_A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder_
          (the sixth installment)

   from _Harper's weekly_ (1888-feb-11) 
           (by James De Mille)


Chapter VII. Scientific theories and skepticism

Here the doctor paused, and looked around with some
self-complacency.

  "Oh," said Melick, "if you take that tone, you have us all at
your mercy.  I know no more about the geography of the antarctic
circle than I do of the moon.  I simply criticize from a literary
point of view, and I don't like his underground cavern with the
stream running through it.  It sounds like one of the voyages of
Sinbad the Sailor.  Nor do I like his description; he evidently is
writing for effect.  Besides, his style is vicious; it is too
stilted.  Finally, he has recourse to the stale device of a
sea-serpent."

  "A sea-serpent!" repeated the doctor.  "Well, for my part I feel
by no means inclined to sneer at a sea-serpent.  Its existence
cannot be proved, yet it cannot be pooh-poohed.  Every schoolboy
knows that the waters of the sea were once filled with monsters
more tremendous than the greatest sea-serpent that has ever been
imagined.  The plesiosaurus, with its snakelike head, if it existed
now, would be called a sea-serpent.  Some of these so-called fossil
animals may have their representatives still living in the remoter
parts of the world.  Think of the recently discovered
ornithorhynchus of Australia!"

  "If you please, I'd really much rather not," said Melick with a
gesture of despair.  "I haven't the honor of the gentleman's
acquaintance."

  "Well, what do you think of his notice of the sun, and the long
light, and his low position on the horizon?"

  "Oh, that's all right," said Melick.  "Any one who chose to get
up this thing would of course read up about the polar day, and all
that.  Every one knows that at the poles there is a six-months day,
followed by a six-months night."

  "You are a determined skeptic," said the doctor.

  "How is it about the polar day?" asked Featherstone.

  "Well," said the doctor, "at the poles themselves there is one
day of six months, during which the sun never sets, and one night
of six months, during which he never rises.  In the spaces between
the polar circles the quantities of the continuous day and
continuous night vary in accordance with the distance from the
pole.  At the north point of Nova Zembla, 75o north latitude, there
is uninterrupted light from May 1 to August 12, and uninterrupted
darkness from November 8 to February 9.  At the arctic circle at
the summer solstice the day is twenty-four hours long.  At the
antarctic circle at the same time the night is twenty-four hours.

  Upon this Melick filled the doctor's wine-glass, with a great
deal of ceremony.

  "After all those statistics," he said, "you must feel rather dry. 
You should take a drink before venturing any further."

  The doctor made no reply, but raised the glass to his lips and
swallowed the wine in an abstracted way.

  "The thing that struck me most," said Oxenden, "in all that has
been read thus far, is the flatness of the South Pole, and the
peculiar effect which this produces on the landscape."

  "I must say," added Melick, "that the writer has got hold of a
very good idea there, and has taken care to put it forward in a
very prominent fashion."

  "What is the difference," asked Oxenden, "between the two
diameters of the earth, the polar and the equatorial?  Is it
known?"

  "By Jove!" said Featherstone, "that's the very question I was
going to ask.  I've always heard that the earth is flattened at the
poles, but never knew how much.  Is there any way by which people
can find out?"

  The doctor drew a long breath, and beamed upon the company with
a benevolent smile.

  "Oh, yes," said he; "I can answer that question, if you care to
know and won't feel bored."

  "Answer it, then, my dear fellow, by all means," said
Featherstone, in his most languid tone.

