Bohemian Society

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Bohemian Society

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Title: Bohemian Society
Author: Lydia Leavitt
Release Date: December 4, 2005 [EBook #17220]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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BOHEMIAN SOCIETY ***

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BOHEMIAN SOCIETY.

BY
LYDIA LEAVITT.
BROCKVILLE:
TIMES PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.

BOHEMIAN SOCIETY.
"She was not fair, Nor beautiful,--those words express her not, But, O,
her looks had something excellent That wants a name."
In a country house near the city of B---- lived a lady of cultivated mind
and manners, "a noble woman nobly planned." Well read and familiar
with such writers as Tyndall, Huxley, Spencer and other scientists, and
being rather cosmopolitan in tastes, liked to gather about her, people
who had--as she termed it--ideas. At times there was a strange medley
of artists, authors, religious enthusiasts, spiritualists, philanthropists
and even philosophers. On the evening of which I write there was the
usual peculiar gathering, and each one is expressing his or her views
freely and unrestrainedly.
* * * * *
The visionary and dreamer said: "Let me describe a modern Utopia of
which I have often dreamed and thought.
In a fertile valley, surrounded on all sides by high mountains, lived a
community or body of people who had never been outside the valley.
To them the mountains proved an impassible barrier and they had no
wish or desire to penetrate beyond. For generations they had lived in
this peaceful retreat happy and content. The ground yielded sufficient
for their wants and needs. No one in this little world was richer than his
neighbor and if one of the community fell ill each contributed
something from their own supply for his or her support. They knew
nothing about the value of money, for here it was useless. No one

dreamed of possessing more than his neighbor, but each and all must
share alike. Time dealt kindly with these simple people, for they dealt
kindly with time, and life flowed on smoothly and pleasantly. Men and
women of seventy years were hale and hearty, for it is not so much the
number of years we live that leave their traces, as the events which
transpire in those years; each event, each sorrow, each disappointment
making an era and each one leaving a trace. For the inhabitants of the
valley there were few disappointments and fewer sorrows. If the angel
of death entered and took one of their number, each and all took the
sorrow home for it was looked upon as a personal calamity when any
one of the little community was taken from them.
The sun seemed to shine brighter, the water to be clearer and more
limpid, the foliage more brilliant in this little world than elsewhere.
Perhaps because the eyes of the people were undimmed by sorrow,
perhaps because their souls were unclouded by sin, or perchance they
were in complete harmony with nature and were able to see all her
beauty, each charm enhanced by something within themselves.
Nowhere else did the earth yield such abundant harvest. The wheat bent
its yellow head from over weight. The trees were laden with fruit and
here again nature seemed to be in sympathy with her children. No
sordid motives, no love of gain, no thought of barter and sale entered
their minds while sowing their fields or reaping their grain, but every
one labored that each and all might be benefitted. The men were strong
and self-reliant, the women contented and happy, the children rosy and
healthy.
Every Sabbath morning the old church bell rang a sweet summons to
meet together to worship God. One church was sufficient for all. They
knew nothing about heresies and schisms but assembled together to
hear a simple story simply told. The venerable clergyman, with white
hair and beard, in the dimly lighted church resembled the pictures of
the martyrs, his face telling the story of a simple, true, pure life. His
sermons were eloquent from their very simplicity; no need there of
learned dissertations, for the people would not have comprehended had
he been able to give them, and had they been able to understand, their

pastor was unable to teach. It was a pleasant sight, the old