A Journey into the Center of the Earth E-Book

Jules Verne.

• Herausgeber: Mike Thomas
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Finally The New Revised Edition is Available!

Journey to the Center of the Earth is a classic 1864 science fiction novel by Jules Verne (published in the original French as Voyage au centre de la Terre). The story involves a professor who leads his nephew and hired guide down a volcano in Iceland to the "center of the Earth". They encounter many adventures, including prehistoric animals and natural hazards, eventually coming to the surface again in southern Italy.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 2

THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT

THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT

CHAPTER 3

AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 4

WE START ON THE JOURNEY

WE START ON THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER 5

FIRST LESSONS IN CLIMBING

FIRST LESSONS IN CLIMBING

CHAPTER 6

OUR VOYAGE TO ICELAND

OUR VOYAGE TO ICELAND

CHAPTER 7

CONVERSATION AND DISCOVERY

CONVERSATION AND DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 8

THE EIDER-DOWN HUNTER—OFF AT LAST

THE EIDER-DOWN HUNTER—OFF AT LAST

CHAPTER 9

OUR START—WE MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY

OUR START—WE MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY

CHAPTER 10

TRAVELING IN ICELAND

TRAVELING IN ICELAND

CHAPTER 11

WE REACH MOUNT SNEFFELS—THE "REYKIR"

WE REACH MOUNT SNEFFELS—THE "REYKIR"

CHAPTER 12

THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS

THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS

CHAPTER 13

THE SHADOW OF SCARTARIS

THE SHADOW OF SCARTARIS

CHAPTER 14

THE REAL JOURNEY COMMENCES

THE REAL JOURNEY COMMENCES

CHAPTER 15

WE CONTINUE OUR DESCENT

WE CONTINUE OUR DESCENT

CHAPTER 16

THE EASTERN TUNNEL

THE EASTERN TUNNEL

CHAPTER 17

DEEPER AND DEEPER—THE COAL MINE

DEEPER AND DEEPER—THE COAL MINE

CHAPTER 18

THE WRONG ROAD!

THE WRONG ROAD!

CHAPTER 19

THE WESTERN GALLERY—A NEW ROUTE

THE WESTERN GALLERY—A NEW ROUTE

CHAPTER 20

WATER, WHERE IS IT? A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

WATER, WHERE IS IT? A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

CHAPTER 21

UNDER THE OCEAN

UNDER THE OCEAN

CHAPTER 22

SUNDAY BELOW GROUND

SUNDAY BELOW GROUND

CHAPTER 23

ALONE

ALONE

CHAPTER 24

LOST!

LOST!

CHAPTER 25

THE WHISPERING GALLERY

THE WHISPERING GALLERY

CHAPTER 26

A RAPID RECOVERY

A RAPID RECOVERY

CHAPTER 27

THE CENTRAL SEA

THE CENTRAL SEA

CHAPTER 28

LAUNCHING THE RAFT

LAUNCHING THE RAFT

CHAPTER 29

ON THE WATERS—A RAFT VOYAGE

ON THE WATERS—A RAFT VOYAGE

CHAPTER 30

TERRIFIC SAURIAN COMBAT

TERRIFIC SAURIAN COMBAT

CHAPTER 31

THE SEA MONSTER

THE SEA MONSTER

CHAPTER 32

THE BATTLE OF THE ELEMENTS

THE BATTLE OF THE ELEMENTS

CHAPTER 33

OUR ROUTE REVERSED

OUR ROUTE REVERSED

CHAPTER 34

A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 35

DISCOVERY UPON DISCOVERY

DISCOVERY UPON DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 36

WHAT IS IT?

WHAT IS IT?

CHAPTER 37

THE MYSTERIOUS DAGGER

THE MYSTERIOUS DAGGER

CHAPTER 38

NO OUTLET—BLASTING THE ROCK

NO OUTLET—BLASTING THE ROCK

CHAPTER 39

THE EXPLOSION AND ITS RESULTS

THE EXPLOSION AND ITS RESULTS

CHAPTER 40

THE APE GIGANS

THE APE GIGANS

CHAPTER 41

HUNGER

HUNGER

CHAPTER 42

THE VOLCANIC SHAFT

THE VOLCANIC SHAFT

CHAPTER 43

DAYLIGHT AT LAST

DAYLIGHT AT LAST

CHAPTER 44

THE JOURNEY ENDED

THE JOURNEY ENDED

CHAPTER 1

MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

Looking back to all that has occurred to me since that eventful day, I am scarcely able to believe in the reality of my adventures. They were truly so wonderful that even now I am bewildered when I think of them.

My uncle was a German, having married my mother's sister, an

Englishwoman. Being very much attached to his fatherless nephew, he invited me to study under him in his home in the fatherland. This home was in a large

town, and my uncle a professor of philosophy, chemistry, geology, mineralogy, and many other ologies.

