we are really to understand those lofty hills which are decorated in some places with the name of mountains, or the table-lands that form the first steps of the great chains. Such, indeed, are the only inhabited and inhabitable mountains. There only is the cultivation of a few plants still possible; there only can the wild beasts find an asylum in wood or forest, and the cattle green fields of pasture; there may man plant his feet, build his dwellings, devote himself to rearing his herds, to the chase, or to more sedentary industries. Let us remember, moreover, that the salubrity of the air of elevated districts has been greatly exaggerated, and that if we meet with many mountaineers agile, robust, and intelligent, we also meet with a great number affected by organic diseases either wholly unknown or very rare in the plains, such as goître, scrofula, and cretinism.
The structure of the mountains, their form, and the nature of their soil, suffice, even without these meteorological conditions I have just indicated, to render them impracticable as the dwelling-place of man and of most animals. To ascend them is almost always an enterprise of the most hazardous, frequently of the most perilous character. To climb the lofty peaks of the Himalaya, to scale the majestic brow of Chimborazo, to ascend the frozen sides of the Jungfrau or Mont Blanc, is an achievement of which the boldest boast, as if they had won a Waterloo or an Inkermann! Only a keen longing after that notoriety which for some minds fills the place of renown, or a passion for dangerous enterprise such as stimulates the pioneer or the explorer, or a powerful scientific and artistic interest, can impel the Alpine adventurer—can instigate a Saussure, a Forbes, a Pentland, or a Tyndall, to mount the scarped ramparts of primeval rocks, to tread warily along precipices which the chamois can scarcely traverse, to escalade the savage cliffs and frozen pinnacles, and to breathe
The annals of mountaineering are illuminated with many stirring stories of human endurance, patience, and heroism; but, alas! the page is too often robed in black, and too frequently records the death of some unhappy explorer!
It is no part of my plan to trace the geological history of mountains. We know that their formation has been attributed, according to a satisfactory theory, to the upheavals and expansions of the igneous matter which, in the primitive ages, boiled under the solid crust produced by the superficial solidification of our planet, and whose ebullition, though considerably decreased, even in our own days is frequently made known in volcanic phenomena and earthquakes. At divers epochs the crust of the globe will have been rent and dislocated, giving vent to floods of fused mineral matter; these, solidifying in their turn, will have produced those inequalities of the earth’s surface which we call mountains; enormous inequalities, as they appear to us; mole-hills or grains of sand if we compare them with the volume of the terrestrial sphere.
The distribution of the mountains over the surface of the continents and islands, and the forms which they have assumed, seem, at the first glance, altogether capricious and irregular. Yet an attentive study speedily demonstrates that some higher law than that of chance presided at the violent and tumultuous production of these majestic masses. Thus, in the first place, it is evident that every mountain not a volcano connects itself of necessity to other mountains, and forms a chain of greater or less length, which departs a little from the straight line, or rather from the arc of the great circle. The principal chains throw out branches, and by mountain knots, as they are called, unite with other secondary chains—the whole composing a mountain system; but the apparent irregularities of these systems may always be referred to one common direction.
If from the disposition of mountains we pass to their distribution, we perceive that all chains which have sprung from the same geological convulsion are always distinctly parallel, and the successive chains distinctly perpendicular among themselves; so that the age of a chain is known by its direction. Nor is there anything to astonish us in this species of symmetry, when we recollect that every substance previously liquefied or diluted by heat, and which, while cooling, becomes contracted by the closer compression of its atoms, splits with a certain degree of regularity, generally following lines which intersect each other at right angles. And it is through the crevices of the cooled terrestrial crust that these fused matters have escaped, according to the hypothesis generally admitted by geologists, which, by solidifying in their turn, have created the mountains. I can only indicate these considerations to the reader; their development would beguile us too far from our prescribed path.
If we direct our attention now to the configuration of mountains, we shall see that this configuration depends essentially on the nature of the rocks which constitute them. Granite, for example, is one of those which offers the most varied outlines, as the reader may see without quitting the United Kingdom, in the rugged, fantastic, broken masses of the Argyllshire Highlands, that hem in the waters of Loch Goil and Loch Long. Granite abounds in the tropical zone, and seems to prefer chains of moderate elevation. Granite heights are generally distinguished by abrupt and polished flanks, pointed or dentelated summits, scarped approaches, deeply fissured slopes, and narrow, wild, and profound valleys.
Gneiss, a felspathic and micaceous rock, of schistous structure, is found in layers sometimes horizontal or gently inclined, sometimes undulating and complicated towards the border. The contours of the gneiss mountains are less cloven than those of mountains of granite; but numerous fissures and indentations are still discoverable.
The Organ Mountains of Rio Janeiro.
Porphyry generally occurs in isolated peaks, with almost vertical flanks; seldom in continuous chains. Porphyritic mountains, says M. Maury, imprint on the landscape a peculiarly picturesque character. This rock sometimes appears under the form of tall pillars set in close juxtaposition—it is then known as columnar porphyry; and to groups of these columns have been given in some countries the name of Orgues or Organs, on account of their resemblance to the organ pipes which discourse solemn music in our cathedrals.
Thus: in Mexico two mountains occur distinguished by this appellation, Los Organos; one is that of Mamanchota, situated to the north of the Indian village of Actapan. The portion soaring out of the rock, says Humboldt, is three hundred feet in height; but the absolute elevation of the summit of the mountain, at the point where the Organos begin to shoot aloft, is 1385 toises (about 5310 feet). The other is the Jacal, which is nearly 9600 feet above the sea-level, and crowned with forests of pine and cedar.
