The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 17/Beauty in Nature
Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P.
IV.—MOUNTAINS.
HE Alps are to many an inexhaustible source of joy and peace, of health, and even of life. We have gone to them jaded and worn, feeling, perhaps, without any external cause, anxious and out of spirits, and have returned full of health and strength and energy. Among the mountains, Nature herself seems freer and happier, brighter and purer than elsewhere. The rush of the rivers and the repose of the lakes, the pure snowfields and majestic glaciers, the fresh air, the mysterious summits of the mountains, the blue haze of the distance, the morning tints and the evening glow, the beauty of the sky and the grandeur of the storm, have all refreshed and delighted us time after time, and their memories can never fade away.
Even now, as I write, comes back to me a bright vision of some Swiss valley; blue sky above, glittering snow, bare grey rock, dark pines here and there, mixed with bright green larches, then patches of smooth Alp, interspersed with clumps of trees and dotted with brown châlets; then below them rock again, and wood, but this time with more deciduous trees, and then the valley itself, with emerald meadows, interspersed with alder copses threaded together by a silver stream; and I almost fancy I can hear the delicious murmur of the rushing water. The endless variety and yet the sense of repose and power, the dignity of age, the energy of youth, the play of colour, the beauty of form, the mystery of their origin—all combine to invest mountains with a solemn beauty.
Another great charm of mountain districts is the richness of colour. "Consider,[1] first, the difference produced in the whole tone of landscape colour by the introduction of purple, violet, and deep ultramarine blue, which we owe to mountains. In an ordinary lowland landscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of the grass, which I will suppose (and this is an unnecessary concession to the lowlands) entirely fresh and bright; the green of trees; and certain elements of purple, far more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in their bark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple and of an exquisite tone), as well as in ploughed fields and dark ground in general. But among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near, by films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues are produced of the most subtle tenderness, these azures and purples passing into rose colour of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never seen the rose colour of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what tenderness in colour means at all. Bright tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the far-away hill-purples, he cannot conceive."
"Grey mist rests on the hills."
Tyndall, speaking of the scene from the summit of the little Scheideck[2], says:—"The upper air exhibited a commotion which we did not experience; clouds were wildly driven against the flanks of the Eiger, the Jungfrau thundered behind, while in front of us a magnificent rainbow, fixing one of its arms in the valley of Grindelwald, and throwing the other right over the crown of the Wetterhorn, claped the mountain in its embrace. Through jagged apertures in the clouds floods of golden light were poured down the sides of the mountain. On the slopes were innummerable châlets, glistening in the sunbeams, herds browsing peacefully and shaking their mellow bells; while the blackness of the pine trees, crowded into woods, or scattered in pleasant clusters over Alp and valley, contrasted forcibly with the lively green of the fields."
These were the summer scenes, but the autumn and winter again have a grandeur and beauty of their own.
"Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. The leaves twirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead."[3]
Even bad weather often only adds to the beauty and grandeur of mountains. When the lower parts are hidden, and the peaks stand out above the clouds, they look much loftier than if the whole mountain side is visible. The gloom lends a weirdness and mystery, while flying clouds give it additional variety.
Rain, moreover, adds vividness to the colouring. The leaves and grass become a brighter green. "Every sunburnt rock glows into an agate," and when fine weather returns the new snow gives intense brilliance to the scene, and invests the woods especially with the beauty of fairy-land. How often in Alpine districts have I longed "for the wings of a dove" more thoroughly to enjoy and more completely to explore the mysteries and recesses of the mountains. The mind, however, can go, even if the body must remain behind.
Each hour of the day has a beauty of its own. The mornings and evenings, again, glow with different and even richer tints. The cloud effects in mountain districts are brighter and more varied than in flatter regions. The morning and evening tints are seen to the greatest advantage, and clouds floating high in the heavens sometimes glitter with the most exquisite iridescent hues,
"That blush and glow
Like angels' wings."[4]
On low ground one may indeed be in the clouds, but not above them. But as we look down from mountains and see them floating far below us we almost seem as if we were looking down on earth from one of the heavenly bodies.