One day, after passing some hours in the laboratory—my uncle being absent

at the time—I suddenly felt the necessity of renovating the tissues— i.e. , I was hungry, and was about to rouse up our old French cook, when my uncle,

Professor Von Hardwigg, suddenly opened the street door, and came rushing

upstairs.

Now Professor Hardwigg, my worthy uncle, is by no means a bad sort of man;

he is, however, choleric and original. To bear with him means to obey; and scarcely had his heavy feet resounded within our joint domicile than he shouted

for me to attend upon him.

"Harry—Harry—Harry—"

I hastened to obey, but before I could reach his room, jumping three steps at a

time, he was stamping his right foot upon the landing.

"Harry!" he cried, in a frantic tone, "are you coming up?"

Now to tell the truth, at that moment I was far more interested in the question

as to what was to constitute our dinner than in any problem of science; to me soup was more interesting than soda, an omelette more tempting than arithmetic,

and an artichoke of ten times more value than any amount of asbestos.

But my uncle was not a man to be kept waiting; so adjourning therefore all

minor questions, I presented myself before him.

He was a very learned man. Now most persons in this category supply

themselves with information, as peddlers do with goods, for the benefit of others, and lay up stores in order to diffuse them abroad for the benefit of society

in general. Not so my excellent uncle, Professor Hardwigg; he studied, he

consumed the midnight oil, he pored over heavy tomes, and digested huge

quartos and folios in order to keep the knowledge acquired to himself.

There was a reason, and it may be regarded as a good one, why my uncle objected to display his learning more than was absolutely necessary: he

stammered; and when intent upon explaining the phenomena of the heavens, was

apt to find himself at fault, and allude in such a vague way to sun, moon, and stars that few were able to comprehend his meaning. To tell the honest truth, when the right word would not come, it was generally replaced by a very

powerful adjective.

In connection with the sciences there are many almost unpronounceable

names—names very much resembling those of Welsh villages; and my uncle

being very fond of using them, his habit of stammering was not thereby

improved. In fact, there were periods in his discourse when he would finally give

up and swallow his discomfiture—in a glass of water.

As I said, my uncle, Professor Hardwigg, was a very learned man; and I now

add a most kind relative. I was bound to him by the double ties of affection and

interest. I took deep interest in all his doings, and hoped some day to be almost

as learned myself. It was a rare thing for me to be absent from his lectures. Like

him, I preferred mineralogy to all the other sciences. My anxiety was to gain real

knowledge of the earth. Geology and mineralogy were to us the sole objects of life, and in connection with these studies many a fair specimen of stone, chalk,

or metal did we break with our hammers.

Steel rods, loadstones, glass pipes, and bottles of various acids were oftener before us than our meals. My uncle Hardwigg was once known to classify six hundred different geological specimens by their weight, hardness, fusibility, sound, taste, and smell.

He corresponded with all the great, learned, and scientific men of the age. I was, therefore, in constant communication with, at all events the letters of, Sir Humphry Davy, Captain Franklin, and other great men.

But before I state the subject on which my uncle wished to confer with me, I must say a word about his personal appearance. Alas! my readers will see a very

different portrait of him at a future time, after he has gone through the fearful adventures yet to be related.

My uncle was fifty years old; tall, thin, and wiry. Large spectacles hid, to a certain extent, his vast, round, and goggle eyes, while his nose was irreverently

compared to a thin file. So much indeed did it resemble that useful article, that a

compass was said in his presence to have made considerable N (Nasal)

deviation.

The truth being told, however, the only article really attracted to my uncle's nose was tobacco.

Another peculiarity of his was, that he always stepped a yard at a time, clenched his fists as if he were going to hit you, and was, when in one of his peculiar humors, very far from a pleasant companion.

It is further necessary to observe that he lived in a very nice house, in that very nice street, the Konigstrasse at Hamburg. Though lying in the centre of a town, it was perfectly rural in its aspect—half wood, half bricks, with old-fashioned gables—one of the few old houses spared by the great fire of 1842.

When I say a nice house, I mean a handsome house—old, tottering, and not exactly comfortable to English notions: a house a little off the perpendicular and

inclined to fall into the neighboring canal; exactly the house for a wandering artist to depict; all the more that you could scarcely see it for ivy and a magnificent old tree which grew over the door.

My uncle was rich; his house was his own property, while he had a

considerable private income. To my notion the best part of his possessions was

his god-daughter, Gretchen. And the old cook, the young lady, the Professor and

I were the sole inhabitants.

I loved mineralogy, I loved geology. To me there was nothing like pebbles—

and if my uncle had been in a little less of a fury, we should have been the happiest of families. To prove the excellent Hardwigg's impatience, I solemnly declare that when the flowers in the drawing-room pots began to grow, he rose

every morning at four o'clock to make them grow quicker by pulling the leaves!

