ive to the Circles. Since that
time, scarcely a week has passed during seven whole years, without his
hearing from me a repetition of the part I played in that
manifestation, together with ample descriptions of all the phenomena in
Spaceland, and the arguments for the existence of Solid things
derivable from Analogy. Yet--I take shame to be forced to confess
it--my brother has not yet grasped the nature of Three Dimensions, and
frankly avows his disbelief in the existence of a Sphere.

Hence I am absolutely destitute of converts, and, for aught that I can
see, the millennial Revelation has been made to me for nothing.
Prometheus up in Spaceland was bound for bringing down fire for
mortals, but I--poor Flatland Prometheus--lie here in prison for
bringing down nothing to my countrymen. Yet I existing the hope that
these memoirs, in some manner, I know not how, may find their way to
the minds of humanity in Some Dimension, and may stir up a race of
rebels who shall refuse to be confined to limited Dimensionality.

That is the hope of my brighter moments. Alas, it is not always so.
Heavily weights on me at times the burdensome reflection that I cannot
honestly say I am confident as to the exact shape of the once-seen,
oft-regretted Cube; and in my nightly visions the mysterious precept,
"Upward, not Northward," haunts me like a soul-devouring Sphinx. It is
part of the martyrdom which I endure for the cause of Truth that there
are seasons of mental weakness, when Cubes and Spheres flit away into
the background of scarce-possible existences; when the Land of Three
Dimensions seems almost as visionary as the Land of One or None; nay,
when even this hard wall that bars me from my freedom, these very
tablets on which I am writing, and all the substantial realities of
Flatland itself, appear no better than the offspring of a diseased
imagination, or the baseless fabric of a dream.

***

PREFACE TO THE SECOND AND REVISED EDITION, 1884. BY THE EDITOR

If my poor Flatland friend retained the vigour of mind which he enjoyed
when he began to compose these Memoirs, I should not now need to
represent him in this preface, in which he desires, fully, to return
his thanks to his readers and critics in Spaceland, whose appreciation
has, with unexpected celerity, required a second edition of this work;
secondly, to apologize for certain errors and misprints (for which,
however, he is not entirely responsible); and, thirdly,