234 ANNUAL REPORT SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, 1915. 



some element of a chain of mountains, some great island, into a gulf 

 many thousands of meters deep. That such a phenomenon may be 

 produced, and even repeated many times, in the course of later 

 geologic periods, and that it may often attain to gigantic size, this 

 no geologist is right in questioning. We are surprised sometimes that 

 similar cataclysms have left no traces on our shores, without reflect- 

 ing that it is the very suddenness of their arrival and their flight 

 which renders them scarcely conceivable. Not one of them, in fact, 

 has ever occurred without initiating a lowering of the mean sea 

 level, but the counteraction is never delayed at all, and the rapid 

 rising of another division of the ocean bottom, or the slower issue 

 of the by no means unimaginable submarine flows of lavas, has soon 

 reestablished the equilibrium; so exact is the balance in which are 

 weighed — on one side the deeps, on the other the mountains. 



And when in thought I thus review those frightful pages of the 

 earth's history, usually in presence of the smiling sea, indiiferent, be- 

 fore the sea "more beautiful than cathedrals," I dream of the last 

 night of Atlantis, to which perhaps the last night, that "great 

 night" of humanity will bear semblance. The young men have all 

 departed for the war, beyond the islands of the Levant and the dis- 

 tant Pillars of Hercules; those who remain, men of mature age, 

 women, children, old men, and priests, anxiously question the marine 

 horizon, hoping there to see the first sails appearing, heralds of the 

 warriors' return. But to-night the horizon is dark and vacant. How 

 shadowy the sea grows; how threatening is the sky so overcast! 

 The earth for some days has shuddered and trembled. The sun seems 

 rent asunder, here and there exhaling fiery vapors. It is even re- 

 ported that some of the mountain craters have opened, whence smoke 

 and flames belch forth and stones and ashes are hurled into the air. 

 Now on all sides a warm gray powder is raining down. Night has 

 quite fallen, fearful darkness; nothing can be seen without lighted 

 torches. Suddenly seized with blind terror, the multitude rushes 

 into the temples; but lo! even the temples crumble, while the sea 

 advances and invades the shore, its cruel clamor rising loud above all 

 other noise. ^Yhiit takes place might indeed be the Divine wrath. 

 Then quiet reigns ; no longer are there either mountains or shores ; no 

 longer anything save the restless sea, asleep under the tropic slcy, 

 with its stars unnumbered ; and in the breath of the trade winds I 

 hear the voice of the immortal poet singing : 



O, waves, how many mournful tales you know ! 

 Wide waves profound, that kneeling mothers fear ! 

 '"'" "' Those tales the flooding tides recount with care; 



And thus arise those voices of despair 

 Which you to-night again bring with you here! 