But the most celebrated Organ Mountains are those which rear their glittering shafts at the extremity of the bay of Rio Janiero. “It is not only the aspect of these pointed summits,” says Dr. Yvan, “that reminds the spectator of the sublime instrument of our churches; the strange sounds which escape from between these cylinders of rock render the analogy still more striking, and complete the illusion. The voice of the tempest, the lamentations of the forests bowed by the passing winds, the doleful wails of the jaguars, the cries of the howling monkeys passing between these sonorous peaks, produce a harmony before which all human instrumentation loses its grandeur. We feel that it is the universal soul which inspires the chords of the majestic keys. The Serra dos Organos is clothed in virgin forest over three-fourths of its extent; it is only at long intervals, and in obscure valleys, that we encounter any traces of human industry, or that we traverse some circular treeless hollows, in which an abundant herbage flourishes, and feeds the troops of horses and oxen enclosed in these natural parks.”
The Organ Mountains of Epailly (in the department of the Haute Loire, in France) and of Bart (in the Corrèze), and the Colonnades of Chenavari (in the Ardèche), belong to the basaltic formation, rendered so remarkable by its frequent arrangement in prismatic columns of extreme regularity. Basalt also gives birth to chains which resemble vast walls, and sometimes appears in the form of pyramids, plateaux, or simple mamelons.
Of the columnar arrangement the Palisades, on the banks of the river Hudson, may be particularized as a noble example; but a still grander spectacle is presented on the river Columbia, west of the Rocky Mountains, where the waters pour through a valley walled on either side with tier upon tier of pillars, to the height of fully a thousand feet.
The Trachytes, massive rocks of excessive roughness, occasionally appear in the shape of cones, at times in that of domes or enormous balloons, and at times as cupolas with spire-like points, like minarets. The chalks, the sandstones, the diorites, have all their characteristic aspect, and give to the mountains where they dominate, and to the landscapes which surround them, an easily recognizable physiognomy. And, finally, everybody knows the particular configuration affected by the volcanic mountains.
The great mountain-chains are unequally distributed in different parts of the world, and their disposition varies in a remarkable manner in the two great continents. For the most part it agrees with the direction of the principal land masses in each. Thus, in the Old World, the chief ranges assume an easterly and westerly course, following the parallels of latitude; in the New, a northerly and southerly direction, like that of the meridians of longitude.
In Europe, the mountains are numerous, but generally of very moderate elevation. In the north, we find the Scandinavian Alps, covering nearly the whole of Norway and some part of Sweden. From the Naze, or Cape Lindesnaes, they roll far away, like foam-crested billows, to the very shore of the Frozen Sea. The central and highest part of the mass, between latitude 62° and 63°, is called the Dover-feld; the more northerly portion, the Koelin Mountains; the more southerly, Lang-feld and Hardanger-feld. Their summits are comparatively flat—felds, or fields, as the name indicates; on the eastern side they slope gradually to the plains bordering the Gulf of Bothnia, their sides clothed with dense forests of pine and fir; on the west they rise abruptly from the margin of the ocean, and their steep, barren, and swarthy flanks are broken up by numerous inlets, or fiords, where the waters lie cradled in gloom and desolation. Their highest point is now known to be Skags-tol-tind, in the Lang-feld range, upwards of 8000 feet. All the loftier summits rise above the snow-line, and wear night and day, winter and summer, a shroud of frost and snow. The glaciers are often of great magnificence, and equal, if they do not transcend in sublimity, those of the Alps of Switzerland and Savoy.
The Mountains of Scotland seldom exceed 3500 feet in height; the principal summits, however, Ben Mac-Dhui, and Ben Nevis, are respectively, 4390 and 4368 feet. Ben Lawers, on the west side of Loch Tay, reaches 3984 feet; Ben More, in the south-west of Perthshire, 3818 feet; and Schehallion, 3514 feet. Ben Lomond, east of the famous lake of that name, has an altitude of 3191 feet. The characteristics of the Scotch mountains are their barren sides, only relieved by patches of purple heather; their originally fantastic and broken outlines; their deep, narrow, savage glens, which are often of the gloomiest and most desolate aspect; and their still deep tarns, or lakes, mirroring each lofty height in their clear and glassy surface.
The most important of the European systems is that of the Alps, whose majestic and glorious landscapes have been for ages the admiration of the poet and the artist. They begin, on the west, near the head of the Gulf of Savoy; sweep round the upper portion of Italy, as if to shut out that historic peninsula from the European mainland; bend to the south-east to approach the Adriatic; and throw out a spur, or prolongation, along the eastern shore of that sea, and parallel with it. That portion of the system which borders the Mediterranean is distinguished as the Maritime Alps; between Italy on the one side, and France and Savoy on the other, lie the Cottian and Graian Alps; from Mont Blanc to Monte Rosa stretch the Pennine Alps; further to the eastward extend the Lepontine, Rhetian, and Noric Alps; and south-easterly, the Carnic, the Julian, and the Dinaric Alps. The Bernese Alps form the northern barrier of the Valley of the Rhone; their direction is parallel to that of the Pennine.[196]
The principal Alpine summits are:—Mont Blanc, the “monarch of mountains,” 15,750 feet; Monte Rosa, 15,150 feet; Finster-Aarhorn, 14,109; the Jungfrau, 13,716; and the Ortler Spits, 12,852 feet. The scenery of the Alps is always of the grandest character; its more remarkable features being its huge glaciers, or ice-rivers, with their brilliant and ever-changing hues.
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet.”[197]
It is supposed that there are at least four hundred of the great glaciers, varying from three to thirty miles in length, from a hundred to six or seven hundred feet in thickness, and from a few yards to a couple of miles in breadth. The total superficial area of the glaciers in Switzerland, Savoy, Piedmont, and the Tyrol, has been estimated at 1400 square miles.