Having described my uncle, I will now give an account of our interview.

He received me in his study; a perfect museum, containing every natural curiosity that can well be imagined—minerals, however, predominating. Every

one was familiar to me, having been catalogued by my own hand. My uncle, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had summoned me to his presence, was

absorbed in a book. He was particularly fond of early editions, tall copies, and unique works.

"Wonderful!" he cried, tapping his forehead. "Wonderful—wonderful!"

It was one of those yellow-leaved volumes now rarely found on stalls, and to

me it appeared to possess but little value. My uncle, however, was in raptures.

He admired its binding, the clearness of its characters, the ease with which it

opened in his hand, and repeated aloud, half a dozen times, that it was very, very

old.

To my fancy he was making a great fuss about nothing, but it was not my province to say so. On the contrary, I professed considerable interest in the subject, and asked him what it was about.

"It is the Heims-Kringla of Snorre Tarleson," he said, "the celebrated Icelandic author of the twelfth century—it is a true and correct account of the Norwegian

princes who reigned in Iceland."

My next question related to the language in which it was written. I hoped at all

events it was translated into German. My uncle was indignant at the very

thought, and declared he wouldn't give a penny for a translation. His delight was

to have found the original work in the Icelandic tongue, which he declared to be

one of the most magnificent and yet simple idioms in the world—while at the same time its grammatical combinations were the most varied known to

students.

"About as easy as German?" was my insidious remark.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"The letters at all events," I said, "are rather difficult of comprehension."

"It is a Runic manuscript, the language of the original population of Iceland,

invented by Odin himself," cried my uncle, angry at my ignorance.

I was about to venture upon some misplaced joke on the subject, when a small

scrap of parchment fell out of the leaves. Like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread the Professor seized it. It was about five inches by three and was

scrawled over in the most extraordinary fashion.

The lines shown here are an exact facsimile of what was written on the

venerable piece of parchment—and have wonderful importance, as they induced

my uncle to undertake the most wonderful series of adventures which ever fell to

the lot of human beings.

My uncle looked keenly at the document for some moments and then declared

that it was Runic. The letters were similar to those in the book, but then what did

they mean? This was exactly what I wanted to know.

Now as I had a strong conviction that the Runic alphabet and dialect were simply an invention to mystify poor human nature, I was delighted to find that

my uncle knew as much about the matter as I did—which was nothing. At all events the tremulous motion of his fingers made me think so.

"And yet," he muttered to himself, "it is old Icelandic, I am sure of it."

And my uncle ought to have known, for he was a perfect polyglot dictionary

in himself. He did not pretend, like a certain learned pundit, to speak the two thousand languages and four thousand idioms made use of in different parts of the globe, but he did know all the more important ones.

It is a matter of great doubt to me now, to what violent measures my uncle's

impetuosity might have led him, had not the clock struck two, and our old French cook called out to let us know that dinner was on the table.

"Bother the dinner!" cried my uncle.

But as I was hungry, I sallied forth to the dining room, where I took up my usual quarters. Out of politeness I waited three minutes, but no sign of my uncle,

the Professor. I was surprised. He was not usually so blind to the pleasure of a

good dinner. It was the acme of German luxury—parsley soup, a ham omelette

with sorrel trimmings, an oyster of veal stewed with prunes, delicious fruit, and

sparkling Moselle. For the sake of poring over this musty old piece of

parchment, my uncle forbore to share our meal. To satisfy my conscience, I ate

for both.

The old cook and housekeeper was nearly out of her mind. After taking so much trouble, to find her master not appear at dinner was to her a sad

disappointment—which, as she occasionally watched the havoc I was making on the viands, became also alarm. If my uncle were to come to table after all?

Suddenly, just as I had consumed the last apple and drunk the last glass of wine, a terrible voice was heard at no great distance. It was my uncle roaring for

me to come to him. I made very nearly one leap of it—so loud, so fierce was his

tone.

CHAPTER 2

THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT

"I declare," cried my uncle, striking the table fiercely with his fist, "I declare to you it is Runic—and contains some wonderful secret, which I must get at, at

any price."

I was about to reply when he stopped me.

"Sit down," he said, quite fiercely, "and write to my dictation."

I obeyed.

"I will substitute," he said, "a letter of our alphabet for that of the Runic: we will then see what that will produce. Now, begin and make no mistakes."

The dictation commenced with the following incomprehensible result:

mm.rnlls esruel seecJde

sgtssmf unteief niedrke

kt,samn atrateS Saodrrn

emtnaeI nuaect rrilSa

Atvaar .nscrc ieaabs

ccdrmi eeutul frantu

dt,iac oseibo KediiY

Scarcely giving me time to finish, my uncle snatched the document from my

hands and examined it with the most rapt and deep attention.

"I should like to know what it means," he said, after a long period.