Not even in the Alps is there anything more beautiful than the "after glow" which lights up the snow and ice with a rosy tint for some minutes after the sun has set. Long after the lower slopes are already in the shade, the summit of Mont Blanc, for instance, is transfigured by the light of the setting sun glowing on the snow. It seems almost like the light from another world, and vanishes as suddenly and mysteriously as it comes.
Annecy.
As we look up from the valleys the mountain peaks seem like separate pinnacles projecting far above the general level. This, however is a very erroneous impression, and when we examine the view from the top of any of the higher mountains, or even from one of very moderate elevation, if well placed, such as, say, the well-known Piz Languard, we see that in many cases they must have once formed a dome, or even a tableland, out of which the valleys have been carved. Geologists tell us that the Alps were once, at least, twice as high as they are now, and the highest peaks are those which have suffered least from the wear and tear of time.
Geography, moreover, acquires a new interest when we once realise that mountains are no mere accidents, but that for every mountain chain, for every peak and valley, there is a cause and an explanation.
We used to speak of the everlasting hills, and are only beginning to realise the vast and many changes which our earth has undergone
"There rolls the deep where grew the tree;
O Earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There, where the long street roars, hath been
The stillness of the central sea.
The hills are shadows, and they flow
From form to form, and nothing stands:
They melt like mist, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go."[5]
The elevation of mountain chains was at first, naturally enough, attributed to direct upward pressure from below. It was supposed that forces acting from underneath raised them to their present position. To attribute them to subsidence seems almost a paradox, and yet it is not difficult to show that, in some cases at least, this is probably the real explanation. The earth, as know, has been gradually cooling, and as it contracted in doing so the strata would necessarily be thrown into folds. When an apple dries and shrivels in winter the surface, as we all know, becomes covered with ridges. Or, again, if we were to place some sheets of paper between two weights on a table, and then bring the weights nearer together, the paper would be crumpled up.[6]
The suggestion of compression is consistent with the main features of Swiss geography. The principal axis follows a curved line from the Maritime Alps towards the north-east by Mount Blanc, Mount Rosa, and St. Gothard, to the mountains overlooking the Engadine. The geographical strata follow the same direction. North of a line running through Chambery, Yver, Neufchatel, Solothurn, and Olten to Waldshut on the Rhine are Jurassic strata; between that line and a second nearly parallel, and running through Annecy, Vevey, Lucerne, Wesen, Appenzell, and Bregenz on the Lake of Constance, is the lowland occupied by newer Tertiary strata; between this second line and another passing through Albertville, Saint Maurice, Leuk, Meiringen, and Altdorf lie a more or less broken band of older Tertiary strata; south of which again is a cretaceous zone, and then again another of Jurassic age.
The tops of the Swiss mountains stand—probably have ever stood—above the range of ice, and hence their bold peaks. In Scotland, on the contrary, and still more in Norway, the sheet of ice which once, as is the case with Greenland now, spread over the whole country, has shorn off the summits, and reduced them almost to gigantic bosses; while in Wales the same causes, and still more the resistless action of time—for the Welsh hills are many times older than the mountains of Switzerland—has ground down the once lofty summits, and reduced them to mere stumps, such as, if the present forces are left to work out their results, the Swiss mountains will be thousands, or rather tens of thousands, of years hence.
"A glacier."
The "snow-line" in Switzerland is generally given as being between 8,500 and 9,000 feet. Above this level, the snow or "neve" gradually accumulates until it forms "glaciers"—solid rivers of ice, which descend more or less far down the valleys. No one who has not seen a glacier can possibly realise what they are like. One of the best descriptions is that given by Lord Dufferin.
