Before the masterful emotion of possession, tumultuous ravings evaporated. My mind cleared, freshened as a mid-summer’s day after a cooling shower, and from a sweet, calm reverie, I was suddenly roused by my own ringing laughter. After all, these marvelously enlightened people were not so different from us—the whole world avoids a man in love. I emerged from the forest of blush lilies; a wide waste of velvety lawn stretched far to the east, and nestling in a hollow of soft emerald, a long grotesque structure of ivory whiteness gleamed. It was the museum. The entrance stood wide and I entered a lofty, tiled hall, the walls wondrously carved; fabulous monstrosities leered from all sides. I stepped into a spacious room hung with hand-woven silks and rare tapestries of intricate design, rich scarfs of delicate raised beading represented scenes of a strange, unknown period. There were peculiar wall ornaments in circular and diamond shapes. Queer conical baskets, varying in size from a thimble to a trunk woven from human hair, the various shades blending exquisitely in quaint patterns. There were curious pouches, chatelaines and many dainty toilet articles, made from the damask leather of pulped flowers, the odor after unknown centuries clinging pungently to the crushed blossoms. I strolled from one department to the other crowded with priceless curios. It was impossible to view everything in a single day, but I did good work in the few hours I spent there, and during my stay in Centur visited the museum many times. Most of the morning glided away as I lingered before great jewel cases, containing superb gems. I marveled at the rare, beautiful settings, and queer golden ornaments covered with weird inscriptions; great golden urns, shaped like a bishop’s mitre, and tongueless bells engraved with heathenish figures, and apart by itself was an enormous block of gold cut with minute carvings and hierographic writings, with a monstrous ruby like a rose-bud sunk in the center. The tiny carvings represented vital epochs in the history of Centauri, and the great ruby heart would evaporate when Centauri ceased—the sentiment was very pretty. I curiously examined numerous trays of beads, their glaring colors blended gorgeously in barbaric settings. These articles were treasured because worn by the first Centauris, and for centuries had ceased to be manufactured. The few remaining strings in Saxe.’s collection were vastly superior in make and no doubt, in many eloquent speeches, he would be requested to donate them to the museum.