“But Truth is a jewel so rich and so rare,
When found should be cherished with martyr-like care.”
So I shall metaphorically skip some fifty of Leo Bergin’s pages, and take up the story where the party arrived in the small but picturesque harbor, on the shores of which stands the City of Eurania, the capital of Cavitorus—just over the “oval.”
Over five long years had passed, since the sage Oseba, the idol of Cavitorus, and his nine brave friends had been commissioned to explore the outer world, in search of truth, in search of laws or customs by which the Shadowas might be more wisely guided, or to find a country to which it might be possible, wise and well, to send a colony of their children. Four had perished, and these were to be fittingly mourned; but “the conquering heroes come,” and they were to be fittingly welcomed, and as their approach had been heralded, thousands of richly-dressed people thronged the “water front,” and the beautiful city was in gala-day attire. The description of the streets, and fountains, and parks, and statues of gold, and other eye-ravishing objects, are dwelt upon in lavish detail, but “want of space,” and the love of ease, admonish me to “blue pencil” many pages of this fancy fabric.
The superb personality and the gorgeous attire of the people, amazed the practical Leo Bergin. I will here venture a quotation, then again “boil it down.”
He says:—
“The appearance of the people, as they crowd without confusion along and away back the shore line, is most striking. They seem over-tall and very symmetrical in form, and they move as gracefully as trained actors. They have finely-chiselled features, deep, rather large and expressive eyes, slightly bronzed complexions, and in every curious look, gaze, or expression, there is an easy, modest dignity, such as I have never before seen, even among the rarest few. In every face there is a deep and real joy; but of enthusiasm, emotionalism, or sensationalism, there is really none. This passion of the animal has gone, and the pleasures of the intellect have re-moulded the countenance. The face has become the mirror of an exalted soul. On no countenance is there seen gravity, on none hilarity.
“Seeing no sadness, I said, ‘Where are the friends of the four who perished?’
“Alas! under their system none can know father or mother, sister or brother, son or daughter. All are children of the State. In the success of any one, there can be but a common joy; in failure, but a common sorrow.”
What nonsense, to talk of such a society! People who forget their own children? But Herbert Spencer tells us of a people among whom the men had more affection for the children of their sisters than for those of their own wives! Mayhap, Herbert was wrong, for this seems unnatural. Mayhap, Herbert was right, for what we call “natural” is really but custom. However, “maybe” there were “reasons” in that case—experience.