The Apennines must be considered a subsidiary portion of the Alps, rather than as an independent system. They branch off from the Maritime Alps, and traverse the entire length of Italy. Several peaks rise to an elevation of between 7000 and 8000 feet; but the average height scarcely exceeds 3000 feet. Monte Coma, the culminating point, is 9523 feet.
The south of Italy is occupied by a remarkable volcanic region, where the subterranean fires still give awful signs of their intense activity. Mount Vesuvius, which raises its conical mass, girdled with vines and chestnuts, above the fair city of Naples, is 3978 feet above the sea-level. Its sister volcano, Mount Etna, in the island of Sicily, attains a far loftier elevation (10,872 feet),[198] and exhibits a charming variety of picturesque scenery. The forest region on the lower slopes is rich in glowing effects of colour, while near the summit the landscapes wear a grander aspect. Mr. Matthew Arnold has painted an Etnean picture with marvellous force in the following beautiful passage.[199]
Of all the woody, high, well watered dells
On Etna; and the beam
Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs
Down its steep verdant sides; the air
Is freshened by the leaping stream, which throws
Eternal showers of spray on the mossed roots
Of trees, and vines of turf, and long dark shoots
Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells
Of hyacinths, and on late anemones,
That muffle its wet banks; but glade,
And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees,
End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade,
Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;
The peak, round which the white clouds play.”
Between France and Spain lies the great system of the Pyrenees, whose topmost peaks exceed 11,000 feet in altitude. Their entire breadth averages between forty and fifty miles; the southern slope is exceedingly rugged and abrupt, and the passes or defiles exhibit a character of exceeding savageness. The two loftiest crests are Mount Maladetta, 11,426 feet, and Mont Perdu, 11,275 feet. The interior of Spain consists of an elevated table-land, bordered by the wild mountain-ranges of the Sierra Nevada and the Sierra Morena. The average height of the snowy chain of the Nevada is 6000 feet, but the Peak of Mulharen soars to the noble elevation of 11,678 feet.
In France, we meet with the chains of the Cevennes and the Vosges, the former extending along the right bank of the Rhone, with an average altitude of 3000 feet; the latter stretching from north to south along the right bank of the Rhine. The vine-clad slopes of the latter offer many a romantic picture to the wayfarer in Rhineland. Very curious in geological interest are the extinct volcanic mountains of Auvergne; so black, charred, scathed, and desolate, that one might suppose them to have been the scene of some old-world battle between the Titans and the Olympian gods. Here the Puy de Sancy exceeds 6000 feet (6215), and the now silent cone of the Puy de Dôme, 4500 feet in height.
The Hungarian Mountains, or Mountains of Germany, occupy the country between the Rhine and the eighteenth meridian of east longitude. Here we meet with the dark and densely wooded crests of the Schwarz Wald, or Black Forest; the Erz-Gebirge, on the borders of Saxony and Bohemia; and the rich metalliferous masses of the legend-haunted Harz. Continuing our survey to the eastward, our glances rest on the bold and many-peaked groups of the Carpathians, which, commencing near the sources of the Oder and the Vistula, describe a semicircle round the fertile Hungarian plain for between seven and eight hundred miles. Striking down to the Danube, it faces on the opposite side the lofty wall of the Balkan, and through the gorge thus formed, the famous “Iron Gates” of ancient story, the river rolls its waters with impetuous rapidity. The more elevated summits of the Carpathians possess an average height of 5000 feet, but Mount Lomnitz reaches the loftier level of 7962 feet.
On the borders of Asia lies the long and narrow chain, or rather chains, of the Ural Mountains, with an average altitude of from 2000 to 2500 feet, sinking in about latitude 57° to a rocky ridge of little more than 1100 feet. The loftiest crest is Mount Yaman, in latitude 54° 13´, 5387 feet. The Ural Mountains possess abundant mineral treasures, both gold and platinum occurring in extensive abundance.
The chain of Mount Caucasus stretches for about 700 miles between the Black and Caspian Seas, in the direction of north-west and south-east. It exceeds 150 miles in breadth, throwing out from the central mass numerous branches and parallel ridges, and enclosing a network of valleys, plains, and ravines. The culminating point appears to be the group or mountain-knot of Elburz, in the meridian of 42° 25´ E., which attains the stupendous elevation of 18,493 feet. Kasbek, which is really in Asia, reaches 16,500 feet.
In the Asiatic continent the grandest mountain-system is that of the Himalayas (or “Snowy Mountains”), which limit the Thibetan table-land on the south, and divide it from the hot plains of northern India. They extend in an east and west direction for about 1500 miles, with a breadth of from 200 to 250; and consist of a number of parallel ranges, divided by transverse valleys, and rising one above another like a series of gigantic terraces. The slopes are clothed with an exceedingly rich and beautiful flora, and far up to the very snow-line extend magnificent breadths of forest foliage.[200] On the southern slope this snow-line is about 15,000 feet high; on the northern, 18,000 feet. The loftiest summit of the Himalayas, and probably the very apex of our globe, is Mount Everest (latitude 27° 59´), 29,002 feet in altitude. Kunchin-jinga is 28,156 feet; Dhawalgiri, 28,000 feet; and Javaher, 25,746 feet above the ocean-level.
