Hollow Earth: The Long and Curious History of Imagining Strange Lands, Fantastical Creatures, Advanced Civilizatio
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Seaborn has invented a new sort of vessel for his voyage to the South Pole. Certain he will encounter that open polar sea near the verge, he also knows he’ll have to penetrate the “icy hoop” barrier that will come first. His novel steamboat has a specially reinforced frame and powerful slanted paddlewheels capable of churning through the ice. This is a nice Yankee-ingenuity touch. Steamboats were ultramodern craft when Symmes was writing. Robert Fulton’s experiments had introduced the first regularly scheduled steamboat between New York and Albany in 1807, cutting what had been a four-day trip to thirty-two hours. By an interesting coincidence, Symmes had a front-row view of Fulton’s next effort, a steamboat built in Pittsburgh in 1811, which began regular service between New Orleans and Natchez in 1812, routinely chugging past the river forts where Symmes was stationed. But Seaborn’s steamboat also has a design element that’s a bow to the mythical past—no iron in the construction. “I remembered the misfortune of the discoverer SINBAD, whose ship, when he approached the magnetic mountain, fell to pieces,” he explains, so Seaborn uses only “tree-nails” and copper bolts. It’s an odd detail, in that Symmes/Seaborn goes to considerable lengths to seem scientific throughout, and suggests the power this ancient idea apparently still had.
In recruiting his crew, Seaborn wisely neglects to mention that he’s planning a cruise inside the earth; instead he signs them on for a three- or four-year term on “a sealing voyage in the South Seas.” Even though Symmes’ real plans related to an expedition to the northern polar opening, he aims for the southern one in the novel. He probably did so because his story would seem less fantastical set there, since less was known about it.
Captain James Cook had made a couple of swipes at the Antarctic during his voyages of 1768–1771 and 1772–1775, seeking to prove or disprove the idea of a Terra Australis, the great theoretical southern continent placed on a map by Ptolemy and kept there by succeeding generations of cartographers, though no one had ever seen it. On January 17, 1773, Cook became the first to cross the Antarctic Circle but was stopped by an ice pack without seeing land. He did see one thing that prompted further exploration: seals beyond counting on the forbidding island of South Georgia, a thousand miles east of South America’s southern tip, its dark barren mountains half buried in glaciers, an island Edmond Halley had seen in 1700 while mapping magnetic variation aboard the Paramour.18 In the years after Cook’s sighting, slaughter followed knowledge. The pursuit of seals led to more and more incursions into these “inexpressibly horrid regions,” as Cook characterized them in his journal. Despite great hardship and danger, the smell of profit lured the sealers ever deeper into the southern ocean. Whales drew them as well. European and American homes were brightened at night by whale-oil lamps, and the northern whale fisheries were getting fished out. So the rush south was on. But these sealer/whalers weren’t scientific explorers, ready to share the geographical details they were learning; to the contrary, they tried to keep their discoveries secret. The sealers especially, since their dumb wholesale methods—finding an island covered with seals, they would wipe out the entire population before moving on—required locating ever new sealing grounds among the more than two hundred islands strewn east and south of Tierra del Fuego.19
In masking his quest as a sealing voyage, Symmes was both timely and strategic. Symzonia is an early specimen of American sea fiction, preceding James Fenimore Cooper’s The Pilot by three years. As the Explorer heads south, Symmes works hard at making the voyage realistic, providing specific detail that rings true. Until they reach the ice barrier, Symzonia might be another of the many seagoing journals that had been published over the years. They round Cape St. Roche, put in at Rio for provisions, and then stop for a month at the Falkland Islands, where Seaborn says he needs to recover “from the debility occasioned by the vexations and anxieties of business in these retrograde times”—might Symmes be thinking about his struggle to make a living trading with the Indians?—“and the pernicious habits of living, common among civilized men, upon food rendered palatable by a skilful admixture of poisons.” While cleaning up his system—to “regain the firm health so necessary to a man who undertakes great things,” he explains, modestly—Seaborn does a bit of touristic exploring of these wild dramatic islands, pronouncing them “salubrious.” A sealing party is dropped off on one of the outlying Jason Islands. When Seaborn returns two days later, he says, approvingly, that they had made good use of their time, “having cleared this island and all the neighboring keys … of the few seal which could be found.” They’re scarce because of other sealers before them. But no worries—there are many more farther south:
I concurred in the opinion published by Capt. Symmes, that seals, whales, and mackerel, come from the internal world through the openings at the poles; and was aware of the fact, that the nearer we approach those openings, the more abundant do we find seals and whales. I felt perfectly satisfied that I had only to find an opening in the “icy hoop,” through which I could dash with my vessel, to discover a region where seals could be taken as fast as they could be stripped and cured.
