It was the main feature of society through-out
the colony, that, on every terrace, the
residents visited among themselves, refused
to associate with the lower orders, and
industriously strove to find certain zigzag paths
up to the next higher platform. Upward—
ever upward! This was the constant movement
of the terrace-people— from Comfort to
Gold, from Gold to Rank, and from this (by
a very easy flight of stairs) to Government
Terrace. Everywhere, it was a point of
etiquette to avoid allusions to the Clay Level
—excepting some special occasions, when it
was recognised as an inevitable nuisance.
But, in almost every country, we find some
remarkable anomaly in the customs of society.
In the terrace-colony there was a strange
ceremony, now and then performed by the
higher classes, when they descended from
their terraces, entered the cottages of the
dwellers on Clay Level, shook hands with the
lower orders, fondled their dirty children, and
distributed sums of money. It was a farce,
acted in commemoration of certain institutions
otherwise forgotten.

In ordinary times the terrace-people were
all so busy in climbing, or finding out the
zig-zag paths leading upward, that they almost
forgot the fact that, in former ages, the dikes
had been sometimes broken down by inundations,
and had required for their repair the
labour of every man in the colony. Once,
there had been a spade in every house; but
on the terraces the rude implement had been
exchanged for a tiny toy-spade, made of gold
or silver, and tied as a badge to a
button-hole.

Meanwhile, the higher people boasted of
the glorious constitution of the dikes which
were leaking at their foundations. The water,
flowing through subterraneous channels,
found its way down to the Clay Level, and
made that district very unwholesome. For
a time, this served only as a stimulant to the
climbing process. Every one endeavoured to
go upward, as far as possible, from the
malaria of the swampy land. But the water
rose, higher, and still higher, until the people
of Comfort Terrace began to complain of
their damp houses. Up from Clay Level to
Golden Terrace rose the stream of stagnant
pools, and even Rank complained of an oppressive
quality of the air. Then came plans of
reform; but the little silver spades could do
nothing. Many theories were propounded.
Waterproof floors were laid down for the
comfort of the higher classes, "But," said
one, "it is not the rising of the water that
hurts us; it is the bad evaporation from the
Clay Level."— "We must pump back the
water into the Level," said another. A
coal-merchant recommended large fires; a
practical man, who hated all new and comprehensive
measures, advocated mops!" Let it
come, and mop it up as it comes! " said this
genius. Another man, of a merry disposition,
declared that the evil was partly
imaginary. A melancholy man asserted, that
it was, like many other grievances, simply
inevitable. Many, however, traced symptoms
to their causes, and complained that "the
dikes had been neglected;" but the
complainants had formerly voted in favour of
the scheme of setting aside the real workmen
with the real spades, and giving the custody
of the dikes into the hands of the idlers on
Rank Terrace, who wore silver-spades at
their button-holes. The question of the
dike-system could hardly be mooted without
recalling unpleasant recollections: for
example; that A. B. and C., on Comfort Terrace,
had voted for the infant son of D. on Rank
Terrace, when he was appointed as Grand
Dike Conservator and High Guardian of the
Silver Spade. All the terraces had combined
in enacting a law, that none of the men of
Clay Level, however well they might handle
real spades, should meddle with the structure
of the dikes.

In the neighbourhood of the colony, there
lived an eccentric, old hermit— a student of
geology—who loved to pore beneath the
surfaces of things. From time to time, he had
sent warnings to the dwellers on the terraces,
telling them that the embankments were in
an unsound condition; but his theories had
been commonly rejected as too wide and
impracticable. In the present emergency, he
repeated his admonitions: "Your plan of
separate interests on your several terraces,"
said he, " is very pretty, and the silver spades
are neat decorations; but—- the dikes are
leaking! Their repair requires the united
efforts of the whole colony. Forget Comfort
Terrace, Golden Terrace, and Rank Terrace.
Ask not on what platform a man may dwell;
but demand, as the great qualification in
every public officer, that he shall handle well
a real spade. Throw away the silver toys,
with the ribbons and other trumpery, and
march away— shoulder to shoulder— fine
broad-cloth and fustian, to the repair of
the dikes; or, as surely as water finds its
level, you will be all drowned!"—"He is a
revolutionist!" said the men of Rank
Terrace; and the old man's counsel was
rejected.

So the leak continued, growing wider and
wider, from day to day, and sapping the
foundations of the dike. There it stood
undermined, wearing away, trembling with every
pulsation of the great mass of water, until,
at last, it fell, and down came the roaring
flood, covering the Clay Level and dashing
wave after wave, higher and higher, on the
terraces. Now, from Comfort, Gold and Rank
Terraces the people ran to the old hermit,
begging for advice. But his calm admonition
was changed to bitter mockery. "Why come
to me?" said he, "it is too late for philosophy.
Words can do nothing now. But never
despair! Pull your pretty little silver spades
from your button-holes, and stop the
inundation!"