Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877 | Page 5

numerous in
the history of our unstable globe, the existing continents should sink a
thousand feet. Every center of modern civilization would be submerged.
The great social and political organizations of humanity would be
broken up, and in the wreck of nations that would ensue very little of
the glory and culture of the race could survive. The earth is dotted with
vestiges of lost and forgotten empires. Can we reasonably assume, in
the face of such facts, that the nations of to-day are immortal?
The question is: Shall we continue to trust to chance, as all other
civilizations have, for the preservation of the conquests we have made
among the forces and secrets of nature; or shall we do something
positive for posterity, and leave the ages to come some certain and
abiding legacy of our treasures of art and learning?
It may be that human progress will go on and on to the end of time
without a break; that in the course of centuries mankind will surpass us
in civilization, knowledge and power, as much as we surpass the
earliest and rudest men we have yet found traces of: maybe infinitely
more.
In such a case, what would not the scholars of, say the year 5000 A.D.,
or any other future age, be willing to give for a comprehensive picture
of humanity as it exists to-day--for a reasonably complete library of our
literature, science, and art? We may safely assume that nothing of the
sort will be possible if matters are left to take their natural course. By
that time every structure, every machine, every book, every work of art,
now in use or stored away in our libraries and galleries of art, will have
disappeared, a prey to time, the elements, or the more destructive

violence of man.
On the other hand, it may be that, through repeated disasters of one sort
or another, mankind, three thousand years hence, will have lost all the
knowledge men ever possessed, and be slowly struggling upward for
the hundredth time from inherited barbarism. In such a case, what
enormous benefits might not accrue to man from a fortunate opening
up of the wealth of knowledge we possess!
In any supposable case between these extremes of progress or
degradation, a legacy of art and learning, such as we might easily set
apart for remote posterity, would certainly be acceptable, perhaps
extremely useful. Besides, it might be possible for us to set such a
worthy example to those who shall come after us that, come what
might, humanity would never be left absolutely void of the means of
instruction, nor any worthy human achievement be absolutely lost or
forgotten. The experience of these later years has demonstrated the
value of such legacies even when unintentional, unselected, and
wretchedly fragmentary. It has made clear also how a legacy
deliberately made may be indefinitely preserved.
Roughly outlined, the carrying out of such a truly philanthropic
enterprise would involve nothing more difficult than--
First. The construction of a practically indestructible treasure chamber
in some secure place; and
Second. The preparation of a library well calculated to withstand the
corroding tooth of time.
Two kinds of structures would meet the first demand--massive
pyramids of covered earth or of solid masonry, or chambers hewn from
the heart of some granitic hill. In low latitudes, where glacial action is
not to be feared, the pyramidal form might be preferable: in more
northern regions the rock-cut chamber would probably be at once
cheaper and more durable. In either case, an elevated site should be
chosen as a safeguard against submergence.

To secure the permanence of the records would be more difficult.
Ordinary books and papers would clearly be unsuitable for long
keeping; though for comparatively limited periods they might answer if
securely packed in airtight waterproof cases. Nothing liable to
spontaneous decay should be admitted. Stereotype plates of metal
would be even more open to objection than printed sheets. The noble
metals would be too costly, the baser would corrode; and with either
the value of the plates as metal would be a standing danger to the
deposit. The material basis of the library must be, as nearly as possible,
worthless for other uses (to insure them against the natural greed of
man), yet such as will hold the records sharply and faithfully under all
circumstances. The terra cotta tablets of ancient Assyria are instructive
in this connection. Possibly plates of artificial stone, or sheets of a
papier-maché-like preparation of asbestos, might be less bulky and
equally durable.
Having determined this point, and dug from the solid rock a chamber
for the reception of our legacy, the next step would be the selection of
its contents. Obviously the books to be preserved should embrace first
of all lexicons and grammars