I certainly could not tell him, nor did he expect me to—his conversation being

uniformly answered by himself.

"I declare it puts me in mind of a cryptograph," he cried, "unless, indeed, the letters have been written without any real meaning; and yet why take so much

trouble? Who knows but I may be on the verge of some great discovery?"

My candid opinion was that it was all rubbish! But this opinion I kept

carefully to myself, as my uncle's choler was not pleasant to bear. All this time

he was comparing the book with the parchment.

"The manuscript volume and the smaller document are written in different hands," he said, "the cryptograph is of much later date than the book; there is an undoubted proof of the correctness of my surmise. [An irrefragable proof I took

it to be.] The first letter is a double M, which was only added to the Icelandic language in the twelfth century—this makes the parchment two hundred years

posterior to the volume."

The circumstances appeared very probable and very logical, but it was all

surmise to me.

"To me it appears probable that this sentence was written by some owner of the book. Now who was the owner, is the next important question. Perhaps by great good luck it may be written somewhere in the volume."

With these words Professor Hardwigg took off his spectacles, and, taking a powerful magnifying glass, examined the book carefully.

On the fly leaf was what appeared to be a blot of ink, but on examination proved to be a line of writing almost effaced by time. This was what he sought;

and, after some considerable time, he made out these letters:

"Arne Saknussemm!" he cried in a joyous and triumphant tone, "that is not only an Icelandic name, but of a learned professor of the sixteenth century, a celebrated alchemist."

I bowed as a sign of respect.

"These alchemists," he continued, "Avicenna, Bacon, Lully, Paracelsus, were the true, the only learned men of the day. They made surprising discoveries. May

not this Saknussemm, nephew mine, have hidden on this bit of parchment some

astounding invention? I believe the cryptograph to have a profound meaning—

which I must make out."

My uncle walked about the room in a state of excitement almost impossible to

describe.

"It may be so, sir," I timidly observed, "but why conceal it from posterity, if it be a useful, a worthy discovery?"

"Why—how should I know? Did not Galileo make a secret of his discoveries

in connection with Saturn? But we shall see. Until I discover the meaning of this

sentence I will neither eat nor sleep."

"My dear uncle—" I began.

"Nor you neither," he added.

It was lucky I had taken double allowance that day.

"In the first place," he continued, "there must be a clue to the meaning. If we could find that, the rest would be easy enough."

I began seriously to reflect. The prospect of going without food and sleep was

not a promising one, so I determined to do my best to solve the mystery. My uncle, meanwhile, went on with his soliloquy.

"The way to discover it is easy enough. In this document there are one hundred and thirty-two letters, giving seventy-nine consonants to fifty-three vowels. This is about the proportion found in most southern languages, the idioms of the north being much more rich in consonants. We may confidently predict, therefore, that we have to deal with a southern dialect."

Nothing could be more logical.

"Now," said Professor Hardwigg, "to trace the particular language."

"As Shakespeare says, 'that is the question,"' was my rather satirical reply.

"This man Saknussemm," he continued, "was a very learned man: now as he did not write in the language of his birthplace, he probably, like most learned men of the sixteenth century, wrote in Latin. If, however, I prove wrong in this

guess, we must try Spanish, French, Italian, Greek, and even Hebrew. My own

opinion, though, is decidedly in favor of Latin."

This proposition startled me. Latin was my favorite study, and it seemed

sacrilege to believe this gibberish to belong to the country of Virgil.

"Barbarous Latin, in all probability," continued my uncle, "but still Latin."

"Very probably," I replied, not to contradict him.

"Let us see into the matter," continued my uncle; "here you see we have a series of one hundred and thirty-two letters, apparently thrown pell-mell upon paper, without method or organization. There are words which are composed

wholly of consonants, such as mm.rnlls, others which are nearly all vowels, the fifth, for instance, which is unteief, and one of the last oseibo. This appears an

extraordinary combination. Probably we shall find that the phrase is arranged according to some mathematical plan. No doubt a certain sentence has been

written out and then jumbled up—some plan to which some figure is the clue.

Now, Harry, to show your English wit—what is that figure?"

I could give him no hint. My thoughts were indeed far away. While he was speaking I had caught sight of the portrait of my cousin Gretchen, and was wondering when she would return.

We were affianced, and loved one another very sincerely. But my uncle, who

never thought even of such sublunary matters, knew nothing of this. Without noticing my abstraction, the Professor began reading the puzzling cryptograph all sorts of ways, according to some theory of his own. Presently, rousing my wandering attention, he dictated one precious attempt to me.

I mildly handed it over to him. It read as follows:

mmessunkaSenrA.icefdoK.segnittamurtn

ecertserrette,rotaivsadua,ednecsedsadne

lacartniiilrJsiratracSarbmutabiledmek

meretarcsilucoYsleffenSnI.

