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 yagers 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 yagers
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_!"