"Mount Beerenberg," says Lord Dufferin, "in size, colour, and effect, far surpassed anything I had anticipated. The glaciers were quite an unexpected element of beauty. Imagine a mighty river of as great a volume as the Thames started down the side of a mountain, bursting over every impediment, whirled into a thousand eddies, tumbling and raging on from ledge to ledge in quivering cataracts of foam—then suddenly struck rigid by a power so instantaneous in its action that even the froth and fleeting wreaths of spray have stiffened to the immutability of sculpture. Unless you had seen it, it would be almost impossible to conceive the strangeness of the contrast between the actual tranquillity of these silent crystal rivers and the violent descending energy impressed upon their exterior. You must remember, too, all this is upon a scale of such prodigious magnitude, that when we succeeded subsequently in approaching the spot—where, with a leap like that of Niagara, one of these glaciers plunges down into the sea—the eye, no longer able to take in its fluvial character, was content to rest in simple astonishment at what then appeared a lucent precipice of grey-green ice, rising to the height of several hundred feet above the masts of the vessel."[7]
Lake Lucerne.
The most magnificent glacier tracks in the Alps are, in Ruskin's opinion, those on the rocks of the great angle opposite Martigny; the most interesting are those above the channel of the Trient between Valorsine and the valley of the Rhone. In Great Britain, I know no better illustration of ice action than is to be seen on the road leading down from Glen Quoich to Loch Hourn, one of the most striking examples of desolate and savage scenery in Scotland, so that its name in Celtic is said to mean the Lake of Hell. All along the roadside are smoothed and polished hummocks of rock, most of them deeply furrowed with approximately parallel striæ, presenting a gentle slope on the upper end, and a steep side below, clearly showing the direction of the great ice flow.
Many of the upper Swiss valleys contain lakes, as, for instance, that of the Upper Rhone the Lake of Geneva, of the Reuss the Lake of Lucerne, of the Rhine that of Constance. These lakes are generally very deep.
Among the Swiss mountains themselves, each has its special character. Tyndall thus describes a view in the Alps, certainly one of the most beautiful—that, namely from the summit of the Ægischhorn:—
"Skies and summits are to-day without a cloud, and no mist or turbidity interferes with the sharpness of the outlines. Jungfrau, Monk, Eiger, Truberg, cliffy Strahlgrat, stately lady-like Aletschhorn, all grandly pierce the empyrean. Like a Saul of mountains, the Finisteraarhorn overtops all his neighbours; then we have the Oberaarhorn, with the river glacier of Viesch rolling from his shoulders. Below is the Marjelin See, with its crystal precipices and its floating icebergs, snowy white, on a blue-green sea. Beyond, is the range which divides the Valais from Italy. Sweeping round, the vision meets an aggregate of peaks which look, as fledglings to their mother, towards the mighty Dom. Then come the repellent crags of Mont Cervin; the ideal of moral savagery, of wild, untamable ferocity, mingling involuntarily with our contemplation of the gloomy pile. Next comes an object scarcely less grand, conveying, it may be, even a deeper impression of majesty and might than the Matterhorn itself—the Weisshorn, perhaps the most splendid object in the Alps. But beauty is associated with its force, and we think of it, not as cruel, but as grand and strong. Further to the right the great Combin lifts up his bare head; other peaks crowd around him; while at the extremity of the curve round which our gaze has swept rises the sovran crown of Mont Blanc. And now, as day sinks, scrolls of pearly clouds draw themselves around the mountain crests, being wafted from them into the distant air. They are without colour of any kind; still, by grace of form, and as the embodiment of lustrous light and most tender shade, their beauty is not to be described."[8]
VOLCANOES.
Cotopaxi.
Volcanoes belong to a totally different series of mountains.
It is practically impossible to number the volcanoes on our earth. Humboldt enumerates 223, which Keith Johnston raised to nearly 300. Some, no doubt, are always active, but in the majority the eruptions are occasional, and, though some are undoubtedly now extinct, it is impossible to distinguish those which are only in repose from those whose day of activity is over. Then, again, the question would arise, which should be regarded as mere subsidiary cones, and which are separate volcanoes. The slopes of Etna present more than 700 small cones, and on Hawaii there are several thousands.
In fact, most of the very lofty volcanoes present more or less lateral cones.
