“The South Pole of the moon lies in the midst of a marvelously upheaved and tumbled region, where one huge ring is seen breaking into another on every hand. One of these rings, named Newton—it lies just on the upper edge of the disk, south of Clavius—surrounds the deepest known depression on the moon. Its bottom sinks to a depth of 24,000 feet below the highest point on the wall. This gigantic hole is so profound that, situated where it is, close to the pole, where the sun can never rise very high, its depths remain forever buried in night. It is the very ideal of a dungeon, for if you were imprisoned at the bottom you would never see either the sun or the earth.”
“You make me shudder! Truly, after all, the moon appears to be a world filled with dreadful things. Who would ever imagine it, seeing how serene and beautiful she is in a calm night?”
“Yet is there not a kind of beauty even in those things, like the abyss of Newton, which appall you only when you know the real facts about them? There is a certain grace in their shapes and outlines, and a great attraction for the eye in their contrasts of light and shadow. It is the same sort of attraction which we find in such terrestrial scenes as the Yosemite Valley viewed from Inspiration Point, or the awful depths and chasms of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado. The presence of man and his works is not always essential in order to fix our attention upon the wonders of nature. Their very grandeur exalts us until we forget our little race and its ephemeral achievements.”
“Still, I hope that you will show me something on the moon less awe-inspiring and suited to awaken more quiet thoughts, and especially to reassure me concerning my lunarians, as I suppose you would call them.”
“You shall not be kept long in expectation. Turn your eyes once more to the Mare Imbrium. You will observe that its northern shore consists of a series of curves, each terminating with a promontory projecting into the sea. When looking at it I am often reminded of an entrancing view which I once enjoyed from the summit of Mt. Etna over the island of Sicily. From that great elevation nearly the whole eastern and southeastern coast of the island was visible as upon a map. The indented shore stretched away in long, graceful curves, where the blue Mediterranean contrasted sharply with the yellow sands, and the eye, wandering from Catania to Syracuse, was enchanted with the beauty of those geometric lines. But the winding coast of the Mare Imbrium is far longer than the shores of Sicily, and the mountains and cliffs bordering it are more wonderful than any corresponding scenes on the earth. I wish, particularly, to have you look at the easternmost of the indentations on the northern side of the mare. It bears a designation that must surely please your imagination. It is the Sinus Iridum, ‘Gulf or Bay of Rainbows.’”
“I recognize the work of my old friend the unknown astronomer. Verily he had a poetic soul! And he has written his poem on the chart of the moon, for those to read who can.”
“It is a charming landscape that the telescope reveals there,” I said, “even though no rainbows are visible.”
“But you will not deny that they may once have spanned that bay and its shores with their exquisite arches?”
“No, I shall not deny so pleasing a possibility. I will only say that it lies beyond the ken, and even outside the field, of science.”
“Then I regard it as fortunate that he was not too exclusive in his devotion to science, for then he could never have seen the rainbows with the eye of fancy, and your charts would not have been adorned with so delightful a name.”