“As we ascend the exterior face of these mountains,”[201] says Captain Strachey, “tropical vegetation prevails to a height of about 4000 feet, though even from 3000 feet a few of the forms of colder climates begin to appear; the vegetation, however, is, on the whole, scanty on this declivity. Far different is it when we follow the same zone of elevation into the interior of the mountains, along the courses of the larger rivers, which, owing to the great depths of their valleys, carry a tropical flora into the very heart of the mountain region. The sheltered and confined beds of these rivers, where the two great requisites for tropical vegetation, heat and humidity, are at their maximum, often afford the finest specimens of forest scenery, varied by an admixture of the temperate forms of vegetable life, which here descend to their lowest level. Thus the traveller’s eye may rest on palms and acacias intermingled with pines; on oaks or maples covered with epiphytal orchideæ; while pothos and clematis, bamboos and ivy, fill up the strangely contrasted picture.
“Above 4000 feet oaks and rhododendrons greatly increase in number, and these trees, with andromeda (Pieris), form the great mass of the forest from 6000 to 8000 feet. Species of the deciduous trees of the temperate zone are gradually introduced as we rise, and these again, with the addition of other pines, prevail in the upper regions of forest—that is, from 8000 to 11,500 feet.”
The Himalayas—Mount Gaurisankar (28,000 feet).
Glaciers abound in the loftier Himalayas. The lowest elevation to which they descend is about 11,500 feet above the level of the sea.
The Altai Mountains lie north of Mongolia, with an average elevation of from 5000 to 7000 feet. Eternal snow crowns their loftiest summit, Mount Bielukha, 11,063 feet. In Central Asia we find the chains of the Thian-shan, partly volcanic, and the Kuen-lun, which are little known, but probably lift their towering heads to an altitude of fully 20,000 feet. China is traversed from west to east by two mountain-ranges, the Pe-ling and Nan-ling, or “Northern” and “Southern,” which prolong their rocky heights to the very shores of the Pacific. West of the table-land of Pamer the eye rests upon the formidable chain of the Beloor-tagh, from 18,000 to 20,000 feet in elevation; and on the borders of Central Asia the Himalaya, the Beloor-tagh and other chains unite in the colossal knot or group of the Hindoo-Koosh. Thence, with a westerly course, extend the Paropamisan and Caspian Mountains, the latter culminating in Mount Demavend, 14,300 feet, near the Caspian Sea. The Soleiman Mountains border on the rugged plateau of Afghanistan; in Armenia rises the fable-haunted crest of Agri-dagh, or Mount Ararat, 17,260 feet; while, in Asia Minor, the Taurus chain, which so often beheld the banners and glancing spears of the Romans, attains its loftiest in Mount Argæus, or Arjish-dagh, 13,100 feet; and along the coast of Syria rolls the undulating range of Lebanon, with Mount Hermon soaring to 9600 feet. Arabia is occupied by a branch of the Lebanon, which runs southward into the Sinaitic peninsula. The highest of the Sinai Mountains is 9300 feet above the sea.
The average altitude of the Ghauts, which line the east and west coasts of Hindostan, is 3000 feet; but some of their summits aspire to 8000 feet.
A range of high mountains traverses the dreary peninsula of Kamtschatka, and appears to be a continuation of the volcanic chain which forms the Kurile Islands, and extends even to Japan and the great islands of the Eastern Archipelago. Many of the Kamtschatkan volcanoes are still active, such as Avatsha, Kluchevsky, and Assachnish, and though shrouded in snow and ice project from their seething caldrons vast showers of ashes, stones, boiling water, and lava. Avatsha is 9600 feet high.
The Indian islands contain many colossal mountains, mostly, if not all, of a volcanic character, and the same generalization is true of the beautiful Polynesian archipelagos:—
Mount Ophir, in Sumatra, is 13,840 feet high; Stamat, in Java, 12,300 feet; Indiapura, in Sumatra, 12,140 feet; Tomboro, in the island of Sumbawa, 7600 feet; and Kilauea, in the Sandwich Islands, 3970 feet. Kina-balu, in Borneo, is a magnificent mass, 13,968 feet in height. “Its grand precipices,” says a traveller,[202] “its polished granite surfaces glittering under the bright tropical rays, the dashing cascades, which fall from so great a height as to dissolve in spray before being lost in the dark valleys below, have a magical effect upon the imagination.”
My rapid survey of the mountain-systems of the globe now brings both writer and reader to the African Continent, which contains, however, an unusually large proportion of plain and low level. The northern mountain-ranges, which extend from east to west parallel to the Mediterranean, are known to geographers under the general appellation of Mount Atlas, whose culminating point occurs in the peak of Miltoin, 11,400 feet, to the south-east of the city of Morocco.
In the north-eastern part of the continent lie the Mountains of Abyssinia, the highest pinnacle being that of Geesh, which towers at an elevation of 15,000 feet above the sea. Many other summits are also crowned with “snows eternal,” feeding a succession of streams which pour their waters into the White Nile.
Detached masses and mountain-groups spread along the western coast, between the 12th and 18th parallels of north and south latitude respectively. To the north of the Equator lie the Kong Mountains; and near the coast of the Bight of Biafra rises the semi-extinct volcano of the Camaroons, 13,129 feet high. This elevation is far exceeded by that of the colossal summits, which on the eastern coast are situated within a few degrees of the equinoctial line, and wear a crown of snow which is indissoluble. One of these, Kilimandjaro, has an altitude of 22,814 feet, while Kenia cannot be less than 20,000 feet. Others are probably equal, or little inferior, to these in height.
In South Africa are three ranges of mountains, or rather terraces, the northernmost of which is called the Nieuweld, and runs in a general course of east and west. Towards its eastern extremity it bears the name of the Sneeaberg, or Snowy Mountain, and its summits are frequently 1000 feet high. The Compassberg group is 7000 feet in elevation. Immediately to the south of Cape Town rises the curious flat-topped Table Mountain, 3582 feet in height. The Peak of Teneriffe, in the Canary Isles, off the north-west coast, is volcanic; it rises 12,236 feet above the sea.
