The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 16/Beauty in Nature
III.-RIVERS AND LAKES.
By Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P.
CCORDING to the traditions of ancient times, running water was proof against all sorcery and witchcraft—
"No spell could stay the living tide,
Or charm the rushing stream."
There was much truth, as well as beauty, in this idea. Flowing waters have not only power to wash away material stains, and to cleanse the outward body, but they also clear away the cobwebs of the brain—the results of over incessant work—and restore us to health and strength.
Snowfields and glaciers, mountain torrents, sparkling brooks, and stately rivers; pools, and lakes; and last, not least, the great ocean itself, all alike possess this magic power.
"When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence in the power, and wisdom, and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in Him;" and in his quaint, old language he craves a special blessing on all those "that are true lovers of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, and be quiet and go a-angling.'
"Of all inorganic substances," says Ruskin, "acting in their own proper nature, and without assistance or combination, water is the most wonderful. If we think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we have seen in the clouds; then as the instrument by which the earth we have contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its crags chiselled into grace; then as, in the form of snow, it robes the mountains it has made, with that transcendent light which we could not have conceived if we had not seen; then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and glancing river; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, tameless unity of the sea; what shall we compare to this mighty, this universal element for glory and for beauty? or how shall we follow its eternal changefulness of feeling? It is like trying to paint a soul."
At the water's edge flowers are especially varied and luxuriant, so that the banks of a river are a long natural garden of tall and graceful grasses and sedges, the Flowering Rush, the Sweet Flag, the Bull Rush, Purple Loosestrife, Hemp Agrimony, Forget-me-not, and a hundred more; backed by Willows, Alders, Poplars, and other trees.
The animal world, if less conspicuous to the eye, is quite as fascinating to the imagination. Here and there a speckled trout may be detected (rather by the shadow than the substance) suspended in the clear water, or darting across a shallow. If we are quiet we may see water-hens or wild ducks swimming among the lilies, a kingfisher sitting on a branch or flashing away like a gleam of light; a solemn heron stands, maybe, at the water's edge, or slowly rises flapping his great wings; water rats, neat and clean little creatures, very different from their coarse brown namesakes of the land, are abundant everywhere; nor need we even yet quite despair of seeing the otter himself.
Insects, of course, are gay, lively, and innumerable; but, after all, the richest fauna is that visible only with a microscope.
"To gaze," says Dr. Hudson, "into that wonderful world which lies in a drop of water, crossed by some stems of green weed, to see transparent living mechanism at work, and to gain some idea of its modes of action, to watch a tiny speck that can sail through the prick of a needle's point, to see its crystal armour flashing with ever-varying tint, its head glorious with the halo of its quivering cilia; to see it gliding through the emerald stems, hunting for its food, snatching at its prey, fleeing from its enemy, chasing its mate (the fiercest of our passions blazing in an invisible speck); to see it whirling in a mad dance, to the sound of its own music, the music of its happiness, the exquisite happiness of living—can anyone who has once enjoyed this sight ever turn from it to mere books and drawings without the sense that he has left all fairyland behind him?"[2]
'Lakes seem to sleep and dream.'
The study of natural history has indeed the special advantage of carrying us into the country and the open air.
Lakes are even more restful than rivers or the sea. Rivers are always flowing, though it may be but slowly; the sea may rest awhile, now and then, but is generally full of action and energy, while lakes seem to sleep and dream. Lakes in a beautiful country are like silver ornaments on a lovely dress, like liquid gems in a beautiful setting, or bright eyes in a lovely face. Indeed, as we look down on a lake from some hill or cliff it almost looks solid, like some great blue crystal. It is interesting and delightful to trace a river from its source to the sea.
"Beginning at the hill-top," says Geikie, "we first meet with the spring, or 'welleye,' from which the river takes its rise. A patch of bright green, mottling the brown heathy slope, shows where the water comes to the surface, a treacherous covering of verdure often concealing a deep pool beneath. From its source the rivulet trickles along the grass and heath, which it soon cuts through, reaching the black, peaty layer below, and running in it for a short way as in a gutter. Excavating its channel in the peat, it comes down to the soil, often a stony earth bleached white by the peat. Deepening and widening the channel as it gathers force with the increasing slope, the water digs the coating of drift or loose decomposed rock that covers the hillside. In favourable localities a narrow precipitous gully, twenty or thirty feet deep, may thus be scooped out in the course of a few years."
