“You answer well,” said my host, “and there is no arguing on a matter of feeling; but to me your custom is horrible and repulsive, and would serve to invest death with gloomy and hideous associations.  It is something, too, to my mind, to be able to preserve the token of what has been our kinsman or friend within the abode in which we live.  We thus feel more sensibly that he still lives, though not visibly so to us.  But our sentiments in this, as in all things, are created by custom.  Custom is not to be changed by a wise An, any more than it is changed by a wise Community, without the greatest deliberation, followed by the most earnest conviction.  It is only thus that change ceases to be changeability, and once made is made for good.”

When we regained the house, Aph-Lin summoned some of the children in his service and sent them round to several of his friends, requesting their attendance that day, during the Easy Hours, to a festival in honour of his kinsman’s recall to the All-Good.  This was the largest and gayest assembly I ever witnessed during my stay among the Ana, and was prolonged far into the Silent Hours.

The banquet was spread in a vast chamber reserved especially for grand occasions.  This differed from our entertainments, and was not without a certain resemblance to those we read of in the luxurious age of the Roman empire.  There was not one great table set out, but numerous small tables, each appropriated to eight guests.  It is considered that beyond that number conversation languishes and friendship cools.  The Ana never laugh loud, as I have before observed, but the cheerful ring of their voices at the various tables betokened gaiety of intercourse.  As they have no stimulant drinks, and are temperate in food, though so choice and dainty, the banquet itself did not last long.  The tables sank through the floor, and then came musical entertainments for those who liked them.  Many, however, wandered away:—­some of the younger ascended in their wings, for the hall was roofless, forming aerial dances; others strolled through the various apartments, examining the curiosities with which they were stored, or formed themselves into groups for various games, the favourite of which is a complicated kind of chess played by eight persons.  I mixed with the crowd, but was prevented joining in the conversation by the constant companionship of one or the other of my host’s sons, appointed to keep me from obtrusive questionings.  The guests, however, noticed me but slightly; they had grown accustomed to my appearance, seeing me so often in the streets, and I had ceased to excite much curiosity.