Asia possesses, as we have seen, the loftiest mountain-peaks, but it is on the American continent we meet with the grandest mountain-systems. We remark, in the first place, that they are all directed from north to south; in the second, that they are grouped along the western and eastern coasts in two unequal systems, converging towards each other as they run southward. In North America these two systems are the Rocky Mountains on the west; and the Apalachian, or Alleghany, on the east. The former consists of a mountain-region, diversified with valleys, terraces, and plateaus, varying in breadth from 40 to 100 miles, and raising several summits to a very conspicuous elevation, as in Mount Brown, 15,900 feet, and the volcanic peak of Mount Elias, in California, 17,500 feet.
The Apalachian range extends from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the parallel of 34°, a course of 1500 miles. It is intersected by Lake Champlain and the valley of the Hudson. Its average height does not exceed 3000 feet; but it culminates in Mount Washington to an altitude of 6234 feet.
In South America the chain of the Rocky Mountains is prolonged in the magnificent system of the Cordilleras de los Andes, or the Andes, which commences immediately to the southward of the Isthmus of Panama, extends along the whole stretch of the western coast, and finally terminates in the rocky archipelago of Tierra del Fuego. This chain is locally distinguished into the Columbian, Peruvian, Bolivian, Chilian, and Patagonian Andes. Its widest extension occurs between the 20th and 25th parallels, where it measures upwards of 400 miles across. Throughout its entire course it attains a very considerable elevation. Its volcanic character is very marked. Thus, in the Columbian Andes, Antisana and Cotopaxi are still active; in the Chilian, Aconcagua is the loftiest volcano on the globe; in the Patagonian, four active volcanoes occur. The region at the base of the Chilian Andes suffers more from volcanic convulsion than any other part of the world, and its towns are repeatedly destroyed by earthquakes.
The principal summits are:—Aconcagua, 23,944 feet; Chimborazo, 21,415 feet; Sahama, 22,350 feet; Cotopaxi, 18,867; Antisana, 19,136 feet; Sorata, 21,286 feet; and Illimanni, 21,149 feet.
On the eastern coast we meet with the Mountains of Guiana and the Mountains of Brazil, never reaching a higher level than 5000 feet. Mount Sarmiento, in Tierra del Fuego, is 6900 feet above the sea. In the West Indies the loftiest point is found in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, 7278 feet.
CHAPTER V.
VEGETABLE LIFE AND ANIMAL LIFE IN THE MOUNTAINS.
THE same changes that we observe in the characters of vegetable life as we advance towards the Pole reproduce themselves, the reader will easily understand, as we ascend the mountain-sides. Only, in the former case the gradation is slow and scarcely perceptible; in the latter, it displays itself rapidly; in such wise that a distance of a few hundred yards in height is equivalent to a journey of several degrees in latitude. It is scarcely necessary to add that the warmer the climate, the higher we must rise to reach the belt or zone where flourish the species peculiar to Arctic countries.
In every land the flora of the lowest region of the mountains is virtually the same as that of the adjacent plains, and it is only at an elevation of 300 feet that we discern a positive change of aspect. In temperate Europe, the Normandy fir and the Epicea begin to form, at that altitude, forests of considerable extent. These trees are from 120 to 150 feet in height, with a pyramidal configuration, sombre foliage, and drooping boughs, and whose bark takes to itself a clothing of various lichens (notably Usneas), the long filaments, branchy and yellowish, clinging to the branches of the most aged individuals. In the shadow of these resinous trees thrive the honeysuckle, the rose, the wild raspberry. At the base of the senile trunks are developed the crawling or climbing stems, ever verdurous, of various lycopodiums. In rocky localities the great yellow gentian unfolds its long spikes of golden flowers, in company with the elegant martagon, whose yellow-spotted red corollas are rolled up turban-wise. At a higher level, between 4500 and 6000 feet, the cembro pine, rare enough in France and England, more common in the mountains of Central Europe, and the larch, whose leaves fall every winter, are the last representatives of the true arborescent Flora.
1. Fir, with bearded Usnea.
2. Great Yellow Gentian.
3. Martagon, or Turk’s Cap Lily.
Still continuing our ascent, we meet now with nothing but an herbaceous vegetation. Here and there only, in turfy places and abrupt ravines, a few birches and some dwarf willows display themselves, scarcely taller than the herbs which surround them. It is in the rocky hollows also that the oleanders or ferruginous rhododendrons vegetate, sole representatives in Europe of a genus which among the Asiatic mountains numbers several species. The Flora of the Alpine prairies is, moreover, extremely varied. The Gramineæ dominate therein, but associated with other families which enamel with the most brilliant colours the bright green carpet of those cold regions; the bright yellow or orange of the Compositæ; the blue of the Phyteumas, of the Larkspurs, and the Campanulas; the rose of the Carnations and the Centaureas; the intense purple of the Ranunculuses (Nigritellæ). In the most arid localities we admire the azure flowers of the little Gentianellas and the white blossoms of the Saxifrages; their presence, under such conditions, filling our souls with wonder, and stimulating our hearts to praise their divine Creator.
We behold their tender buds expand—
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.”[203]
Some of the plants which enrich the lofty slopes of the European mountains are endowed with an agreeable aromatic odour, and with keen stimulating properties. Such are the Artemisias and the Achilleæ. To the former of these families belongs the Artemisia glacialis, which the mountaineers consider an universal panacea, and which enters into the composition of the famous liqueur of the Chartreux.