The mountain, commencing as a chasm, gradually builds itself up into a cone, often of the most beautiful regularity, such as the gigantic peaks of Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, and Fusiyama, and hence it is that the crater is so often at, or very near, the summit.
Perhaps no spectacle in Nature is more imposing or magnificent than a volcano in activity. It has been my good fortune to have stood at the edge of the crater of Vesuvius during an eruption; to have watched the lava seething below, while enormous stones were shot up high into the air. Such a spectacle can never be forgotten.
The most imposing crater in the world. is probably that of Kilawea, at a height of 1,200 metres on the side of Mouna Loa, in the island of Hawaii. It has a diameter of 2,500 metres, and is elliptic in outline, with a longer axis of 5 kilometres, and a circumference of 11. The interior is a great lake of lava, the level of which is constantly changing. Generally it stands about 250 metres below the edge, and the depth is about 450 metres. The heat is intense, and, especially at night, when the clouds are coloured scarlet by the reflection from the molten lava, the effect is said to be magnificent. Gradually the lava mounts in the crater until it bursts through the side, or runs over the edge, after which the crater remains empty, sometimes for years. A lava stream flows down the slope of the mountain like a burning river, at first rapidly, but, as it cools, scoriæ gradually form, and at length the molten matter covers itself completely, both above and at the sides, with a solid crust, within which, as in a tunnel, it continues to flow slowly as long as it is supplied from the source, here and there breaking through the crust which, as continually, reforms in front. Thus the terrible, inexorable river of fire slowly descends, destroying everything in its course.
The stone, ashes, and mud ejected during eruptions are even more destructive than the rivers of lava. In 1851 Tomboro, a volcano on the island of Sumbava, cost more lives than fell in the battle of Waterloo. The earthquake of Lisbon in 1755 destroyed 60,000 persons. During the earthquake of Riobamba and the mud eruption of Tunguragua, and again in that of Krakatoa, it is estimated that the number who perished was between 30,000 and 40,000. At the earthquake of Antioch in 526, no less than 200,000 persons are said to have lost their lives.
Vesuvius and Somma.
Perhaps the most destructive eruption of modern times has been that on Cosequina. For twenty-five miles it covered the ground with muddy water sixteen feet in depth. The dust and ashes formed a dense cloud extending over many miles, some of it being carried twenty degrees to the west. The total mass ejected has been estimated at fifty milliards of square metres.
Though long extinct, volcanoes once existed in the English Isles: Arthur's Seat, near Edinburgh, for instance, appears to be the funnel of a small volcano, belonging to the carboniferous period.
The summit of the mountain is often entirely blown away. Between my two first visits to Vesuvius 200 feet of the mountain had been thus blown up. Vesuvius itself stands in the ancient crater, part of which still remains and is now known as Somma, the greater part having disappeared in the great eruption of 79, when the mountain, waking from its long sleep, destroyed Herculaneum and Pompeii.
As regards the origin of volcanoes there have been two main theories. Impressed by the magnitude and grandeur of the phenomena, enhanced as they are by their destructive character, many have been disposed to regard the craters of volcanoes as gigantic chimneys, passing right through the solid crust of the globe, and communicating with the central fire. Recent researches, however, have indicated that, grand and imposing as they are, volcanoes must yet be regarded as due mainly to local and superficial causes.
A glance at the map shows that volcanoes are almost always situated on, or near, the sea coast. From the interiors of continents they are entirely wanting. The number of active volcanoes in the Andes contrasted with their absence in the Alps and Ourals, the Himalayas and Central Asian chains, is very striking. Indeed, the Pacific Ocean is encircled, as Ritter pointed out, by a ring of fire. It seems probable that the friction and pressure which have led to the formation of mountain chains had given rise to areas of excessively high temperature, and that where water has access to such regions volcanoes are produced by the explosions.
Yet though we cannot connect volcanic action with the central heat of the earth, but must regard it as a minor and local manifestation of force, volcanoes still remain among the grandest, most awful, and at the same time most magnificent spectacles which the earth can afford.