Etidorhpa; or, The End of Earth. Read online

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  ETIDORHPA

  OR

  THE END OF EARTH.

  THE STRANGE HISTORY OF A MYSTERIOUS BEING

  AND

  The Account of a Remarkable Journey

  AS COMMUNICATED IN MANUSCRIPT TO

  LLEWELLYN DRURY

  WHO PROMISED TO PRINT THE SAME, BUT FINALLY EVADED THE RESPONSIBILITY

  WHICH WAS ASSUMED BY

  JOHN URI LLOYD

  WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  J. AUGUSTUS KNAPP

  SIXTH EDITION

  CINCINNATI

  THE ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY

  1896

  ASCRIPTION.

  To Prof. W. H. Venable, who reviewed the manuscript of this work, I amindebted for many valuable suggestions, and I can not speak too kindlyof him as a critic.

  The illustrations, excepting those mechanical and historical, making inthemselves a beautiful narrative without words, are due to the admirableartistic conceptions and touch of Mr. J. Augustus Knapp.

  Structural imperfections as well as word selections and phrases thatbreak all rules in composition, and that the care even of Prof. Venablecould not eradicate, I accept as wholly my own. For much, on the onehand, that it may seem should have been excluded, and on the other, forgiving place to ideas nearer to empiricism than to science, I am alsoresponsible. For vexing my friends with problems that seemingly do notconcern in the least men in my position, and for venturing to think,superficially, it may be, outside the restricted lines of a sciencebound to the unresponsive crucible and retort, to which my life has beengiven, and amid the problems of which it has nearly worn itself away, Ihave no plausible excuse, and shall seek none.

  JOHN URI LLOYD

  COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY JOHN URI LLOYD.COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY JOHN URI LLOYD.

  [_All rights reserved._]

  PREFACE

  Books are as tombstones made by the living for the living, but destinedsoon only to remind us of the dead. The preface, like an epitaph, seemsvainly to "implore the passing tribute" of a moment's interest. No manis allured by either a grave-inscription or a preface, unless it beaccompanied by that ineffable charm which age casts over mortalproductions. Libraries, in one sense, represent cemeteries, and the rowsof silent volumes, with their dim titles, suggest burial tablets, manyof which, alas! mark only cenotaphs--empty tombs. A modern book, nomatter how talented the author, carries with it a familiar personalitywhich may often be treated with neglect or even contempt, but a volume acentury old demands some reverence; a vellum-bound or hog-skin print, orantique yellow parchment, two, three, five hundred years old, regardlessof its contents, impresses one with an indescribable feeling akin to aweand veneration,--as does the wheat from an Egyptian tomb, even though itbe only wheat. We take such a work from the shelf carefully, and replaceit gently. While the productions of modern writers are handledfamiliarly, as men living jostle men yet alive; those of authors longdead are touched as tho' clutched by a hand from the unseen world; thereader feels that a phantom form opposes his own, and that spectral eyesscan the pages as he turns them.

  "THE STERN FACE, ... ACROSS THE GULF."]

  The stern face, the penetrating eye of the personage whose likenessforms the frontispiece of the yellowed volume in my hand, speak acrossthe gulf of two centuries, and bid me beware. The title page is readwith reverence, and the great tome is replaced with care, for an almostsuperstitious sensation bids me be cautious and not offend. Let thosewho presume to criticise the intellectual productions of such men becareful; in a few days the dead will face their censors--dead.

  Standing in a library of antiquated works, one senses the shadows of acemetery. Each volume adds to the oppression, each old tome casts theinfluence of its spirit over the beholder, for have not these old booksspirits? The earth-grave covers the mind as well as the body of itsmoldering occupant, and while only a strong imagination can assume thata spirit hovers over and lingers around inanimate clay, here each titleis a voice that speaks as though the heart of its creator stillthrobbed, the mind essence of the dead writer envelops the livingreader. Take down that vellum-bound volume,--it was written in one ofthe centuries long past. The pleasant face of its creator, as fresh asif but a print of yesterday, smiles upon you from the exquisitelyengraved copper-plate frontispiece; the mind of the author rises fromout the words before you. This man is not dead and his comrades live.Turn to the shelves about, before each book stands a guardianspirit,--together they form a phantom army that, invisible to mortals,encircles the beholder.

  "THE PLEASANT FACE OF ITS CREATOR ... SMILES UPON YOU."]

  Ah! this antique library is not as is a church graveyard, only acemetery for the dead; it is also a mansion for the living. Thesealcoves are trysting places for elemental shades. Essences ofdisenthralled minds meet here and revel. Thoughts of the past take shapeand live in this atmosphere,--who can say that pulsations unperceived,beyond the reach of physics or of chemistry, are not as etherealmind-seeds which, although unseen, yet, in living brain, exposed to suchan atmosphere as this, formulate embryotic thought-expressions destinedto become energetic intellectual forces? I sit in such a weird libraryand meditate. The shades of grim authors whisper in my ear, skeletonforms oppose my own, and phantoms possess the gloomy alcoves of thelibrary I am building.

  "SKELETON FORMS OPPOSE MY OWN."]

  With the object of carrying to the future a section of thought currentfrom the past, the antiquarian libraries of many nations have beenculled, and purchases made in every book market of the world. Thesebooks surround me. Naturally many persons have become interested in themovement, and, considering it a worthy one, unite to further theproject, for the purpose is not personal gain. Thus it is not unusualfor boxes of old chemical or pharmacal volumes to arrive by freight orexpress, without a word as to the donor. The mail brings manuscriptsunprinted, and pamphlets recondite, with no word of introduction. Theycome unheralded. The authors or the senders realize that in this uniquelibrary a place is vacant if any work on connected subjects is missing,and thinking men of the world are uniting their contributions to fillsuch vacancies.

  * * * * *

  Enough has been said concerning the ancient library that has bred thesereflections, and my own personality does not concern the reader. He cannow formulate his conclusions as well perhaps as I, regarding the originof the manuscript that is to follow, if he concerns himself at all oversubjects mysterious or historical, and my connection therewith is ofminor importance. Whether Mr. Drury brought the strange paper in person,or sent it by express or mail,--whether it was slipped into a box ofbooks from foreign lands, or whether my hand held the pen that made therecord,--whether I stood face to face with Mr. Drury in the shadows ofthis room, or have but a fanciful conception of his figure,--whether theartist drew upon his imagination for the vivid likeness of the severalpersonages figured in the book that follows, or from reliable data hasgiven fac-similes authentic,--is immaterial. Sufficient be it to saythat the manuscript of this book has been in my possession for a periodof seven years, and my lips must now be sealed concerning all thattranspired in connection therewith outside the subject-matter recordedtherein. And yet I can not deny that for these seven years I havehesitated concerning my proper course, and more than once have decidedto cover from sight the fascinating leaflets, hide them amongsurrounding volumes, and let them slumber until chance should bring themto the attention of the future student.

  These thoughts rise before me this gloomy day of December, 1894, as,snatching a moment from the exactions of busin
ess, I sit among these oldvolumes devoted to science-lore, and again study over the uniquemanuscript, and meditate; I hesitate again: Shall I, or shall Inot?--but a duty is a duty. Perhaps the mysterious part of the subjectwill be cleared to me only when my own thought-words come to rest amongthese venerable relics of the past--when books that I have writtenbecome companions of ancient works about me--for then I can claimrelationship with the shadows that flit in and out, and can demand thatthey, the ghosts of the library, commune with the shade that guards thebook that holds this preface.

  JOHN URI LLOYD.