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...