He paused, stepped forward, and laid on our soap-box table a broad belt of gold plates, engraved, and united by a gold buckle, beautifully embossed.
CHAPTER V
The Perpetual Nimbus
You probably might recall, Mr. Link, that wonderful chapter in “Robinson Crusoe,” where Defoe describes the feelings of his hero after he found the footprints in the sand. I mention it here because I am amused at the memory of how different were our emotions as Goritz showed us the gold belt. I turned last night to the pages of Defoe’s masterpiece and jotted down this appropriate quotation; it illustrates completely what I mean.
“I slept none that night: the farther I was from the occasion of my fright, the greater my apprehensions were: which is something contrary to the nature of such things, and especially to the usual practice of all creatures in fear: but I was so embarrassed with my own frightful ideas of the thing, that I formed nothing but dismal imaginations to myself, even though I was not a great way off from it. Sometimes I fancied it must be the Devil, and reason joined in with me upon this supposition; for how should any other thing in human shape come into the place?”
That gold belt to us we knew meant human occupation of this New Continent, and it was almost impossible for us to control our violent joy over the discovery. We were not worrying as to whether it was the Devil or savages, and we felt sure we were not the victims of illusion. Perhaps a little trepidation crept in later, but for that moment we were beside ourselves with happiness and wonder. And yet we were at first silent, dumbfounded, bending over the strange find in dazed delight, eager yet incredulous, lost in a bewilderment of anticipation.
The Professor had produced a small pocket glass and was nervously inspecting the plates, very much to our annoyance, his ears and head seeming constantly to be pushing our faces away. A look of profound vindication appeared on his features, and I think we sympathized with his feelings and applauded them. Goritz beamed benignantly, and I knew Hopkins was on the verge of a metrical quotation. But the Professor had the floor.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “this belt has no possible relation to any know human culture. The fabricators of this chef d’oeuvre—it’s such in every sense—have probably never existed outside of the eccentric depression—the size of a small continent—into which we shall be privileged to descend.” The Professor bowed to Goritz, who was radiant from his approbation.
He continued: “The figures engraved on these plates, the relievos on this buckle, are autochthonous”—Hopkins emitted a low whistle. “They are, however, distinctly colubrine, reptilian, crotaline, lacertilian, poly-catabolic-arbori-animalistic. They indicate a serpent worship and a tree worship, and are reminiscent of the Fall; I may call it the recapitulative survival of myth.”
Hopkins’ whistle had been attempting some shriller ejaculations of surprise, but the verbal avalanche smothered it. It was a suffocating moment for all of us, and when Hopkins said, “Professor, with a cocktail on top of this I believe our cerebral intoxication would be complete,” the interior danger of explosion increased almost beyond control. But the Professor kept on, and a little “plain stuff,” as Hopkins called it helped us out of our embarrassment.