The Demon returned yesterday from a trip to the outside world.  Max’s forebodings have been terribly realized.  Three-fourths of the human race, in the civilized lands, have been swept away.  In France and Italy and Russia the slaughter has been most appalling.  In many places the Demon sailed for hundreds of miles without seeing a human being.  The wild beasts—­wolves and bears—­are reassuming possession of the country.  In Scandinavia and in northern America, where the severity of the climate somewhat mitigated the ferocity of man, some sort of government is springing up again; and the peasants have formed themselves into troops to defend their cattle and their homes against the marauders.

But civility, culture, seem to have disappeared.  There are no newspapers, no books, no schools, no teachers.  The next generation will be simply barbarians, possessing only a few dim legends of the refinement and wonderful powers of their ancestors.  Fortunate it is indeed, that here, in these mountains, we have preserved all the instrumentalities with which to restore, when the world is ready to receive it, the civilization of the former ages.

Our constitution has worked admirably.  Not far from here has arisen the beautiful village of Lincoln.  It is a joy to, visit it, as I do very often.

The wide streets are planted with trees; not shade trees, but fruit trees, the abundance of which is free to all.  Around each modest house there is a garden, blooming with flowers and growing food for the household.  There are no lordly palaces to cast a chill shadow over humble industry; and no resplendent vehicles to arouse envy and jealousy in the hearts of the beholders.  Instead of these shallow vanities a sentiment of brotherly love dwells in all hearts.  The poor man is not worked to death, driven to an early grave by hopeless and incessant toil.  No; he sings while he works, and his heart is merry.  No dread shadow of hunger hangs over him.  We are breeding men, not millionaires.

And the good wife sings also while she prepares the evening meal, for she remembers that this is the night of the play; and yonder, on that chair, lies the unfinished dress which her handsome daughter is to wear, next Saturday night, to the weekly ball.  And her sons are greatly interested in the lectures on chemistry and history.

Let us look in upon them at supper.  The merry, rosy faces of young and old; the cheerful converse; the plain and abundant food.  Here are vegetables from their own garden, and fruit from the trees that line the wide streets.

Listen to their talk!  The father is telling how the municipality bought, some three years ago, a large number of female calves, at a small cost; and now they are milch cows; and the town authorities are about to give one of them to every poor family that is without one.