Some of our relatives on the other side of the globe will be astonished to learn that the way to the Moon has been discovered by an unfortunate member of the literati of Australia.
The greatest thinkers of the day have scouted the idea as nothing but moonshine, when spoken to about the practicability of the discovery. But it must be borne in mind that the same laws of Nature which guide and rule the Mother Country are somewhat erratic here at the Antipodes, inasmuch as we are all upside down—standing on our heads, in fact. Therefore we are prepared for marvels. In a land where there are animals who stand on their tails, and fight with all four feet at once; where the young leap out of and into their parents’ stomachs at will—there being a strange bag in that quarter for the purpose of humouring the antics of the juveniles, just like the hole in the bow of a timber ship; where there are creatures that appear neither flesh nor fowl—who swim in ponds like a duck, have a duck’s bill, who lay eggs, yet have feet and hair like a beast; in a land where the leaves on the trees grow edgeways to the sun, and the trees themselves shoot downwards, surely it is no great wonder that we have found a passage to the great luminary of night, and had the pleasure of shaking hands and likewise supping with the disobedient man who gathered sticks on Sunday.
“HE WAS BORNE ALONG SO SWIFTLY THAT HE NEARLY LOST HIS SENSES.”
The scientific world will never feel half the surprise anent our new discovery as that which fell upon the old shepherd when he found himself surrounded and made a prisoner. He had left his sheep in charge of the only companion he had in these regions—viz., his dog. Within a sheltered nook on one of the fairest and most luxuriant slopes of the mysterious Blue Mountains, Patch, the half-bred dingo, held watch and ward over his charge while his master wandered down the rugged side of the cliff in search of gold. Here the sun was almost hid behind the broad awning of gigantic trees, whose immense trunks, gnarled and hoary with age, stood like mammoth sentinels to guard the dim glen below. The lonely herdsman had often descended to that spot before unmolested, but now from every mound and hollow there peered the grotesque faces of the Mountain Sprites, watching his every movement, until with a sudden rush they pounced upon him and held him fast. For a time he struggled manfully to free himself. It was quite useless. The genii of the Blue Mountains are a powerful people, not to be trifled with, as the shepherd soon discovered. He was lifted bodily up, and borne along so swiftly that he nearly lost his senses. The route of his captors lay in a downward direction—never upward. And it appeared as if the dusky ravines which they traversed led right away from the upper world into the region of eternal night.
“Dear friends, good people, where are you taking me?” cried the poor fellow in an affrighted tone.
“Bis, bus, silence, mortal!” replied an ancient gnome authoritatively. “Your destination is not on the Earth, but the Moon.”
“Good gracious!” ejaculated the poor shepherd, with starting eyeballs.
“Bus, peace,” rejoined the brownie in a whisper. “The voice of man hath never disturbed these solitudes since the creation.”
“Gentlemen, pray let me go!”
“Art thou not going, thou dissatisfied mortal? Be silent.”
“It is all up with me,” groaned the unfortunate captive.
“Nay, verily, it will be all down with thee,” answered the sprite. “Behold!”
As the fairy spoke they emerged into a dismal spot, in the midst of which gaped a wide, black pit; at the mouth of the chasm the shepherd beheld the forms of two beings in shape like the fabled vampires, who clapped their tremendous wings in ecstasy at sight of him.
“Who is this?” they cried.
And the fairies answered, “A visitor for Moonland.”
“No, no, I’m not going to the Moon,” replied the trembling shepherd.
The horrid vampires laughed in exultation at his misery, and the sound shook the walls of the solid cliffs around. “Hear me, Dusk, and thou, Lunar,” said the gnome, addressing the winged monsters. “This fellow hath had the impudence to invade our sacred precincts, and attempted to release some of our dreaded foes, the ‘Gold Nuggets’ whom we have made prisoners. What shall we do with the rascal?”
“Send him to the Moon,” they cried with one voice.
“Mercy, gentlemen, mercy.”
“Fiddlesticks! To Moonland with him,” answered the sprite. “There is lots of room for him to fossick there. Eh, Lunar?”
