In Hōrai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The
flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a
man taste of those fruits even but once, he can never again feel thirst
or hunger. In Hōrai grow the enchanted plants _So-rin-shi_, and
_Riku-gō-aoi_, and _Ban-kon-tō_, which heal all manner of sickness;—and
there grows also the magical grass _Yō-shin-shi_, that quickens the
dead; and the magical grass is watered by a fairy water of which a
single drink confers perpetual youth. The people of Hōrai eat their
rice out of very, very small bowls; but the rice never diminishes
within those bowls,—however much of it be eaten,—until the eater
desires no more. And the people of Hōrai drink their wine out of very,
very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups,—however
stoutly he may drink,—until there comes upon him the pleasant
drowsiness of intoxication.
All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin
dynasty. But that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw
Hōrai, even in a mirage, is not believable. For really there are no
enchanted fruits which leave the eater forever satisfied,—nor any
magical grass which revives the dead,—nor any fountain of fairy
water,—nor any bowls which never lack rice,—nor any cups which never
lack wine. It is not true that sorrow and death never enter
Hōrai;—neither is it true that there is not any winter. The winter in
Hōrai is cold;—and winds then bite to the bone; and the heaping of snow
is monstrous on the roofs of the Dragon-King.
Nevertheless there are wonderful things in Hōrai; and the most
wonderful of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean
the atmosphere of Hōrai. It is an atmosphere peculiar to the place;
and, because of it, the sunshine in Hōrai 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 Hōrai, discerned
across them, might thus be described:—
_—Because in Hōrai 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 Hōrai 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 Hōrai 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 Hōrai 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 Hōrai,
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 winds from the West are blowing over Hōrai; and the magical
atmosphere, alas! is shrinking away before them. It lingers now in
patches only, and bands,—like those long bright bands of cloud that
train across the landscapes of Japanese painters. Under these shreds of
the elfish vapor you still can find Hōrai—but not everywhere...
Remember that Hōrai is also called Shinkirō, which signifies
Mirage,—the Vision of the Intangible. And the Vision is fading,—never
again to appear save in pictures and poems and dreams...