On the threshold of the eternal snows, under the influence of the icy breezes, vegetation grows rarer and yet rarer, until it is reduced to a few species which compensate for their insignificance by their beauty. Such are the Campanula of Allioni, with its graceful bells of blue; the delicate Saxifraga, whose rosy flowers also expose their beauties on the frost-bound shores of Spitzbergen; the Soldanella of the Alps; the Ranunculus of the Glaciers; numerous Androsellæ, some of which do not exceed a third of an inch in height; finally, on the extreme border, and straggling even on the moraines of the Glaciers, where no other plant can live, the little Myosotis, which grows in small tufts covered with white down, and starred with delicate blue flowers. At a still higher level we find only a few lichens relieving the monotonous surface of the rocks; and sometimes, flourishing under unknown circumstances, the Protococcus nivalis, whose red globules communicate to the snow a blood-red tint.
The Mountain Flora will offer us, in other parts of the globe, the same series of diminution, commencing with the groups which people the low lands of each geographical zone, and terminating with those which, at the level of the sea, are met with only in the Frozen Zone. Some mountain-chains, however, possess genera or species exclusively belonging to them. It is on the ridges of Atlas and Lebanon, at an elevation of 3500 or 5400 feet, that the majestic cedars spread their umbrageous branches. The cedars of Atlas attain a stature of 120 to 140 feet, and their trunk measures, at the base, from a yard to a yard and a half in diameter. “When young,” says M. Charles Martins,[204] “they have a pyramidal form; but when they soar above their neighbours, or above the rock which protects them, there comes a sudden storm, a flash of lightning, or an insect pierces their terminal shoot, and deprives them of their shapely spire; the tree is discrowned; then the branches spread horizontally in terraces or layers of verdure, one upon another, screening the sky from the gaze of the traveller, who presses forward in a sort of twilight under these vaults impenetrable to the solar rays. From an elevated point of the mountain still more majestic is the spectacle. The horizontal surfaces resemble lawns of the deepest green, or of a glaucous colour like that of water, upon which are sprinkled cones of a violet hue; the eye plunges into an abyss of greenery in whose depth mutters an invisible torrent.”
The cedar of Atlas constitutes, if not a species, at least a distinct variety from the cedar of Lebanon. The latter is now very rare on the mountain which is regarded as its native habitat. The prophet Ezekiel describes it in all its glory: “A cedar with fair branches, and with a shadowing shroud, and of a high stature ... his height was exalted above all the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, because of the multitude of waters, when he shot forth” (Ezek. xxxi. 3, 5). But those immense green forests which once stood out in dark deep shadow against the radiant sky are now reduced to a single scanty grove—a grove containing, according to Dr. Hooker, but four hundred trees, and of these four hundred only twelve of the ancient majestic race. They are situated high up on the western slope of the mountain-range, two hours south-east from Tripoli, and at an elevation above the sea-level of 6172 feet. Most of the Lebanon patriarchs are about 50 feet in height, and of nearly the same girth. One, however, measures 63 feet in circumference.
The cedar was introduced into England towards the close of the seventeenth century, and has become permanently naturalized. It is even found in a flourishing condition as far north as Inverness. It does not, however, attain such gigantic dimensions here as on the slopes of Lebanon. There is one at Goodwood, in Sussex, 25 feet in circumference; and another at Peperharrow, in Surrey, 15 feet. In the Jardin des Plantes a celebrated tree, whose terminal shoot was struck by a chance shot during the siege of the Bastile, boasts of the following proportions:-Ten feet girth at three feet from the ground, and ten feet and a half on a level with the soil. Its horizontal branches extend fully forty-five to fifty feet in length, and cover, consequently, a surface of upwards of 300 feet in circuit.
Rhododendrons of the Himalaya.
1. Rhododendron Pendulum. 2. Rhododendron Dalhousie. 3. Rhododendron
Nivale.
If we would now pass in review the complete series of Zones of Vegetation, it is to the north of Hindostan, in the Himalaya, or to South America and the Cordillera of the Andes, that we must transport ourselves. On the first steps, or lowest terraces, of these immense chains, we shall see the tropical Flora revealing all its wealth and its puissance; there, between 3500 and 6900 feet above the sea-level, we meet with nearly all the plants peculiar to temperate climes, and those which only belong to the northern lands. On the Himalayan slopes, the pine and the cedar flourish at an elevation of 7500 feet. Advancing from this limit, we soon encounter a great variety of Rhododendrons, a shrub now well known in our European gardens, and highly prized for its ever green foliage and rich full bloom. It thrives at the height of 12,000 feet; a few species even battle with the elements at an altitude of 15,000 feet, but they are then only stunted and crawling plants. With these are associated, at about 10,000 feet, the alder, the birch, and the willow. The plains are covered, at the same time, with a prodigious host of Ranunculaceæ, Compositæ, Saxifrages, and Pinnalaceæ, to which succeeds all the army of Lichens. Thus, then, it appears that the same laws determine always and everywhere the orographic distribution of plants. Only the influence of elevation is counterbalanced here by that of climate; whence it results that the arborescent species endure at a far greater height than on our European mountains.
In the same manner that the Himalaya “resumes,” so to speak, the Flora of all the climates of the Old World, does the Cordillera of the Andes, and, notably, that portion of the chain situated between Peru and Venezuela, present all the vegetable types of the New World, disposed upon its plateaux and its slopes as upon a gigantic flight of steps. In the lower region, the plants of Tropical America, favoured by a marshy soil, deck themselves out in their most gorgeous attire. At an elevation of between 1800 and 3500 feet, the vegetation is neither so brilliant nor so varied, but it has not yet thrown off its original character. We remark here a constant abundance of Myrtaceæ, Laurenaciæ, and Bignoniaceæ, as well as numerous epiphytous plants—Orchidaceæ, Ferns, Bromeliaceæ. From 3500 to 9000 feet we mark the successive appearance of plants belonging to the colder countries of North America: Escallionæ, Magnoliaceæ, Vacciniaceæ, and Solanaceæ. Here and there a few Bromeliaceæ and some other epiphytes display themselves. We encounter also in this zone a small number of Palmaceæ; among others, the Ceroxylon and the Diplothenium. But soon the arborescent vegetation almost wholly disappears, and only a few stunted bushes remain, similar to those which, in the Alps, succeed the larch. Then come meadows almost entirely formed of Compositæ, Umbelliferæ, and Saxifrages; and, finally, the Lichens, the last plants-the last forms of vegetable life—lingering on the frontiers of the region of eternal snow.