"Deepening and widening as it gathers force."
If, however, we trace one of the Swiss rivers to its source, we shall often find that it begins in a snowfield, or neve, nestled in a shoulder of some great mountain.
Below the neve lies a glacier—on, in, and under which the water runs in a thousand little streams, eventually emerging at the end, in some cases forming a beautiful blue cavern, though in others the end of the glacier is encumbered and concealed by earth and stones. severe.
The uppermost Alpine valleys are perhaps generally, though by no means always, a little desolate and severe. The sides are clothed with pasture, which is flowery indeed, though of course the flowers are not visible at a distance, interspersed with live rock and fallen masses, while along the bottom rushes a white torrent. The snowy mountains are generally more or less hidden by the shoulders of the hills.
The valleys further down widen, and become more varied and picturesque. The snowy peaks and slopes are more often visible; the "alps," or pastures to which the cows are taken in summer, are greener, and dotted with the huts or châlets of the cowherds; while the tinkling of the cowbells comes to one from time to time, softened by distance, and suggestive of mountain rambles. Below the alps there is generally a steeper part clothed with firs, or with larches and pines, some of which seem as if they were scaling the mountains in regiments, preceded by a number of skirmishers. Below the fir woods again are beeches, chestnuts, and other deciduous trees, while the central cultivated portion of the valley is partly arable, partly pasture; the latter differing from our meadows in containing a large proportion of flowers.
Apart from the action of running water, snow and frost are continually disintegrating the rocks, and thus gradually lowering the higher peaks. At the base of almost any steep cliff may be seen a slope of débris. This stands at a regular angle—the angle of repose—and, unless it is gradually removed by a stream at the base, gradually creeps up higher and higher, until at last the cliff entirely disappears.
"A tunnel through the rock."
Sometimes the two sides of the valley approach so near that there is not even room for the river and the road; in that case Nature claims the supremacy, and the road has to be carried in a cutting, or perhaps in a tunnel through the rock. In other cases Nature is not at one with herself. In many places the débris from the rocks above would reach right across the valley and dam up the stream. Then arises a struggle between rock and river, but the river is always victorious in the end; even if dammed back for a while, it concentrates its force, rises up the rampart of rock, rushes over triumphantly, resumes its original course, and gradually carries the enemy away.
Sometimes two lateral valleys come down nearly opposite one another, so that the cones meet, as, for instance, some little way below Vernayaz, and indeed, in several other places in the Valais. In this case, or indeed by one, if it is sufficiently large, the valley may be dammed up, and a lake formed.
Dams, indeed, may be due to other causes. In some cases valleys have been dammed by ice—for instance, in the Vallée de Bagnes, in the year 1818; or by rock falls, as in the Valais, in the sixth century.
Almost all river valleys contain, or have contained in their course, one or more lakes, and when a river falls into a lake, a cone, like those just described, is formed, and projects into the lake. Thus, on the Lake of Geneva, between Vevey and Villeneuve, are several such promontories, each marking the place where a stream falls into the lake.
The Rhone itself has not only filled up what was once the upper end of the lake, but has built out a strip of land into the lake.
That the lake formerly extended far up the Valais no one can doubt who looks at the flat ground about Villeneuve. It is clear that the valley must formerly have been much deeper, and that it has been filled up by material brought down by the Rhone, a process which is still continuing.
At the other end the lake the river rushes out fifteen feet deep of, "not flowing, but flying, water, not water neither—melted glacier matter one should call it; the force of the ice with it, and the wreathing of the clouds, the gladness of the sky, and the countenance of time."[3]
It would, however, be a great mistake to suppose that rivers always tend to excavate their valleys. This is only the case when the slope exceeds a certain angle. When the fall is but slight, they tend, on the contrary, to raise their beds by depositing sand and mud brought down from higher levels. Hence, in the lowest part of their course, many of the most celebrated rivers, the Nile, the Po, the Mississippi, the Thames, &c., run upon embankments, partly of their own creation.