  "There are two ways," said the doctor, "by which the polar
compression of the earth has been found out.  One is by the
measurement of arcs on the earth's surface; the other is by
experiments with pendulums or weights with regard to the earth's
gravity at different places.  The former of these methods is
perhaps, the more satisfactory.  Measurements of arcs have been
made on a very extensive scale in different parts of the world--in
England, France, Lapland, Peru, and India.  Mr. Ivory, who devoted
himself for years to an exhaustive examination of the subject, has
deduced that the equatorial radius of the earth is over 3962 miles,
and the polar radius over 3949 miles.  This makes the depression at
either pole upward of thirteen miles.  A depression of over
thirteen miles, as you must plainly see, should produce strange
results in the scenery at the poles.  Of course, if there are
mountains, no difference would be noticed between this and any
other part of the earth's surface; but if there is water, why, we
ought to expect some such state of things as More describes.  The
gravitation test has also been tried, with very nearly the same
result.  The surface of the earth at the equator being farthest
from the centre of gravity, indicates the least weight in bodies;
but at the poles, where the surface is nearest the centre of
gravity, there must be the greatest weight.  It is found, in fact,
that the weight of bodies increases in passing from the equator to
the poles.  By experiments made in this way the polar compression
is ascertained to be the same as I have mentioned."

  "What effect would this have on the climate at the poles?" asked
Oxenden.

  "That's a complicated question," said the doctor.  "In answer to
that we must leave ascertained facts and trust to theories, unless,
indeed, we accept as valid the statements of this remarkable
manuscript.  For my own part, I see no reason why it should not be
as More says.  Remember, this polar world is thirteen miles nearer
to the centre of the earth.  Whether this should affect the climate
or not, depends upon the nature of the earth's interior.  That
interior, according to the popular theory of the present day is a
mass of fire.  This theory affirms that the earth was once a
red-hot mass, which has cooled down; but the cooling process has
only take place on the surface, leaving the interior still a molten
mass of matter in a state of intense heat and combustion.  At the
poles the surface is thus thirteen miles nearer to these tremendous
fires.  Of course it may be supposed that the earth's crust is of
about equal thickness on all parts; yet still, even if this be so,
thirteen miles ought to make some difference.  Now at the North
Pole there seem to be causes at work to counterbalance the effect
of the internal heat, chiefly in the enormous accumulation of polar
ice which probably hems it in on every side; and though many
believe in an open polar sea of warm water at the North Pole, yet
still the effect of vast ice-masses and of cold submarine currents
must be to render the climate severe.  But at the South Pole it is
different.  The observations of Ross and of More show us that there
is a chain of mountains of immense height, which seem to encircle
the pole.  If this be so, and I see no reason to disbelieve it,
then the ice of the outer seas must be kept away altogether from
that strange inner sea of which More speaks.  Ross saw the
volcanoes Erebus and Terror; More saw two others.  How many more
there may be it is impossible to say; but all this shows that the
effect of the earth's internal fires is very manifest in that
region, and More has penetrated to a secluded world, which lies
apart by itself, free from the influence of ice-masses, left to
feel the effect of the internal fires, and possessing what is
virtually a tropical climate."

  "Well," said Melick, "there is no theory however wild and
fantastic, which some man of science will not be ready to support
and to fortify by endless arguments, all of the most plausible
kind.  For my own part, I still believe More and his south polar
world to be no more authentic than Sindbad the Sailor."

  But the others evidently sympathized with the doctor's view, and
regarded Melick as carrying his skepticism to an absurd excess.

  "How large do you suppose this south polar ocean to be?" asked
Featherstone.

  "It is impossible to answer that question exactly," said the
doctor.  "It may be, as More hints, a thousand miles in extent, or
only five hundred, or two hundred.  For my own part, however, I
feel like taking More's statements at their utmost value; and the
idea that I have gathered from his narrative is that of a vast sea
like the Mediterranean, surrounded by impassable mountains, by
great and fertile countries, peopled with an immense variety of
animals, with a fauna and flora quite unlike those of the rest of
the world; and, above all, with great nations possessing a rare and
unique civilization, and belonging to a race altogether different
from any of the known races of men."

  "Well," said Melick, "that at least is the idea which the writer
of the manuscript tries to convey."

  By this time they had finished dinner.

  "And now," said Featherstone, "let's have some more of the
manuscript.  Melick is tired of it, I dare say.  I would relieve
him, but I'm an infernally bad reader.  Doctor, what do you say? 
Will you read the next installment!"

  "With all my heart," said the doctor, briskly.