I could scarcely keep from laughing, while my uncle, on the contrary, got in a

towering passion, struck the table with his fist, darted out of the room, out of the

house, and then taking to his heels was presently lost to sight.

CHAPTER 3

AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

"What is the matter?" cried the cook, entering the room; "when will master have his dinner?"

"Never."

"And, his supper?"

"I don't know. He says he will eat no more, neither shall I. My uncle has determined to fast and make me fast until he makes out this abominable

inscription," I replied.

"You will be starved to death," she said.

I was very much of the same opinion, but not liking to say so, sent her away,

and began some of my usual work of classification. But try as I might, nothing

could keep me from thinking alternately of the stupid manuscript and of the pretty Gretchen.

Several times I thought of going out, but my uncle would have been angry at

my absence. At the end of an hour, my allotted task was done. How to pass the

time? I began by lighting my pipe. Like all other students, I delighted in tobacco;

and, seating myself in the great armchair, I began to think.

Where was my uncle? I could easily imagine him tearing along some solitary

road, gesticulating, talking to himself, cutting the air with his cane, and still thinking of the absurd bit of hieroglyphics. Would he hit upon some clue? Would

he come home in better humor? While these thoughts were passing through my

brain, I mechanically took up the execrable puzzle and tried every imaginable way of grouping the letters. I put them together by twos, by threes, fours, and fives—in vain. Nothing intelligible came out, except that the fourteenth,

fifteenth, and sixteenth made ice in English; the eighty-fourth, eighty-fifth, and eighty-sixth, the word sir; then at last I seemed to find the Latin words rota,mutabile, ira, nec, atra.

"Ha! there seems to be some truth in my uncle's notion," thought I.

Then again I seemed to find the word luco, which means sacred wood. Then

in the third line I appeared to make out labiled, a perfect Hebrew word, and at the last the syllables mere, are, mer, which were French.

It was enough to drive one mad. Four different idioms in this absurd phrase.

What connection could there be between ice, sir, anger, cruel, sacred wood, changing, mother, are, and sea? The first and the last might, in a sentence connected with Iceland, mean sea of ice. But what of the rest of this monstrous

cryptograph?

I was, in fact, fighting against an insurmountable difficulty; my brain was almost on fire; my eyes were strained with staring at the parchment; the whole

absurd collection of letters appeared to dance before my vision in a number of black little groups. My mind was possessed with temporary hallucination—I was

stifling. I wanted air. Mechanically I fanned myself with the document, of which

now I saw the back and then the front.

Imagine my surprise when glancing at the back of the wearisome puzzle, the

ink having gone through, I clearly made out Latin words, and among others craterem and terrestre.

I had discovered the secret!

It came upon me like a flash of lightning. I had got the clue. All you had to do

to understand the document was to read it backwards. All the ingenious ideas of

the Professor were realized; he had dictated it rightly to me; by a mere accident I

had discovered what he so much desired.

My delight, my emotion may be imagined, my eyes were dazzled and I

trembled so that at first I could make nothing of it. One look, however, would tell me all I wished to know.

"Let me read," I said to myself, after drawing a long breath.

I spread it before me on the table, I passed my finger over each letter, I spelled

it through; in my excitement I read it out.

What horror and stupefaction took possession of my soul. I was like a man who had received a knock-down blow. Was it possible that I really read the terrible secret, and it had really been accomplished! A man had dared to do—

what?

No living being should ever know.

"Never!" cried I, jumping up. "Never shall my uncle be made aware of the dread secret. He would be quite capable of undertaking the terrible journey.

Nothing would check him, nothing stop him. Worse, he would compel me to

accompany him, and we should be lost forever. But no; such folly and madness

cannot be allowed."

I was almost beside myself with rage and fury.

"My worthy uncle is already nearly mad," I cried aloud. "This would finish him. By some accident he may make the discovery; in which case, we are both

lost. Perish the fearful secret—let the flames forever bury it in oblivion."

I snatched up book and parchment, and was about to cast them into the fire,

when the door opened and my uncle entered.

I had scarcely time to put down the wretched documents before my uncle was

by my side. He was profoundly absorbed. His thoughts were evidently bent on the terrible parchment. Some new combination had probably struck him while

taking his walk.

He seated himself in his armchair, and with a pen began to make an

algebraical calculation. I watched him with anxious eyes. My flesh crawled as it

became probable that he would discover the secret.

His combinations I knew now were useless, I having discovered the one only

clue. For three mortal hours he continued without speaking a word, without raising his head, scratching, rewriting, calculating over and over again. I knew that in time he must hit upon the right phrase. The letters of every alphabet have

only a certain number of combinations. But then years might elapse before he would arrive at the correct solution.

Still time went on; night came, the sounds in the streets ceased—and still my

uncle went on, not even answering our worthy cook when she called us to

supper.

