Nor was this all. Fresh discoveries of remains in the pleiocene
formation had emboldened other geologists to refer back the human
species to a higher antiquity still. It is true that these remains
were not human bones, but objects bearing the traces of his
handiwork, such as fossil leg-bones of animals, sculptured and carved
evidently by the hand of man.
Thus, at one bound, the record of the existence of man receded far
back into the history of the ages past; he was a predecessor of the
mastodon; he was a contemporary of the southern elephant; he lived a
hundred thousand years ago, when, according to geologists, the
pleiocene formation was in progress.
Such then was the state of palæontological science, and what we knew
of it was sufficient to explain our behaviour in the presence of this
stupendous Golgotha. Any one may now understand the frenzied
excitement of my uncle, when, twenty yards farther on, he found
himself face to face with a primitive man!
It was a perfectly recognisable human body. Had some particular soil,
like that of the cemetery St. Michel, at Bordeaux, preserved it thus
for so many ages? It might be so. But this dried corpse, with its
parchment-like skin drawn tightly over the bony frame, the limbs
still preserving their shape, sound teeth, abundant hair, and finger
and toe nails of frightful length, this desiccated mummy startled us
by appearing just as it had lived countless ages ago. I stood mute
before this apparition of remote antiquity. My uncle, usually so
garrulous, was struck dumb likewise. We raised the body. We stood it
up against a rock. It seemed to stare at us out of its empty orbits.
We sounded with our knuckles his hollow frame.
After some moments' silence the Professor was himself again. Otto
Liedenbrock, yielding to his nature, forgot all the circumstances of
our eventful journey, forgot where we were standing, forgot the
vaulted cavern which contained us. No doubt he was in mind back again
in his Johannæum, holding forth to his pupils, for he assumed his
learned air; and addressing himself to an imaginary audience, he
proceeded thus:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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