  "Very well, then," said Featherstone; "we will all be your
attentive hearers."

  And now the doctor took up the manuscript and began to read.


VIII: The Cave-Dwellers

  The cavern into which the chief led me was very spacious, but had
no light except that which entered through the portal.  It was with
difficulty that I could see anything, but I found that there were
many people here moving about, all as intent upon their own
pursuits as those which one encounters in the streets of our
cities.  As we went on farther the darkness increased, until at
last I lost sight of the chief altogether, and he had to come back
and lead me.  After going a little farther we came to a long, broad
passage-way like a subterranean street, about twenty feet in width,
and as many in height.  Here there were discernible a few twinkling
lamps, which served to make the darkness less intense and enabled
me to see the shadowy figures around.  These were numerous, and all
seemed busy, though what their occupation might be I could not
guess.  I was amazed at the extent of these caverns, and at the
multitude of the people.  I saw also that from the nature of their
eyes the sunlight distressed them, and in this cavern gloom they
found their most congenial dwelling-place.  From what I had thus
far seen, this extraordinary people shrank from the sunlight;
and when they had to move abroad they passed over roads which were
darkened as much as possible by the deep shadows of mighty ferns,
while for the most part they remained in dark caverns, in which
they lived and moved and had their being.  It was a puzzle to me
whether the weakness of their eyes had caused this dislike of
light, or the habit of cave-dwelling had caused this weakness of
eyes.  Here, in this darkness, where there was but a faint twinkle
from the feeble lamps, their eyes seemed to serve them as well as
mine did in the outer light of day; and the chief, who outside had
moved with an uncertain step, and had blinked painfully at objects
with his eyes almost closed, now appeared to be in his proper
element; and while I hesitated like a blind man and groped along
with a faltering step, he guided me, and seemed to see everything
with perfect vision.

  At length we stopped, and the chief raised up a thick, heavy mat
which hung like an unwieldly curtain in front of a doorway.  This
the chief lifted.  At once a blaze of light burst forth, gleaming
into the dark, and appearing to blind him.  His eyes closed.  He
held up the veil for me to pass through.  I did so.  He followed,
and then groped his way slowly along, while I accompanied and
assisted him.

  I now found myself in a large grotto with an arched roof, from
which was suspended an enormous lamp, either golden or gilded.  All
around were numerous lamps.  The walls were adorned with rich
hangings; couches were here, with soft cushions, and divans and
ottomans; soft mats were on the floor, and everything gave
indications of luxury and wealth.  Other doors, covered with
overhanging mats, seemed to lead out of this grotto.  To one of
these the chief walked, and raising the mat he led the way into
another grotto like the last, with the same bright lights and the
same adornments, but of smaller size.  Here I saw some one who at
once took up all my attention.

  It was a young maiden.  Her face and form, but especially her
eyes, showed her to be of quite a different race from these others. 
To me she was of medium height, yet she was taller than any of the
people here that I had hitherto seen.  Her complexion was much
lighter; her hair was dark, luxuriant, and wavy, and arranged in a
coiffure secured with a golden band.  Her features were of a
different cast from those of the people here, for they were regular
in outline and of exquisite beauty; her nose was straight; she had
a short upper lip, arched eyebrows finely pencilled, thin lips, and
well-rounded chin.  But the chief contrast was in her eyes.  These
were large, dark, liquid, with long lashes, and with a splendid
glow in their lustrous depths.  She stood looking at me with her
face full of amazement; and as I caught the gaze of her glorious
eyes I rejoiced that I had at last found one who lived in the light
and loved it--one who did not blink like a bat, but looked me full
in the face, and allowed me to see all her soul revealed.  The
chief, who still was pained by the glare of light, kept his eyes
covered, and said a few hasty words to the maiden.  After this
he hurried away, leaving me there.

