that age; and as soci­ety was then admin­is­tered under the gov­ern­ment of
    the Koom-Posh, who, being the most igno­rant, were of course 79the most
    inflam­ma­ble class- the mul­ti­tude took the whole ques­tion out of the hands
    of the philoso­phers; polit­i­cal chiefs saw that the Frog dis­pute, so tak­en up
    by the pop­u­lace, could become a most valu­able instru­ment of their
    ambi­tion; and for not less than one thou­sand years war and mas­sacre
    pre­vailed, dur­ing which peri­od the philoso­phers on both sides were
    butchered, and the gov­ern­ment of Koom-Posh itself was hap­pi­ly brought
    to an end by the ascen­dan­cy of a fam­i­ly that clear­ly estab­lished its descent
    from the abo­rig­i­nal tad­pole, and fur­nished despot­ic rulers to the var­i­ous
    nations of the Ana. These despots final­ly dis­ap­peared, at least from our
    com­mu­ni­ties, as the dis­cov­ery of vril led to the tran­quil insti­tu­tions under
    which flour­ish all the races of the Vril-ya.”
    “And do no wran­glers or philoso­phers now exist to revive the dis­pute;
    or do they all recog­nise the ori­gin of your race in the tad­pole?”
    “Nay, such dis­putes,” said Zee, with a lofty smile, “belong to the Pah-
    bodh of the dark ages, and now only serve for the amuse­ment of infants.
    When we know the ele­ments out of which our bod­ies are com­posed,
    ele­ments in com­mon to the hum­blest veg­etable plants, can it sig­ni­fy
    whether the All-Wise com­bined those ele­ments out of one form more than
    anoth­er, in order to cre­ate that in which He has placed the capac­i­ty to
    receive the idea of Him­self, and all the var­ied grandeurs of intel­lect to
    which that idea gives birth? The An in real­i­ty com­menced to exist as An
    with the dona­tion of that capac­i­ty, and, with that capac­i­ty, the sense to
    acknowl­edge that, how­ev­er through the count­less ages his race may
    improve in wis­dom, it can nev­er com­bine the ele­ments at its com­mand
    into the form of a tad­pole.”
    “You speak well, Zee,” said Aph-Lin; “and it is enough for us
    short­lived mor­tals to feel a rea­son­able assur­ance that whether the ori­gin of

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