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.