n
the atmosphere of Horai. It is an atmosphere peculiar to the place;
and, because of it, the sunshine in Horai is whiter than any other
sunshine,--a milky light that never dazzles,--astonishingly clear, but
very soft. This atmosphere is not of our human period: it is enormously
old,--so old that I feel afraid when I try to think how old it is;--and
it is not a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at
all, but of ghost,--the substance of quintillions of quintillions of
generations of souls blended into one immense translucency,--souls of
people who thought in ways never resembling our ways. Whatever mortal
man inhales that atmosphere, he takes into his blood the thrilling of
these spirits; and they change the sense within him,--reshaping his
notions of Space and Time,--so that he can see only as they used to
see, and feel only as they used to feel, and think only as they used to
think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and Horai, discerned
across them, might thus be described:--

--Because in Horai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of
the people never grow old. And, by reason of being always young in
heart, the people of Horai smile from birth until death--except when
the Gods send sorrow among them; and faces then are veiled until the
sorrow goes away. All folk in Horai love and trust each other, as if
all were members of a single household;--and the speech of the women is
like birdsong, because the hearts of them are light as the souls of
birds;--and the swaying of the sleeves of the maidens at play seems a
flutter of wide, soft wings. In Horai nothing is hidden but grief,
because there is no reason for shame;--and nothing is locked away,
because there could not be any theft;--and by night as well as by day
all doors remain unbarred, because there is no reason for fear. And
because the people are fairies--though mortal--all things in Horai,
except the Palace of the Dragon-King, are small and quaint and
queer;--and these fairy-folk do really eat their rice out of very, very
small bowls, and drink their wine out of very, very small cups...

--Much of this seeming would be due to the inhalation of that ghostly
atmosphere--but not all. For the spell wrought by the dead is only the
charm of an Ideal, the glamour of an ancient hope;--and something of
that hope has found fulfillment in many hearts,--in the simple beauty
of unselfish lives,--in the sweetness of Woman...

--Evil win