I did not dare to leave him, so waved her away, and at last fell asleep on the

sofa.

When I awoke my uncle was still at work. His red eyes, his pallid countenance, his matted hair, his feverish hands, his hectically flushed cheeks, showed how terrible had been his struggle with the impossible, and what fearful

fatigue he had undergone during that long sleepless night. It made me quite ill to

look at him. Though he was rather severe with me, I loved him, and my heart ached at his sufferings. He was so overcome by one idea that he could not even

get in a passion! All his energies were focused on one point. And I knew that by

speaking one little word all this suffering would cease. I could not speak it.

My heart was, nevertheless, inclining towards him. Why, then, did I remain silent? In the interest of my uncle himself.

"Nothing shall make me speak," I muttered. "He will want to follow in the footsteps of the other! I know him well. His imagination is a perfect volcano, and to make discoveries in the interests of geology he would sacrifice his life. I

will therefore be silent and strictly keep the secret I have discovered. To reveal it would be suicidal. He would not only rush, himself, to destruction, but drag me

with him."

I crossed my arms, looked another way and smoked—resolved never to speak.

When our cook wanted to go out to market, or on any other errand, she found

the front door locked and the key taken away. Was this done purposely or not?

Surely Professor Hardwigg did not intend the old woman and myself to become

martyrs to his obstinate will. Were we to be starved to death? A frightful recollection came to my mind. Once we had fed on bits and scraps for a week while he sorted some curiosities. It gave me the cramp even to think of it!

I wanted my breakfast, and I saw no way of getting it. Still my resolution held

good. I would starve rather than yield. But the cook began to take me seriously

to task. What was to be done? She could not go out; and I dared not.

My uncle continued counting and writing; his imagination seemed to have

translated him to the skies. He neither thought of eating nor drinking. In this way

twelve o'clock came round. I was hungry, and there was nothing in the house.

The cook had eaten the last bit of bread. This could not go on. It did, however,

until two, when my sensations were terrible. After all, I began to think the document very absurd. Perhaps it might only be a gigantic hoax. Besides, some

means would surely be found to keep my uncle back from attempting any such

absurd expedition. On the other hand, if he did attempt anything so quixotic, I should not be compelled to accompany him. Another line of reasoning partially

decided me. Very likely he would make the discovery himself when I should have suffered starvation for nothing. Under the influence of hunger this

reasoning appeared admirable. I determined to tell all.

The question now arose as to how it was to be done. I was still dwelling on the

thought, when he rose and put on his hat.

What! go out and lock us in? Never!

"Uncle," I began.

He did not appear even to hear me.

"Professor Hardwigg," I cried.

"What," he retorted, "did you speak?"

"How about the key?"

"What key—the key of the door?"

"No—of these horrible hieroglyphics?"

He looked at me from under his spectacles, and started at the odd expression

of my face. Rushing forward, he clutched me by the arm and keenly examined

my countenance. His very look was an interrogation.

I simply nodded.

With an incredulous shrug of the shoulders, he turned upon his heel.

Undoubtedly he thought I had gone mad.

"I have made a very important discovery."

His eyes flashed with excitement. His hand was lifted in a menacing attitude.

For a moment neither of us spoke. It is hard to say which was most excited.

"You don't mean to say that you have any idea of the meaning of the scrawl?"

"I do," was my desperate reply. "Look at the sentence as dictated by you."

"Well, but it means nothing," was the angry answer.

"Nothing if you read from left to right, but mark, if from right to left—"

"Backwards!" cried my uncle, in wild amazement. "Oh most cunning Saknussemm; and I to be such a blockhead!"

He snatched up the document, gazed at it with haggard eye, and read it out as I

had done.

It read as follows:

In Sneffels Yoculis craterem kem delibat

umbra Scartaris Julii intra calendas descende,

audas viator, et terrestre centrum attinges.

Kod feci. Arne Saknussemm

Which dog Latin being translated, reads as follows:

Descend into the crater of Yocul of Sneffels, which the shade of

Scartaris caresses, before the kalends of July, audacious traveler,

and you will reach the centre of the earth. I did it.

ARNE

SAKNUSSEMM

My uncle leaped three feet from the ground with joy. He looked radiant and handsome. He rushed about the room wild with delight and satisfaction. He

knocked over tables and chairs. He threw his books about until at last, utterly exhausted, he fell into his armchair.

"What's o'clock?" he asked.

"About three."

"My dinner does not seem to have done me much good," he observed. "Let me have something to eat. We can then start at once. Get my portmanteau ready."

"What for?"

"And your own," he continued. "We start at once."

My horror may be conceived. I resolved however to show no fear. Scientific

reasons were the only ones likely to influence my uncle. Now, there were many against this terrible journey. The very idea of going down to the centre of the earth was simply absurd. I determined therefore to argue the point after dinner.