The Nile.
When not interfered with by man, rivers under such conditions sooner or later break through their banks, and, leaving their former bed, take a new course along the lowest part of their valley, which again they gradually raise above the rest. Hence, unless they are kept in their own channels by human agency, such rivers are continually changing their course.
Finally, when the river at length approaches the sea, it in many cases spreads out in the form of a fan, forming a very flat cone or "delta," as it is called from the Greek capital Δ, a name first applied to that of the Nile, and afterwards extended to other rivers. This is due to the same cause, and resembles, except in size, the comparatively minute cones of mountain streams.
The estuary of the Thames is swept by the tides, and the deposits of the river carried away to sea as fast as they are brought down. At the mouths of the Po, on the contrary, the tide is very small; at those of the Mississippi it never surpasses a yard, and even at the mouth of the Ganges it does not generally rise more than ten feet.
"Sailing boats seen in the middle of the fields."
In flat countries the habits of rivers are very different. For instance, in parts of Norfolk there are many small lakes or "broads" in a network of rivers—the Bure, the Yare, the Ant, the Waveney, &c., which do not rush on with the haste of many rivers or the stately flow of others, which steadily set themselves to reach the sea, but rather seem like rivers wandering in the meadows on a holiday. They have often no natural banks, but are bounded by dense growths of tall grasses, Bulrushes, Reeds, and Sedges, interspersed with the spires of the purple Loosestrife, Willow Herb, Hemp Agrimony, and other flowers, while the fields are very low and protected by artificial dykes, so that the red cattle seem to be browsing below the level of the water; and, as the rivers take most unexpected turns, the sailing boats often seem as if they were in the middle of the fields.
At present these rivers are restrained in their courses by banks. When left free they are continually changing their beds; and their courses, at first sight, seem to follow no rule, but as it is termed from a celebrated river of Asia Minor—they seem to "Meander" along without aim or object, though, in fact, they follow very definite laws.
For a considerable part of its course the curves of the Mississippi are so regular that they are said to have been used by the Indians as a measure of distance.
If the country is flat, a river gradually raises the level on each side; the water which overflows during floods, being retarded by trees, bushes, sedges, and thousand other obstacles, gradually deposits the solid matter which it contains, and, thus raising the surface, becomes at length suspended, as it were, above the general level. When this elevation has reached a certain point, the river, during some flood, overflows and cuts through its banks, and, deserting its old bed, takes a new course along the lowest accessible level. This, then, it gradually fills up, and so on, coming back from time to time if permitted, after a long cycle of years, to its first course.
The most celebrated floods are those of the Nile. The river commences to rise towards the beginning of July; from August to October it floods all the low lands, and early in November it sinks again. At its greatest height the volume of water sometimes reaches twenty times that when it is lowest, and yet, perhaps, not a drop of rain may have fallen. Though we now know that this annual variation is due to the melting of the snow, and the fall of rain on the high lands of Central Africa, still, when we consider that the phenomenon has been repeated annually for thousands of years, it is impossible not to regard it with wonder. In fact, Egypt itself may be said to be the bed of the Nile in flood time.
Some rivers, on the other hand, offer no such periodical difference. The lower Rhone, for instance, below the junction with the Saone, is nearly the same all through the year, and yet we know that the upper portion is greatly derived from the melting of the Swiss snows. In this case, however, while the Rhone itself is on this account highest in summer and lowest in winter, the Saone, on the contrary, is swollen by the winter's rain, and falls during the fine weather of summer. Hence the two just counterbalance one another.
Periodical differences are, of course, comparatively easy to deal with. It is very different with floods due to irregular rainfall. Here, also, however, the mere quantity of rain is by no means the only matter to be considered. For instance, a heavy rain in the watershed in the Seine, unless very prolonged, causes less difference in the flow of the river, say at Paris, than might at first have been expected, because the height of the flood in the nearer affluents has passed down the river before that from the more distant ones has arrived. The highest floods are when the rain in the districts drained by the various affluents happen to be so timed that the different floods coincide in their arrival at Paris.
