Chapter 33 - A Narrative of Hunting Adventures in Southern Africa by Mayne Reid
The Lone Mountain
It has been observed, that upon the plains of the zuur-veldt country, mountains of singular forms meet the eye of the traveller—cones, domes, square box-like masses with table tops; sharp ridges, like the roofs of gigantic houses; and some that pierce the heavens with pointed peaks like the steeples of churches! Some, again, present a horizontal outline, like the parapet of a fortification, while square tower-like masses, rising above the general level, carry out the idea of some work of military architecture on a grand scale.
Our young yägers were very much interested in these mountain forms, so varied and fantastic. Sometimes their route led them along the base of a precipice rising a thousand feet sheer above the plain, and trending for miles without a break, so that for miles no access could be had to the mountain that rose still higher above. Sometimes they were compelled to trek along narrow ridges that sloped off on both sides, leaving scarce enough of level to run the wheels upon. Then, again, they would be compelled to pass around some spur, that, shooting for miles out into the plain, barred their direct path.
As they treked across one of the widest plains they had yet seen, a singularly formed mountain drew their attention. It could scarce be called a mountain, as its altitude above the plain could not have been more than seven or eight hundred feet; but its brown rocky surface gave it that character, and to have styled such a mass a hill would have been equally misnaming it. There were no “foothills,” or inequalities near its base. The greensward of the level plain stretched away on every side—its verdant colour strongly contrasting with the dark brown granite of the mountain.
The sides of this singular mountain sloped from base to summit as regularly as those of an Egyptian pyramid; and at a distance it looked pyramidal, but on coming nearer its rounded form could be perceived. It was, in reality, an obtuse cone, perfect in all except the apex, and it was there that the peculiarity of this mountain lay. Instead of ending at the apex, a steeple-like rock rose out of the summit some thirty feet higher, ending in a point that appeared from below as “sharp as a needle.” It was this that had drawn the attention of the young yägers more particularly, as other mountains of conical form were common enough along their route; but this one, looking, as one of them observed, like an inverted funnel, differed from any they had yet seen. It was very conspicuous, thus standing isolated in the midst of the open plain, and contrasting so much in its colour with the green table upon which it appeared to rest.
“Let us go and explore it,” proposed Arend; “it isn’t much out of our way. We can easily overtake these slow-going oxen again. What say ye all?”
“Let us go, by all means,” said Hans, who fancied that upon so odd-looking a mountain he might fall in with some new plant.
“Agreed!” cried all the others in a breath, for when Hans proposed a thing it was usually assented to by his younger comrades.
Without further ado the whole six turned their horses’ heads for the mountain, leaving the wagons to trek on across the plain, towards the point where they intended to encamp.
When the riders first faced to the mountain, it appeared to be about a mile off, and all, except Hans, believed that it was not more. Hans maintained that it was five, and was unanimously contradicted. A discussion took place, Hans standing alone—five to one against him. The idea of its being more than a mile was scouted. Hans was ridiculed—laughed at—called blind.
There was a little epitome of the world on that plain—a paraphrase upon a small scale of Galileo and his contemporaries.
And here let me counsel you, boy reader, ever to be cautious how you pronounce against ideas that may be put forth, because they chance to differ from those you already hold. Half of what you have already learnt is erroneous, and much of it has been taught you with an evil intent. I do not refer to what has been taught you by your school instructor, who imparts knowledge to you with the best of motives. But the tyrants of the earth—both priests and princes—for long centuries have had the moulding of men’s minds, and they have spared no labour to shape them to their own purposes. They have so well succeeded, that one half the very proverbs by which conduct is guided, prove upon examination to be false and wicked.
There is a peculiarity about the attainment of knowledge which assists wicked men in misleading their victims, and I would wish that all of you should know this peculiarity. I do not claim to be its discoverer, for others may have discovered it as well; but up to this hour I have met with no promulgation of it.
It is this, that every truth is overshadowed by a sophism, more like the truth than truth itself. This law holds good throughout the whole extent of the moral, intellectual, and material world.
I cannot pause here to illustrate the above statement—not even to explain it. But I hope the day is not distant, when you and I may converse upon such matters face to face.
I hope you believe that I have helped you to some knowledge; but I now affirm, and in full seriousness, that, if you examine the statement I have thus emphatically made, and study it to a full understanding, you will have gained more knowledge in that one sentence than all I have hitherto written. You will find in it the key to most of the errors and misfortunes that afflict mankind.
In that sentence you will also find a key to the difference of opinion that existed between Hans and his five companions. None of the five were thinkers—they relied entirely on the evidence of their senses. A process of ratiocination never troubled the brain of any of the five. Had they never before seen a straight rod plunged into crystal water, they would most certainly have believed that the rod was bent into an angle—ay, and have ridiculed any one who should have contradicted the evidence of their senses, just in the way they now ridiculed Hans for asserting that an object was five miles off, when they plainly saw it was only a fifth part of that distance. It certainly appeared only a mile off—that is, to one who had been in the habit of measuring distances by the eye in the ordinary atmosphere of a lowland country. But Hans knew they were now in a region elevated many thousand feet above the level of the sea. Partly from books, and partly from his own observation, he had studied the nature of the atmosphere at that altitude; and he was acquainted with the optical illusions of which it is frequently the cause. He admitted that the mountain looked near, even as near as a mile; but he held on to his original opinion.
Patient as was the young philosopher, the ridicule of his companions nettled him a little; and suddenly pulling up on the plain, he challenged them to a measurement. They all agreed to the proposal. They had no measuring chain—not even a yardstick.
But they knew that Hans could tell distances without one; and having consented that his measurement should be taken, they all rode back to the point where the discussion had commenced.
How was Hans going to manage it? By trigonometrical triangles, you will say. Not a bit of it. He could have told the distance in that way if he had wished; but he had a simpler plan. Hans did not carry a viameter, but a viameter carried him!
Yes, in the stout steady-going cob which he rode, he had as perfect a viameter as ever was set to a wheel; and Hans having once put his horse to the proper pace, could tell the distance passed over almost as correctly as if it had been traced by a chain! There was a certain rate of speed into which Hans’s horse, when left to himself, was sure to fall, and this speed was so many steps to the minute—the steps being of equal length. By either counting the steps, or noting the time, the exact distance could be obtained.
Hans had been in the habit of putting his horse to the proper pace for this very purpose, and could do so at a minute’s warning. So, taking out his watch to regulate the speed by the moment hand, he started forward in a direct line for the mountain.
All rode, after, without noise—so as not to disturb Hans in his counting. But for that, they would have continued to gibe him a little. Only for a short while, however; for, as they rode on, and the mountain did not appear to come any nearer, their faces began to look very blank indeed.
When they had ridden for a full half-hour, and the mountain still looked a mile off, Hans had five very crest-fallen boys moving along in his rear.
When they had ridden nearly another half-hour, and their horses’ snouts almost touched the rocks of the mountain, none of the five was surprised to hear Hans cry out in a loud firm voice:—
“Just five miles and a quarter!”
Not a word was spoken. Not one of the five ventured even a whisper of contradiction. Hans did not laugh in his turn, but facing round simply said—
“Every truth is overshadowed by a sophism more like the truth than truth itself!”