My uncle's rage was now directed against the cook for having no dinner ready.

My explanation however satisfied him, and having gotten the key, she soon

contrived to get sufficient to satisfy our voracious appetites.

During the repast my uncle was rather gay than otherwise. He made some of

those peculiar jokes which belong exclusively to the learned. As soon, however,

as dessert was over, he called me to his study. We each took a chair on opposite

sides of the table.

"Henry," he said, in a soft and winning voice; "I have always believed you ingenious, and you have rendered me a service never to be forgotten. Without you, this great, this wondrous discovery would never have been made. It is my

duty, therefore, to insist on your sharing the glory."

"He is in a good humor," thought I; "I'll soon let him know my opinion of glory."

"In the first place," he continued, "you must keep the whole affair a profound secret. There is no more envious race of men than scientific discoverers. Many

would start on the same journey. At all events, we will be the first in the field."

"I doubt your having many competitors," was my reply.

"A man of real scientific acquirements would be delighted at the chance. We

should find a perfect stream of pilgrims on the traces of Arne Saknussemm, if this document were once made public."

"But, my dear sir, is not this paper very likely to be a hoax?" I urged.

"The book in which we find it is sufficient proof of its authenticity," he replied.

"I thoroughly allow that the celebrated Professor wrote the lines, but only, I believe, as a kind of mystification," was my answer.

Scarcely were the words out of my mouth, when I was sorry I had uttered them. My uncle looked at me with a dark and gloomy scowl, and I began to be

alarmed for the results of our conversation. His mood soon changed, however,

and a smile took the place of a frown.

"We shall see," he remarked, with decisive emphasis.

"But see, what is all this about Yocul, and Sneffels, and this Scartaris? I have never heard anything about them."

"The very point to which I am coming. I lately received from my friend Augustus Peterman, of Leipzig, a map. Take down the third atlas from the

second shelf, series Z, plate 4."

I rose, went to the shelf, and presently returned with the volume indicated.

"This," said my uncle, "is one of the best maps of Iceland. I believe it will settle all your doubts, difficulties and objections."

With a grim hope to the contrary, I stooped over the map.

CHAPTER 4

WE START ON THE JOURNEY

"You see, the whole island is composed of volcanoes," said the Professor, "and remark carefully that they all bear the name of Yocul. The word is Icelandic, and

means a glacier. In most of the lofty mountains of that region the volcanic eruptions come forth from icebound caverns. Hence the name applied to every volcano on this extraordinary island."

"But what does this word Sneffels mean?"

To this question I expected no rational answer. I was mistaken.

"Follow my finger to the western coast of Iceland, there you see Reykjavik, its

capital. Follow the direction of one of its innumerable fjords or arms of the sea,

and what do you see below the sixty-fifth degree of latitude?"

"A peninsula—very like a thighbone in shape."

"And in the centre of it—?"

"A mountain."

"Well, that's Sneffels."

I had nothing to say.

"That is Sneffels—a mountain about five thousand feet in height, one of the most remarkable in the whole island, and certainly doomed to be the most

celebrated in the world, for through its crater we shall reach the centre of the earth."

"Impossible!" cried I, startled and shocked at the thought.

"Why impossible?" said Professor Hardwigg in his severest tones.

"Because its crater is choked with lava, by burning rocks—by infinite

dangers."

"But if it be extinct?"

"That would make a difference."

"Of course it would. There are about three hundred volcanoes on the whole surface of the globe—but the greater number are extinct. Of these Sneffels is one. No eruption has occurred since 1219—in fact it has ceased to be a volcano

at all."

After this what more could I say? Yes,—I thought of another objection.

"But what is all this about Scartaris and the kalends of July—?"

My uncle reflected deeply. Presently he gave forth the result of his reflections

in a sententious tone. "What appears obscure to you, to me is light. This very phrase shows how particular Saknussemm is in his directions. The Sneffels

mountain has many craters. He is careful therefore to point the exact one which

is the highway into the Interior of the Earth. He lets us know, for this purpose,

that about the end of the month of June, the shadow of Mount Scartaris falls upon the one crater. There can be no doubt about the matter."

My uncle had an answer for everything.

"I accept all your explanations" I said, "and Saknussemm is right. He found out the entrance to the bowels of the earth, he has indicated correctly, but that he

or anyone else ever followed up the discovery is madness to suppose."

"Why so, young man?"

"All scientific teaching, theoretical and practical, shows it to be impossible."

"I care nothing for theories," retorted my uncle.

"But is it not well-known that heat increases one degree for every seventy feet

you descend into the earth? Which gives a fine idea of the central heat. All the

matters which compose the globe are in a state of incandescence; even gold, platinum, and the hardest rocks are in a state of fusion. What would become of

us?"

"Don't be alarmed at the heat, my boy."

"How so?"

