thousand leagues in less than ten months in a submarine tour of the world, which has revealed to me the wonders of the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, the Southern and Northern Polar Seas.
But what became of the Nautilus? Did it resist the Maëlstrom. Is Captain Nemo still living? Does he still exact his terrible reprisals, or did he cease for ever after that last hecatomb? Will the waves one day bring to land that manuscript which contains the whole history of his life? Shall I ever know the name of the man, or will the missing vessel tell us by the fact of its nationality, that of Captain Nemo?
I hope so, and I also trust that his powerful ship has overcome the Maëlstrom, and that the Nautilus survives where so many vessels have perished. If it be so, if Captain Nemo still inhabits the ocean—his adopted country, so to speak—may the hatred of that savage breast be appeased! May the contemplation of so many wonders calm the spirit of revenge in him: may the judge disappear, and the savant continue his peaceful exploration of the sea. If his fate be a strange one, there is something sublime in it also.
Have I not comprehended it myself—have I not lived for ten months of that unnatural existence? So, to the question propounded three thousand years ago by Ecclesiastes—“Who has ever sounded the depths of the abyss?”—two men only of all the world have the right to reply—Captain Nemo and myself!
THE END.
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