If the law which presides over the orographic distribution of plants were applicable to the animal kingdom, we should meet on the frozen crests of the mountains with the same species as, or, at least, with analogous species to, those we have seen in the vicinity of the Pole. But it is not so. Plants flourish wherever they can find, with an endurable climate, a soil in which their roots can develop themselves and imbibe the juices needful for their support; but the conditions which render a country inhabitable for animals—I mean the higher animals more particularly—are wholly different and more complex. A facility for removing from place to place in search of food is one of these conditions, and assuredly one of the most essential. But the number of terrestrial animals capable of climbing the scarped flanks, of traversing the narrow ridges, and leaping across the precipitous chasms of the mountains, is extremely limited. However, a few Herbivora excel in these perilous exercises. They are Ruminants of small size, with tiny limbs, and small ungulated hoofs; Moufflons, wild Goats, Chamois, Kids, which seek on inaccessible heights a refuge against the attacks of man and the Carnaria, and bound, with marvellous agility and precision, from rock to rock, from icy crag to crag, over the most formidable gulfs, and up the most precipitous steeps.
The Moufflons, or Wild Sheep, erroneously regarded by some naturalists as the ancestors of our domestic sheep, form a genus whose species are distributed in Asia, America, and Northern Africa, and in the mountainous islands of the Mediterranean. The Musmon Moufflon, which inhabits the mountains of Corsica, of Sardinia, of Cyprus, and of Candia, is nearly the size of a sheep, but far more robust. His hair, which is only wool properly so called, is a reddish-brown over nearly the whole of his body, and whitish under the belly and the legs. His horns are of great size, transversely crumpled, with a simple curve, and a sharp extremity. Among the Asiatic species the largest is the Masimon argali, which inhabits the Altaï and the mountains of Kamtschatka, and approaches the ass in size. His skin is a yellowish-brown, with some white on the fore-feet. His horns describe an almost complete circle. The American species is the Musimon montanus, which we find in the Rocky Mountains. Finally, the region of the Atlas and of the Aurès Mountains is the country of the Ruffled Moufflon (Moufflon à Manchettes), so named on account of his long hairs, which fall from his shoulders upon the extremity of his anterior legs. His neck is also supplied with a thick mane.
The Wild Goats and Bouquetins probably form, as the best authorities represent, but one and the same genus. In any case the latter are much better known than the former. They closely resemble our domestic goats, from which they chiefly differ in the prodigious development of their horns, the said horns being generally knotty, slightly divergent, and supported by osseous axes. Their name, according to Gervais, comes from two words, Bouc-estain, signifying the Goat of the Rocks. They belong exclusively to the Old Continent. These animals are very wild. The precipitousness and lofty elevation of their pasture-grounds render their chase a matter of peril. The same may be said of the Chamois, or Isard, which inhabits the loftiest ridges of the Alps, the Pyrenees, and the mountains of Greece. Dogs are of no avail in hunting these animals. In Asia the falcon is employed in capturing the bouquetin. In Europe the chamois-hunters are excellent marksmen—indefatigable, fearless, capable of great endurance, keen, and vigilant. It is at morn and eve that they venture forth on their hazardous enterprise. The chamois wander in small troops. Their voice is a kind of low bleating; but when one of them descries approaching danger, he immediately raises a sharp cry, which is the signal of flight. Driven together and closely packed, the poor animals stand at bay, and dash themselves upon the daring hunter with an impetuosity which often proves fatal to him.
The Musk-Deer form a distinct family in the order Ruminantia. In their external conformation they resemble both the stag and the antelope, but they have neither horns nor antlers; their stomach is deficient in the part named the feuillet, which exists in all the other Ruminantia; finally, their upper jaw is provided with two long canines, which among the males project from the mouth, and which serve at one and the same time as defensive arms and as instruments to dig out of the soil the roots upon which these animals feed. All the species of this genus are Asiatic, except one, which is a native of Guinea. I can only particularize here the Musk-Deer of Thibet and Nepaul, which furnishes commerce with the curious product, so useful in medicine and perfumery, known as musk. This product is an extremely odorous and unctuous substance, contained in a special organ situated under the belly of the male. The high price which it commands would make the chase of the musk-deer very profitable, were not these animals so rare and so difficult to get at. They lead a solitary life among the scarped rocks and in the thorny bushes bordering on the glaciers. In winter they descend towards more temperate localities. They are caught either in snares or with nooses, or slain with arrows. The Tongusian hunters, to attract the musk-deer, imitate the cry of their young by applying the mouth to a fragment of bark. The chase is only pursued in winter and autumn. In Thibet the hunters require a special license from the government.
We may pass over the species of Rodents which burrow among the mountains, with a word of allusion to the traditional companion of the poor wandering Savoyard, the Alpine Marmot. This gentle and interesting animal is so well known to my readers that I need not pause to describe him.
