A. D. 10,000. An old man, more than six hundred years of age, waswalking with a boy through a great museum. The people who were movingaround them had beautiful forms, and faces which were indescribablyrefined and spiritual.
“Father,” said the boy, “you promised to tell me to-day about the DarkAges. I like to hear how men lived and thought long ago.”
“It is no easy task to make you understand the past,” was the reply.“It is hard to realize that man could have been so ignorant as he waseight thousand years ago, but come with me; I will show yousomething.”
He led the boy to a cabinet containing a few time-worn books bound insolid gold.
“You have never seen a book,” he said, taking out a large volume andcarefully placing it on a silk cushion on a table. “There are only afew in the leading museums of the world. Time was when there were asmany books on earth as inhabitants.”
“I cannot understand,” said the boy with a look of perplexity on hisintellectual face. “I cannot see what people could have wanted withthem; they are not attractive; they seem to be useless.”
The old man smiled. “When I was your age, the subject was too deep forme; but as I grew older and made a close study of the history of thepast, the use of books gradually became plain to me. We know that inthe year 2000 they were read by the best minds. To make you understandthis, I shall first have to explain that eight thousand years agohuman beings communicated their thoughts to one another by makingsounds with their tongues, and not by mind-reading, as you and I do.To understand me, you have simply to read my thoughts as well as youreducation will permit; but primitive man knew nothing aboutthought-intercourse, so he invented speech. Humanity then was dividedup in various races, and each race had a separate language. As certainsounds conveyed definite ideas, so did signs and letters; and later,to facilitate the exchange of thought, writing and printing wereinvented. This book was printed.”
The boy leaned forward and examined the pages closely; his young browclouded. “I cannot understand,” he said, “it seems so useless.”
The old man put his delicate fingers on the page. “A line of thesewords may have conveyed a valuable thought to a reader long ago,” hesaid, reflectively. “In fact, this book purports to be a history ofthe world up to the year 2000. Here are some pictures,” he continued,turning the worn leaves carefully. “This is George Washington; this apope of a church called the Roman Catholic; this is a man namedGladstone, who was a great political leader in England. Pictures then,as you see, were very crude. We have preserved some of the oilpaintings made in those days. Art was in its cradle. In producing apainting of an object, the early artists mixed colored paints andspread them according to taste on stretched canvas or on the walls orwindows of buildings. You know that our artists simply throw light anddarkness into space in the necessary variations, and the effect is allthat could be desired in the way of imitating nature. See thatlandscape in the alcove before you. The foliage of the trees, thegrass, the flowers, the stretch of water, have every appearance oflife because the light which produces them is alive.”
The boy looked at the scene admiringly for a few minutes, then bentagain over the book. Presently he recoiled from the pictures, astrange look of disgust struggling in his tender features.
“These men have awful faces,” he said. “They are so unlike peopleliving now. The man you call a pope looks like an animal. They allhave huge mouths and frightfully heavy jaws. Surely men cou