"Neither you nor anybody else know anything about the real state of the

earth's interior. All modern experiments tend to explode the older theories. Were any such heat to exist, the upper crust of the earth would be shattered to atoms,

and the world would be at an end."

A long, learned and not uninteresting discussion followed, which ended in this

wise:

"I do not believe in the dangers and difficulties which you, Henry, seem to multiply; and the only way to learn, is like Arne Saknussemm, to go and see."

"Well," cried I, overcome at last, "let us go and see. Though how we can do that in the dark is another mystery."

"Fear nothing. We shall overcome these, and many other difficulties. Besides,

as we approach the centre, I expect to find it luminous—"

"Nothing is impossible."

"And now that we have come to a thorough understanding, not a word to any

living soul. Our success depends on secrecy and dispatch."

Thus ended our memorable conference, which roused a perfect fever in me.

Leaving my uncle, I went forth like one possessed. Reaching the banks of the Elbe, I began to think. Was all I had heard really and truly possible? Was my uncle in his sober senses, and could the interior of the earth be reached? Was I

the victim of a madman, or was he a discoverer of rare courage and grandeur of

conception?

To a certain extent I was anxious to be off. I was afraid my enthusiasm would

cool. I determined to pack up at once. At the end of an hour, however, on my way home, I found that my feelings had very much changed.

"I'm all abroad," I cried; "'tis a nightmare—I must have dreamed it."

At this moment I came face to face with Gretchen, whom I warmly embraced.

"So you have come to meet me," she said; "how good of you. But what is the matter?"

Well, it was no use mincing the matter, I told her all. She listened with awe,

and for some minutes she could not speak.

"Well?" I at last said, rather anxiously.

"What a magnificent journey. If I were only a man! A journey worthy of the nephew of Professor Hardwigg. I should look upon it as an honor to accompany

him."

"My dear Gretchen, I thought you would be the first to cry out against this mad enterprise."

"No; on the contrary, I glory in it. It is magnificent, splendid—an idea worthy

of my father. Henry Lawson, I envy you."

This was, as it were, conclusive. The final blow of all.

When we entered the house we found my uncle surrounded by workmen and

porters, who were packing up. He was pulling and hauling at a bell.

"Where have you been wasting your time? Your portmanteau is not packed—

my papers are not in order—the precious tailor has not brought my clothes, nor

my gaiters—the key of my carpet bag is gone!"

I looked at him stupefied. And still he tugged away at the bell.

"We are really off, then?" I said.

"Yes—of course, and yet you go out for a stroll, unfortunate boy!"

"And when do we go?"

"The day after tomorrow, at daybreak."

I heard no more; but darted off to my little bedchamber and locked myself in.

There was no doubt about it now. My uncle had been hard at work all the afternoon. The garden was full of ropes, rope ladders, torches, gourds, iron clamps, crowbars, alpenstocks, and pickaxes—enough to load ten men.

I passed a terrible night. I was called early the next day to learn that the resolution of my uncle was unchanged and irrevocable. I also found my cousin

and affianced wife as warm on the subject as was her father.

Next day, at five o'clock in the morning, the post chaise was at the door.

Gretchen and the old cook received the keys of the house; and, scarcely pausing

to wish anyone good-by, we started on our adventurous journey into the centre of

the earth.

CHAPTER 5

FIRST LESSONS IN CLIMBING

At Altona, a suburb of Hamburg, is the Chief Station of the Kiel railway, which was to take us to the shores of the Belt. In twenty minutes from the moment of our departure we were in Holstein, and our carriage entered the station. Our heavy luggage was taken out, weighed, labeled, and placed in a huge van. We then took our tickets, and exactly at seven o'clock were seated opposite each other in a firstclass railway carriage.

My uncle said nothing. He was too busy examining his papers, among which

of course was the famous parchment, and some letters of introduction from the

Danish consul which were to pave the way to an introduction to the Governor of

Iceland. My only amusement was looking out of the window. But as we passed

through a flat though fertile country, this occupation was slightly monotonous. In

three hours we reached Kiel, and our baggage was at once transferred to the steamer.

We had now a day before us, a delay of about ten hours. Which fact put my

uncle in a towering passion. We had nothing to do but to walk about the pretty

town and bay. At length, however, we went on board, and at half past ten were

steaming down the Great Belt. It was a dark night, with a strong breeze and a rough sea, nothing being visible but the occasional fires on shore, with here and

there a lighthouse. At seven in the morning we left Korsor, a little town on the

western side of Seeland.

Here we took another railway, which in three hours brought us to the capital,

Copenhagen, where, scarcely taking time for refreshment, my uncle hurried out

to present one of his letters of introduction. It was to the director of the Museum

of Antiquities, who, having been informed that we were tourists bound for

Iceland, did all he could to assist us. One wretched hope sustained me now.

Perhaps no vessel was bound for such distant parts.