There’s a huge colony here of Gentoo penguins (distinguished by a white head stripe from eye to eye, a red-orange beak and feet), whose eggs are just waiting to be stolen and packed into salt barrels, tasty bar snacks for the trip. Symmes, revealing his inner birdwatcher, goes on for several pages about the Gentoo’s characteristics and habits, saying, “the contemplation of these orderly, discreet, and beautiful amphibia, afforded me much pleasure, and gave rise to many delightful anticipations.” He’s certain they’re “visiters [sic] from the internal world.” He notes their “remarkably gentle and harmless disposition,” from which “I inferred that the inhabitants of the internal world … must be of a remarkably pacific, and gentle disposition.”
The restorative month of R & R over, they’re once more heading south. They cruise by South Georgia Island but don’t stop because Seaborn is itching to get to the “verge.” He takes this interval as an opportunity to anticipate what they’ll find, per Symmes’ theories, of course. How seven months of sunlight and that greater refraction will make the pole warm. “I think if we can but find our way to the polar region, we shall be in much more danger of being roasted alive, than of being frozen to death.” Many of the crew buy into this, but Symmes provides his narrative with that most useful of stock characters, the grumbling doubter, in the form of Mr. Slim. He’s not having any. All previous expeditions have been stopped by ice, dammit! Seaborn explains at great length why, according to “that profound philosopher, John Cleve Symmes,” the “icy hoop” exists, and why he is certain that beyond it lies smooth sailing—the only trick is finding a way through. “We shipped with you, sir,” cries Slim, “for a sealing voyage; not for a voyage of discovery. You have no right to hazard our lives.” Slim says that even if we get through the icy hoop, what if we can’t get back? “We must in such a case all perish, and our blood would be upon your head.”
Seaborn wisely forbears telling Slim his real purpose, “of my belief of open poles, affording a practicable passage to the internal world, and of my confident expectations of finding comfortable winter quarters inside; for he would take that as evidence of my being insane.” That he would—just as most people did on hearing Symmes’ theories. Slim isn’t satisfied, and soon he’s busy drumming up interest in a mutiny. But just as they confront Seaborn, land is sighted, a large island crawling with seals. Its lee side provides a permanent break in the icy hoop. Seeing this, Slim backs down—for the moment. By acclaim this new country is named Seaborn’s Land. “The existence of a continent near the south pole, was thus fully established.” Chalk up another of the world’s mysteries solved by Seaborn. Two parties go ashore, one to spend several days exploring, the other to start sealing. When the exploring party gets back, having found timber, a mighty river, and a strange, enormous animal, the sealers have already racked up seven thousand skins and counting. Before leaving, Seaborn formally claims his new country for th
e United States. The claiming ceremony is all-American. He draws up a manifesto proclaiming that on November 5, 1817, he “did first see and discover this southern continent.” But then to assure permanency, “I had it engraved on a plate of sheathing copper, with a spread eagle at the top, and at the bottom a bank, with 100 dollar bills tumbling out of its doors and windows, to denote the amazing quantity and solidity of the wealth of my country.”
SECTIONAL VIEW OF THE EARTH,
SHOWING THE
OPENINGS AT THE POLES.
Map of the interior world from the original 1820 edition of Symzonia.
