it, all details
as to the manner in which they arrive at their rotation of time; and
content myself here with saying, that in point of duration, their year
differs very slightly from ours, but that the divisions of their year
are by no means the same. Their day, (including what we call night)
consists of twenty hours of our time, instead of twenty-four, and of
course their year comprises the correspondent increase in the number of
days by which it is summed up. They subdivide the twenty hours of their
day thus--eight hours,* called the "Silent Hours," for repose; eight
hours, called the "Earnest Time," for the pursuits and occupations of
life; and four hours called the "Easy Time" (with which what I may term
their day closes), allotted to festivities, sport, recreation, or family
converse, according to their several tastes and inclinations.

* For the sake of convenience, I adopt the word hours, days, years,
&c., in any general reference to subdivisions of time among the Vril-ya;
those terms but loosely corresponding, however, with such subdivisions.

But, in truth, out of doors there is no night. They maintain, both
in the streets and in the surrounding country, to the limits of their
territory, the same degree of light at all hours. Only, within doors,
they lower it to a soft twilight during the Silent Hours. They have
a great horror of perfect darkness, and their lights are never wholly
extinguished. On occasions of festivity they continue the duration of
full light, but equally keep note of the distinction between night and
day, by mechanical contrivances which answer the purpose of our clocks
and watches. They are very fond of music; and it is by music that these
chronometers strike the principal division of time. At every one
of their hours, during their day, the sounds coming from all the
time-pieces in their public buildings, and caught up, as it were, by
those of houses or hamlets scattered amidst the landscapes without the
city, have an effect singularly sweet, and yet singularly solemn.
But during the Silent Hours these sounds are so subdued as to be only
faintly heard by a waking ear. They have no change of seasons, and, at
least on the territory of this tribe, the atmosphere seemed to me very
equable, warm as that of an Italian summer, and humid rather than dry;
in the forenoon usually very still, but at times invaded by strong
blasts from the rocks that made the borders of their domain. But time
is the s