  The maiden stood for a moment looking at me.  As the chief spoke
to her a change came over her face.  She looked at me in silence,
with an expression of sad and mournful interest, which seemed to
increase every moment.  At length she approached and said something
in the same strange language which the chief had used.  I shook my
head and replied in English, whereupon she shook her head with a
look of perplexity.  Then, anxious to conciliate her, I held out my
hand.  She looked at it in some surprise.  Upon this I took her
hand, and pressed it to my lips, feeling, however, somewhat
doubtful as to the way in which she might receive such an advance. 
To my great delight she accepted it in a friendly spirit, and
seemed to consider it my foreign fashion of showing friendship and
respect.  She smiled and nodded, and pointed to my gun, which thus
far I had carried in my hand.  I smiled and laid it down.  Then she
pointed to a seat.  I sat down, and then she seated herself close
by me, and we looked at each other in mutual wonder and mutual
inquiry.

  I was full of amazement at thus meeting with so exquisite a
being, and lost myself in conjectures as to her race, her office,
and her position here.  Who was she, or what?  She was unlike the
others, and reminded me of those Oriental beauties whose portraits
I had seen in annuals and illustrated books.  Her costume was in
keeping with such a character.  She wore a long tunic that reached
from the neck to the ground, secured at the waist with a golden
girdle; the sleeves were long and loose; over this she had a long
mantle; on her feet were light slippers, white and glistening.  All
about her, in her room and in her costume, spoke of light and
splendor and luxury.  To these others who shrank so from the light
she could not be related in any way.  The respect with which she
was treated by the chief, the peculiar splendor of her apartments,
seemed to indicate some high rank.  Was she, then, the queen of the
land?  Was she a princess?  I could not tell.  At any rate,
whatever she was, she seemed anxious to show me the utmost
attention.  Her manner was full of dignity and sweet graciousness,
and she appeared particularly anxious to make herself understood. 
At first she spoke in a language that sounded like that of the
chief, and was full of gutturals and broad vowels; afterwards she
spoke in another that was far more euphonious.  I, on the other
hand spoke in English and in French; but of course I was as
unintelligible to her as she was to me.

  Language was, therefore, of no use.  It was necessary to go back
to first principles and make use of signs, or try to gain the most
elementary words of her language; so first of all I pointed to her,
and tried to indicate that I wanted to know her name.  She caught
my meaning at once, and, pointing to herself, she looked fixedly at
me and said, "Almah, Almah!"

  I repeated these words after her, saying, "Almah, Almah!"  She
smiled and nodded, and then pointed to me with a look of inquiry
that plainly asked for my name.  I said "Adam More."  She repeated
this, and it sounded like "A-tam-or."  But as she spoke this slowly
her smile died away.  She looked anxious and troubled, and once
more that expression of wondering sadness came over her face.  She
repeated my name over and over in this way with a mournful
intonation that thrilled through me, and excited forebodings of
evil.  "Atamor, Atamor!"  And always after that she called me
"Atamor."

  But now she sat for some time, looking at me with a face full of
pity and distress.  At this I was greatly astonished; for but a
moment before she had been full of smiles, and it was as though
something in my name had excited sorrowful thoughts.  Yet how could
that be, since she could never by any possibility have heard my
name before?  The beautiful Almah seemed to be not altogether
happy, or why should she be so quick to sadness?  There was a
mystery about all this which was quite unaccountable.

  It was a singular situation, and one which excited within me
feelings of unutterable delight.  This light and splendor, this
warmth and peace--what a contrast it offered to the scenes through
which I had but lately passed!  Those scenes of horror, of ice and
snow, of storm and tempest, of cold and hunger, of riven cliff and
furious ocean stream, and, above all, that crowning agony in the
bleak ironland of the cannibals--from all these I had escaped.  I
had been drawn down under the earth to experience the terrors of
that unspeakable passage, and had at last emerged to light and
life, to joy and hope.  In this grotto I had found the culmination
of all happiness.  It was like a fairy realm; and here was one
whose very look was enough to inspire the most despairing soul with
hop and peace and happiness.  The, only thing that was now left to
trouble me was this mournful face of Almah.  Why did she look at me
with such sad interest and such melancholy meaning?  Did she know
of any evil fate in store for me?  Yet how could there be any evil
fate to be feared from people who had received me with such
unparalleled generosity?  No, it could not be; so I resolved to try
to bring back again the smile that had faded out of her face.