All who can be spared go ashore, taking musical instruments, two pieces of cannon, wine, and grog. They bury the copper plate, covering it with a large stone engraved with “Seaborn’s Land, A.D. 1817,” put up a “liberty pole,” and Seaborn orders “a salute to be fired of one gun for every State.” What follows is a light commentary on the galloping Union circa 1820:
“How many will that be, sir?” asked Mr. Boneto, adding, that they came so fast he could not keep the run of them. Slim said it was twenty-one. I objected to that number, as being the royal salute of Great Britain, and settled the matter by telling them to fire away until they were tired of it, and finish off with a few squibs for the half-made states.
Then it’s on to the interior. Because the declivity of the “verge” is so gradual, the crew at first doesn’t realize they’re steaming into the interior world, and Seaborn is keeping his mouth shut. “No one knew which way we were steering but myself.” They lose sight of land, the compass goes crazy, and the sun sets briefly, causing alarm among the crew, but “the weather had been for some days so hot that a little night was very desirable.” They are inside. “We continued running due north, internal, three days.” At last, on November 28, they discover land, but to Seaborn’s disappointment, it is an island inhabited only by “terrapins of a monstrous size, some few seals, penguins, and numerous sea fowl.” But no people. “The great number of turtles was satisfactory evidence to my mind, that there were no human beings on the island.” Had there been, he implies without elaborating, all the turtles would have been eaten.
The crew is delighted and “complained of nothing but the excessive heat.” It’s almost too much for Seaborn. “The next morning I was quite sick, in consequence of the heat.” It becomes almost a running gag in this section, Symmes rubbing in the idea that it’s really warm at the pole. How hot is it? Seaborn becomes alarmed that the “excessive heat” may put them all in “great danger of the yellow fever making its appearance.” Reasoning that things will get cooler the farther in they go, he’s preparing to move on as fast as possible when the remains of a ship are discovered, a “wreck of some outlandish vessel” put together using “a white elastic wire” of an unknown substance. Seaborn plucks out some samples of “this singular material” and with them “fired the imagination of my people, by representing to them the enormous wealth we should acquire, could we obtain a cargo of it to carry to our country, where it would be more valuable than silver; and that the use to which it was applied was sufficient evidence of its being abundant where this vessel was built.” Even if this is a ruse to calm the fearful crew by filling their heads with money, the mental leap from finding the elastic wire to visions of its profit potential is immediate and seamless.
For a week they cruise farther into the interior, when Slim has another go at mutiny. We must be in some great hole in the earth, and the sun will disappear entirely—we will be engulfed in total darkness and never find our way out again! We have to turn back to Seaborn Land! If you refuse, we will throw you overboard! But Seaborn plays hard poker with them. If you do, he asks, who among you can find his way back? Oops. He assures them that he has no desire to perish in a sea of darkness either, that if they press on they can winter in a region far more pleasant than Seaborn’s Land. Let’s give it another two weeks; if we find nothing, we’ll turn back. But “should they persist in their mutinous course, I would break my instruments, throw my books overboard, and leave them to help themselves as they could.” All relent, Slim still grumbling.
Five days later they see a strange, five-masted ship and follow it into port. As the light is fading, Seaborn decides to anchor offshore until morning. Through his telescope he can see “buildings and moving objects on the land, which assured me that the country was inhabited.” Seaborn is nearly giddy with anticipation. He reflects:
I was about to reach the goal of all my wishes; to open an intercourse with a new world and with an unknown people; to unfold to the vain mortals of the external world new causes for the admiration of the infinite diversity and excellence of the works of an inscrutable Deity.
But then Symmes pulls back the curtain a little too far, revealing more than really might have been prudent, if understandable given the ridicule he suffered:
I was about to secure to my name a conspicuous and imperishable place on the tablets of History, and a niche of the first order in the temple of Fame. I moved like one who trod on air; for whose achievements had equalled mine? The voyage of Columbus was but an excursion on a fish pond, and his discoveries, compared with mine, were but trifles … His was the discovery of a continent, mine of a new World … I compared my doings and my sensations with those of that swarm of sordid beings who waste their lives in Wall-street, or in the purlieus of the courts intent on gain, and scrambling for the wrecks of the property of their unfortunate fellow beings, or hiring out the efforts of their minds to perform such loathsome work as their employers would pay them for;—men who feel themselves ennobled by their wealth; who think themselves superior to the useful classes of society; from whom I had often heard the scornful observation, “he is nothing but a shipmaster.”
