"Well, my own opinion is that my head is not exactly right. In fact, I believe myself slightly delirious."
"What makes you think so?"
"I will explain why I fancy I have lost my senses," I cried. "Have we not returned to the surface of mother earth?"
"Certainly not."
"Then truly I must be mad, for do I not see the light of day? do I not hear the whistling of the wind? and can I not distinguish the wash of a great sea?"
"And that is all that makes you uneasy?" said my uncle, with a smile.
"Can you explain?"
"I will not make any attempt to explain; for the whole matter is utterly inexplicable. But you shall see and judge for yourself. You will then find that geological science is as yet in its infancy—and that we are doomed to enlighten the world."
"Let us advance, then," I cried eagerly, no longer able to restrain my curiosity.
"Wait a moment, my dear Harry," he responded; "you must take precautions after your illness before going into the open air."
"The open air?"
"Yes, my boy. I have to warn you that the wind is rather violent—and I have no wish for you to expose yourself without necessary precautions."
"But I beg to assure you that I am perfectly recovered from my illness."
"Have just a little patience, my boy. A relapse would be inconvenient to all parties. We have no time to lose—as our approaching sea voyage may be of long duration."
"Sea voyage?" I cried, more bewildered than ever.
"Yes. You must take another day's rest, and we shall be ready to go on board by to-morrow," replied my uncle, with a peculiar smile.
Go on board! the words utterly astonished me. Go on board—what? and how? Had we come upon a river, a lake, had we discovered some inland sea? Was a vessel lying at anchor in some part of the interior of the earth?
My curiosity was worked up to the very highest pitch. My uncle made vain attempts to restrain me. When at last, however, he discovered that my feverish impatience would do more harm than good—and that satisfaction of my wishes could alone restore me to a calm state of mind, he gave way.
I dressed myself rapidly—and then to please my uncle, taking the precaution of wrapping myself in one of the coverlets, I rushed out of the grotto.
chapter xxvii
The Central Sea
At first I saw absolutely nothing. My eyes, wholly unused to the effulgence of light, could not bear the sudden brightness; and I was compelled to close them. When I was able to re-open them, I stood still, far more stupefied then astonished. Not all the widest effects of imagination could have conjured up such a scene! "The sea—the sea," I cried.
"Yes," replied my uncle, in a tone of pardonable pride; "The Central Sea. No future navigator will deny the fact of my having discovered it; and hence of acquiring a right of giving it a name."
It was quite true. A vast, limitless expanse of water, the end of a lake if not of an ocean, spread before us, until it was lost in the distance. The shore, which was very much indented, consisted of a beautiful soft golden sand, mixed with small shells, the long deserted homes of some of the creatures of a past age. The waves broke incessantly, and with a peculiarly sonorous murmur—to be found in underground localities. A slight frothy flake arose as the wind blew along the pellucid waters; and many a dash of spray was blown in to my face. The might superstructure of rock which rose above to an inconceivable height, left only a narrow margin—but where we stood, there was a long beach of strand. On all sides were capes and promontories and enormous cliffs, partially worn by the eternal breaking of the waves, through countless ages! And as I gazed from side to side, the mighty rocks faded in the distance like a fleecy film of cloud.
It was in reality an ocean, with all the usual characteristic of an inland sea, only horribly wild—so rigid, cold and savage.
One thing startled and puzzled me greatly. How was it that I was able to look upon that vast sheet of water instead of being plunged in utter darkness? The vast landscape before me was lit up like day. But here was wanting the dazzling brilliancy, the splendid irradiation of the sun; the pals cold illumination of the moon; the brightness of the stars. The illuminating power in this subterraneous region, from its trembling and flickering character, its clear dry whiteness, the very slight elevation of its temperature, its great superiority to that of the moon, was evidently electric; something in the nature of the aurora borealis, only that its phenomena were constant, and able to light up the whole of the ocean cavern.
The tremendous vault above our heads, the sky, so to speak, appeared to be composed of a conglomeration of nebulous vapors, in constant motion. I should originally have supposed, that under such an atmospheric pressure as must exist in that place, the evaporation of water could not really take place; yet there were heavy and dense clouds rolling along that mighty vault, partially concealing the roof. Electric currents produced astonishing play of light and a shade in the distance, especially around the heavier clouds. Deep shadows were cast beneath, and then suddenly, between two clouds, there would come a ray of unusual beauty, and remarkable intensity. Yet it was not like the sun, for it gave no heat.
The effect was sad and excruciatingly melancholy. Instead of a noble firmament of blue, studded with stars, there was above me a heavy roof of granite, which seemed to crush me. Gazing around, I began to think of the theory of the English captain, who compared the earth to a vast hollow where in the interior of which the air is retained in a luminous state by means of atmospheric pressure, while two stares, Pluto and Prosepine, circle their in their mysterious orbits. After all, suppose the old fellow was right!
In truth, we were imprisoned—bound as it were in a vast excavation. Its width it was impossible to