In the deep gorges and dense forests which break up the monotony of the lofty table-lands, live in fierce solitude the congeners of the “Man in the White Cloak” of the Polar deserts—Bears with a thick fur and of a sombre hue. While these animals seem designed by their organization to feed upon flesh, and while their strength enables them to seize upon the largest game—which, indeed, they occasionally do—their diet is omnivorous, and they even exhibit, in general, a marked predilection for the aliment of a vegetable nature. The reader, moreover, will remember with what eagerness the bears of our menageries and zoological gardens devour the bread, cakes, or fruit which their visitors press upon them. In their native mountain homes they will rather fly from man than attack him; but if assailed and closely pressed, they defend themselves bravely, rearing upon their hind-feet, and endeavouring to suffocate their aggressor with their muscular arms. If caught in their youth they are easily tamed, and display a greater intelligence than any of the other carnivora.
The genus Ursidæ, or Bears, is wholly wanting in Africa, but has its representatives in Europe, Asia, and America. The European species are: the great Brown Bear, formerly distributed over all the mountains and through all the forests of Western and Northern Europe, and which is still sufficiently common in the Alps, the Pyrenees, and some wooded highland districts of Russia; and the Bear of Asturias, found only in the sierras of the Iberian peninsula. The latter is of smaller dimensions than the former. His hide is tawny.
Asia possesses: the Syrian Bear and Bear of Lebanon, two varieties of the same species, distinguished by Horsfield under the name of Ursus isabella, in allusion to the dirty brown colour of his skin; the Boar of Thibet, which is found in the Himalayan chain and the islands of Japan—in size and appearance he approximates to our European bear, but differs in the blacker shades of his hair; the Malay Bear (Prochilus Malayanus), which is jet black, climbs trees with agility, and lives on a vegetable diet; and the Juggler, or Jungle Bear of India (Prochilus ursinus), originally named the “Five-fingered Sloth,”—a great favourite with the Indian jugglers on account of his adaptability and mildness.
1. Black Bear of Canada. 2. Gray Bear of North America.
To North America belong the Black Bear (Ursus Americanus) and the Grisly Bear (Ursus ferox). The former has a long head, a pointed nose, small eyes, and short round ears; his limbs are strong, unwieldy, and thick; his tail is short; feet large; and the hair on the body smooth, glossy, and black. The Grisly Bear is about nine feet long, a narrow and flattened muzzle, sunken eyes, and formidable teeth; he ranges over not only the entire chain of the Rocky Mountains, but in the prairies and forests which occupy the centre and west of the great continent, where his sanguinary instincts and prodigious strength render him a formidable antagonist. The Black Bear of Canada, on the contrary, is the least ferocious and least carnivorous of his genus. His chief food is of a vegetable nature—grain, fruits, and roots—but he does not disdain an occasional regale of pork. He commits great depredations on the maize-fields, and is also exceedingly partial to honey. From the nature of his food, his flesh is exceedingly succulent, and much relished by the Canadian settlers.
Ascend the wildest and most barren mountains, even to the limit where all life ceases to exist; or the flank of a perpendicular rock, in a crevasse, in some chink or fissure where the foot of man or quadruped may never rest; and there, were you able to approach sufficiently near, you would see some interlaced branches and stems, and within it a few fragments, a few gnawed and polished bones, while a strong odour scented the surrounding air. Regard it more attentively—some tiny creatures are astir upon that unclean couch. Yes: your gaze now rests on the eyry of one of those aërial tyrants, Eagles or Vultures, which alone can dwell on the cloud-crowned, wind-swept heights. I must confine myself here to mentioning the largest and most formidable species, which surpasses all the others in sweep and speed and power of flight—the Condor of the Andes. This bird possesses the habits and voracity of other vultures, and, as if conscious of his enormous strength, shows himself the most audacious. He frequently pounces upon living animals; but his non-retractile talons, blunted by their attrition upon the rocks, do not permit him to carry off his prey; he contents himself with fixing it against the ground with one of his claws, while he rends it to pieces with his powerful beak. Gorged with food, he becomes incapable of flight. You may then approach him; but should you attempt to seize him, he opposes a desperate resistance, and as he enjoys an extraordinary tenacity of life, the victory will probably cause you a prolonged struggle and many cruel wounds.
A story is told of a Chili miner, of more than ordinary physical force, who attacked—hand-to-hand, as it were—a condor while digesting his greedy banquet, and unable to make his escape. The engagement was long and desperate. The man was compelled to put forth all his strength. At length, exhausted, torn, and bleeding, he left his enemy on the field of battle, and carried off for a trophy a few feathers, which he showed to his comrades, affirming that he had never fought a harder fight. The other miners went in search of the corpse of this terrible bird. They found him standing erect, and flapping his wings in order to fly away. They only killed him by crushing in his head with a hatchet.
The condor enjoys the privilege of an exceptional longevity. The Indians of the Andean plains assert that he lives nearly a hundred years. He builds no regular nest; the female is satisfied with a hollow in the rocky cliff of sufficient size to shelter her while hatching her eggs. Both parents busy themselves very attentively in bringing up their young, disgorging in their beaks the food which they have themselves taken. The young birds grow slowly; it is not until they are six weeks old that they begin to flutter round their parents. Their training, however, lasts but a few months; after which they separate of their own accord from the male and female birds, and seek their own nourishment.
The condor has the loftiest flight of all the winged race. He has been seen towering in the “blue serene,” on a level with the snow-crowned summit of Illimani, 23,000 feet above the sea, in a region where man cannot endure the excessive rarefaction of the air. When, in the fulness of time, civilization shall have conquered to itself the South American continent, the condor, flying for refuge to these brain-wildering heights among the icy peaks of the Cordillera, shall be, perhaps, in that quarter of the globe, the latest denizen of the Desert—the last representative of The Savage World.
Index.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z