Over that terrible void, near where they held him, our hero observed a strange object floating with a gentle, oscillating motion, as a feather floats in space. In appearance, it was like a gigantic umbrella inverted, with a hole cut in the centre. To the ends of the ribs cords of gossamer were fastened which stretched upward to a car in the shape of a star, the points expanded like huge wings. The nature of this material, or by what process this curious vehicle had been manufactured, the unfortunate shepherd had neither power nor leisure at that moment to examine, for the ancient fay had no sooner spoken than Dusk and his companion seized hold of him, like a pair of vultures, and flew upward with him in the car of the parachute.
“Good-bye, Lunar, let me know when you arrive,” cried some of the fairies.
“Slide a message down a moonbeam,” responded others.
“Or a rainbow, or the tail of a comet.” And while the mountain sprites stood and jeered, the quaint machine suddenly shot down the empty space with the velocity of a cannon-ball.
Who shall describe the sensation of the poor mortal, as he felt himself falling—falling down—down, a blind mass, through the darkened air? Those who have fallen, or have leaped even from a moderate height, can have no conception of the frenzied terror that took possession of him for a moment. Yet it was only for a moment. Strange to say, he did not lose his presence of mind, and his fear left him as suddenly as it had fallen upon him. From a bewildering chaos of thought in the captive’s mind curiosity became paramount to all else. Amid the murky blackness around and about there was very little to examine, but the shepherd thrust his head through the gossamer network of the machine and gazed below. Far, far away in the profound depths beneath them, he saw a vast disc of soft light which threw its rays upward, and enabled him to discern that the abyss through which they were descending appeared like a hollow cone, the neck of which began in the mountain, and like an eddying circle in the water, gradually became wider and wider as they advanced.
The progress of the parachute was so swift that they rapidly emerged into the focus of the light—the wide mouth of the cone receding to a faint, dark circle on the pale horizon in the space of a few seconds. It was astounding how wondrous soft and beautiful the shimmering glow of light in this new region burst upon the mortal’s vision. He had witnessed many lovely changes from the lofty peaks of the New South Wales Alps, but Dame Nature had never presented herself to his eyes in such a garb before. Not the glaring, hot, dazzling rays of the summer sun here, but rather a gentle, subdued, dreamy refulgence, without the ghost of a shadow or shade of variation upon anything.
Above, below, one universal, pale, liquid glimmer, devoid of vapour. Distant mountains, peaked and gabled like an iceberg, appeared to view, and hills and valleys, with deep ruts and chasms, forming an amphitheatre of vast dimensions, became more clear to the sight every moment. Everything seemed mixed up and confounded by the uniformity of colour. Rocks, valleys, and streams presented a weird and wonderful aspect under new conditions where, like Hoffmann’s shadowless man, every object was lighted up on all sides, equally, in the absence of a central point. Scorched and charred and burnt, there was not a sign of a tree or a shrub on the face of the whole landscape. Scoriæ and dross and pumice-stone—nothing else, save the waters that lay bathed in luminous silvery grey.
From the vast panorama our hero turned his eyes upon his companions, the vampires. They had cast the netting of the car aside.
“Prepare thyself, mortal,” cried Lunar in a terrible voice.
“Prepare myself, for what?”
“For a header into the sea yonder beneath us,” answered the vampire coolly.
“Good heavens! Gentlemen, you really don’t think I can dive from this great height! I shall be dashed to mincemeat,” responded the shepherd, in a tone of consternation.
The monsters only laughed at him, and repeated their command.
“Descend a little lower, good Lunar. Do, gentle Dusk,” he pleaded.
“We can’t. This is Moonland. Not enough gravity here,” they replied.
“Moonland! Mercy on me! And shall I have to leave my old bones in the Moon?” cried he in despair.
“Plenty of ’em here—loads. Valleys full, as you’ll find. Come, jump!”
“I won’t!” cried the shepherd in a savage tone. Whereupon the monsters caught him with their claws, and threw him headlong from the car.
The fall was frightful to contemplate, and I’m afraid it will be necessary to allow the poor fellow seven days to recover his equilibrium.