  I pointed to her, and said, "Almah."

  She said, "Atam-or."

  And the smile did not come back, but the sadness remained in her
face.

  My eager desire now was to learn her language, and I resolved at
once to acquire as many words and phrases as possible.  I began by
asking the names of things, such as "seat," "table," "mat," "coat,"
"hat," "shoe," "lamp," "floor," "wall," and all the common objects
around.  She gave all the names, and soon became so deeply
interested that her sadness departed, and the smile came back once
more.  For my own part, I was always rather quick at learning
languages.  I had a correct ear and a retentive memory; in my
wanderings round the world I had picked up a smattering of many
languages, such as French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, German,
Hindoostanee, and a few others.  The words which I learned from
Almah had a remote resemblance to Arabic; and, in fact, my
knowledge of Arabic was actually of some assistance, though how it
was that these people should have a language with that resemblance
was certainly a mystery, and I did not try to solve it.  The
beautiful Almah soon grew immensely interested in my efforts to
learn, and also in the English words which I gave when I pointed to
any object.

  Thus I pointed to myself, and said "Man," then pointing to her,
I said, "Woman."  She laughed, and pointing to me said "Iz," and
pointing to herself said, "Izza."  Then I pointed to the row of
lights, and said "Light;" she did the same, and said, "Or."  Then
her face grew mournful, and she pointed to me, saying "Atam-or." 
It struck me then that there was some chance resemblance between
"or," the word meaning "light," and one of the syllables of my name
as she pronounced it, and that this might cause her sadness; but as
I could make out nothing of this, I dismissed the thought, and went
on with my questions.  This took up the time, until at length some
one appeared who looked like a servant.  He said something, 
whereupon Almah arose and beckoned to me to follow.  I did so, and
we went to a neighboring apartment, where there was spread a
bounteous repast.  Here we sat and ate, and Almah told me the names
of all the dishes.  After dinner we returned to the room.

  It was a singular and a delightful position.  I was left alone
with the beautiful Almah, who herself showed the utmost
graciousness and the kindest interest in me.  I could not
understand it, nor did I try to; it was enough that I had such a
happy lot.  For hours we thus were together, and I learned many
words.  To insure remembrance, I wrote them down in my
memorandum-book with a pencil and both of these were regarded by
Almah with greatest curiosity.  She felt the paper, inspected it,
touched it with her tongue, and seemed to admire it greatly; but
the pencil excited still greater admiration.  I signed to her to
write in the book.  She did so, but the characters were quite
unlike anything that I had ever seen.  They were not joined like
our writing and like Arabic letters, but were separate like our
printed type, and were formed in an irregular manner.  She then
showed me a book made of a strange substance.  It was filled with
characters like those which she had just written.  The leaves were
not at all like paper, but seemed like some vegetable product, such
as the leaves of a plant or the bark of a tree.  They were very
thin, very smooth, all cut into regular size, and fastened together
by means of rings.  This manuscript is written upon the same
material.  I afterwards found that it was universally used here,
and was made of a reed that grows in marshes.

  Here in these vast caverns there was no way by which I could tell
the progress of time, but Almah had her own way of finding out when
the hours of wakeful life were over.  She arose and said,
"Salonla."  This I afterwards found out to be common salutation of
the country.  I said it after her.  She then left me.  Shortly
afterwards a servant appeared, who took me to a room, which I
understood to be mine.  Here I found everything that I could wish,
either for comfort or luxury; and as I felt fatigue, I flung myself
upon the soft bed of down, and soon was sound asleep.

  I slept for a long time.  When I awoke I heard sounds in the
distance, and knew that people were moving.  Here in these caverns
there was no difference between day and night, but, by modes of
which I was ignorant, a regular succession was observed of waking
times and sleeping times.

(End of sixth installment)