Tyranny and anarchy are never far asunder.

On one side we find a sharp wall of rock composed of superposed layers of prismatic basalt, rising to a height of some fifty feet; on the other side, a small, almost perfectly semicircular hill that leads gently down to the base of the rock, taking more or less the form of the ordinary amphitheater. Indeed, it was necessary to add only a small amount of earth in order to achieve a perfect likeness of such a structure.

The people of Bentham are so musically practiced that the ensemble of their four-part choral performance leaves nothing to be desired. In order to maintain proper rhythm among such a tremendous number of performers, in such a large area, a great flag placed high on the rocks—not far from a colossal statue of Jeremy Bentham, and manipulated with total regularity and precision by a series of levers controlled by the President of the Musical Institutions of the Republic—ensures that the beat is seen and felt even by those situated very far away. The harmoniousness of the hymn is all the more assured in that all the singers, having themselves long before chosen the lines best suited to their vocal ranges, have memorized their parts. True, the result of such freedom of choice is that the inner voices are somewhat neglected. But on the other hand—and this is essential—the soprano and bass lines are sung with more than ample vigor, and, in addition, all voices are supported by an orchestra of ten thousand artists and amateurs, who give and maintain the pitch.