This seems an outpouring straight from Symmes’ poor neglected heart, hidden away here deep in his manuscript. But if this is the prideful bitter nighttime of his soul, the next chapter opens with a sunrise, and with it a far rosier outlook. He awakes to see
gently rolling hills within an easy sloping shore, covered with verdure, checquered with groves of trees and shrubbery, studded with numerous white buildings, and animated with groups of men and cattle, all standing in relief near the foot of a lofty mountain, which in the distance reared its majestic head above the clouds … here there was nothing wanting to a perfect landscape.
It’s a scene that could have been lifted directly from Thomas Jefferson’s dreams, an ideal pastoral nineteenth-century vista. And even before setting foot there, unconcerned that the locals might possibly have their own name for their country, Seaborn immediately christens it Symzonia, “out of gratitude to Capt. Symmes for his sublime theory.” Can anyone doubt that Symmes wrote this?
Seaborn puts on his “best go-ashore clothes,” and with the “stripes and stars waving over the stern of the boat,” he goes to meet the Symzonians. Up until this point, Symzonia has been a passable adventure story; but now it becomes a utopian fiction, with all the attendant pitfalls—tedious patches devoted to a faux anthropological look at the perfect Symzonian society. The story grinds to a halt as we learn far more about their customs than we really need. Much of it seems inspired by Thomas More’s Utopia (1516).
For an ideal people, they’re a little short, averaging five feet tall. But they’re tremendously athletic, able to leap thirty feet at a single bound—probably because of their natural, healthy diet, being strict vegetarians and teetotalers. True to the universal racism of the time, their utopian skin is whiter than white—fair-colored Seaborn resembles the “sootiest African” by comparison. Of course they’re all handsome and beautiful. And they generally live to be two hundred years old. The Symzonian form of government is pure democracy, and the society is an uncorrupted meritocracy.
Seaborn’s reaction to all this seems worth quoting at length, as it represents Symmes’ critique of America at the time:
This state of things appeared to me at first to be beyond the limits of possibility in the external world…. My mind
was for some time occupied by reflecting upon the extraordinary difference in the natural condition of the internals and externals…. I perceived that the greater part of the labour of the externals was devoted to the production of things useless or pernicious; and that of the things produced or acquired, the distribution, through defects in our social organization, was so unequal, that some few destroyed, without any increase of happiness to themselves, the products of the toil of multitudes… . Instead of devoting our time to useful purposes, and living temperately on the wholesome gifts of Providence, like the blest internals, so as to preserve our health and strengthen our minds, thousands of us are employed in producing inebriating liquors, by the destruction of wholesome articles of food, to poison the bodies, enervate the minds, and corrupt the hearts of our fellow beings. Other thousands waste their strength to procure stimulating weeds and narcotic substances from the extreme parts of the earth, for the purpose of exciting diseased appetites…. Still greater numbers give their industry and their lives to the acquistion of mere matters of ornament, for the gratification of pride, an insatiable passion, which is only stimulated to increase its demands with every new indulgence…. I saw that the internals owed their happiness to their rationality, to a conformity with the laws of nature and religion; and that the externals were miserable, from the indulgence of inordinate passions, and subjection to vicious propensities.
But even Symzonia isn’t entirely perfect. They do have their occasional criminals and degenerates. What do they do with them? Exile them to a far land near the northern polar opening, where they grow darker from the sun and become larger due to their gross habits. You guessed it. In ancient times, groups of them wandered over the rim onto the External world, and all of us are the descendents of these debased outcast misfits—thus all the rotten behavior prevailing out here on our side.