Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been harmonized. Obvious typos have been corrected. Please see the end of this book for further notes.

THE STORY OF THE HILLS.

NORHAM CASTLE. After Turner.

THE
STORY OF THE HILLS.
A BOOK ABOUT MOUNTAINS
FOR GENERAL READERS.

BY

Rev. H. N. HUTCHINSON, B.A., F.G.S.
AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE EARTH."

With Sixteen Full-page Illustrations.

They are as a great and noble architecture, first giving shelter, comfort, and rest; and covered also with mighty sculpture and painted legend.—Ruskin.

New York:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON.
1892.

Copyright, 1891,
By Macmillan and Co.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.

TO
ALL WHO LOVE MOUNTAINS AND HILLS
This little Book is Dedicated,

IN THE HOPE THAT EVEN A SLIGHT KNOWLEDGE OF THEIR PLACE IN NATURE, AND PREVIOUS HISTORY, MAY ADD TO THE WONDER AND DELIGHT WITH WHICH WE LOOK UPON THESE NOBLE FEATURES OF THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH.

PREFACE.

Now that travelling is no longer a luxury for the rich, and thousands of people go every summer to spend their holidays among the mountains of Europe, and ladies climb Mont Blanc or ramble among the Carpathians, there must be many who would like to know something of the secret of the hills, their origin, their architecture, and the forces that made them what they are.

For such this book is chiefly written. Those will best understand it who take it with them on their travels, and endeavour by its use to interpret what they see among the mountains; and they will find that a little observation goes a long way to help them to read mountain history.

It is hoped, however, that all, both young and old, who take an intelligent interest in the world around, though they may never have seen a mountain, may find these pages worth reading.

If readers do not find here answers to all their questions, they may be reminded that it is not possible within the present limits to give more than a brief sketch of the subject, leaving the gaps to be filled in by a study of the larger and more important works on geology. The author, assuming that the reader knows nothing of this fascinating science, has endeavoured to interpret into ordinary language the story of the hills as it is written in the rocks of which they are made.

It can scarcely be denied that a little knowledge of natural objects greatly adds to our appreciation of them, besides affording a deep source of pleasure, in revealing the harmony, law, and order by which all things in this wonderful world are governed. Mountains, when once we begin to observe them, seem to become more than ever our companions,—to take us into their counsels, and to teach us many a lesson about the great part they play in the order of things. And surely our admiration of their beauty is not lessened, but rather increased, when we learn how much we and all living things owe to the life-giving streams that flow continually from them. The writer has, somewhat reluctantly, omitted certain parts of the subject which, though very interesting to the geologist, can hardly be made attractive to general readers.

Thus, the cause of earth movements, by which mountains are pushed up far above the plains that lie at their feet, is at present a matter of speculation; and it is difficult to express in ordinary language the ideas that have been put forward on this subject. Again, the curious internal changes, which we find to have taken place in the rocks of which mountains are composed, are very interesting to those who know something of the minerals of which rocks are made up, and their chemical composition; but it was found impossible to render these matters sufficiently simple.

So again with regard to the geological structure of mountain-chains. This had to be very briefly treated, in order to avoid introducing details which would be too complicated for a book of this kind.

The author desires to acknowledge his obligations to the writings of Sir A. Geikie; Professor Bonney, Professor Green, and Professor Shaler, of Harvard University; the volumes of the "Alpine Journal;" "The Earth," by Reclus; the "Encyclopædia Britannica." Canon Isaac Taylor's "Words and Places," have also been made use of; and if in every case the reference is not given, the writer hopes the omission will be pardoned. A few passages from Mr. Ruskin's "Modern Painters" have been quoted, in the hope that others may be led to read that wonderful book, and to learn more about mountains and clouds, and many other things, at the feet of one of the greatest teachers of the century.

Some of our engravings are taken from the justly celebrated photographs of the High Alps,[1] by the late Mr. W. Donkin, whose premature death among the Caucasus Mountains was deeply deplored by all. Those reproduced were kindly lent by his brother, Mr. A. E. Donkin, of Rugby. To Messrs. Valentine & Son of Dundee, Mr. Wilson of Aberdeen, and to Messrs. Frith we are indebted for permission to reproduce some of their admirable photographs; also to Messrs. James How & Sons of Farringdon Street, for three excellent photographs of rock-sections taken with the microscope.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

ILLUSTRATIONS II.

PART I.
THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE.

THE STORY OF THE HILLS.
Part I.
THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE.

CHAPTER I.
MOUNTAINS AND MEN.

"Happy, I said, whose home is here; Fair fortunes to the Mountaineer."

In old times people looked with awe upon the mountains, and regarded them with feelings akin to horror or dread. A very slight acquaintance with the classical writers of antiquity will suffice to convince any one that Greeks and Romans did so regard them. They were not so familiar with mountains as we are; for there were no roads through them, as now through the Alps, or the Highlands of Scotland,—to say nothing of the all-pervading railway. It would, however, be a great mistake to suppose that the ancients did not observe and enjoy the beauties of Nature. The fair and fertile plain, the vine-clad slopes of the lower hill-ranges, and the "many-twinkling smile of ocean" were seen and loved by all who had a mind to appreciate the beautiful. The poems of Homer and Virgil would alone be sufficient to prove this. But the higher ranges, untrodden by the foot of man, were gazed at, not with admiration, but with religious awe; for men looked upon mountains as the abode of the gods. They dwelt in the rich plain, which they cultivated, and beside the sweet waters of some river; for food and drink are the first necessities of life. But they left the high hills alone, and in fancy peopled them with the "Immortals" who ruled their destiny,—controlling also the winds and the lightning, the rain and the clouds, which seem to have their home among the mountains. A childlike fear of the unknown, coupled with religious awe, made them avoid the lofty and barren hills, from which little was to be got but wild honey and a scanty supply of game. There were also dangers to be encountered from the fury of the storm and the avalanche; but the safer ground of the plains below would reward their toil with an ample supply of corn and other necessaries of life.

In classical times, and also in the Middle Ages, the mountains, as well as glens and rivers, were supposed to be peopled with fairies, nymphs, elves, and all sorts of strange beings; and even now travellers among the mountains of Switzerland, Norway, Wales, or Scotland find that it is not long since the simple folk of these regions believed in the existence of such beings, and attributed to their agency many things which they could not otherwise explain.

Of all the nations of antiquity the Jews seem to have shown the greatest appreciation of mountain scenery; and in no ancient writings do we find so many or so eloquent allusions to the hills as in the Old Testament. But here again one cannot fail to trace the same feelings of religious awe. The Law was given to their forefathers in the desert amidst the thunders of Sinai. To them the earth was literally Jehovah's footstool, and the clouds were His tabernacle. "If He do but touch the hills, they shall smoke."

But this awe was not unmixed with other and more comforting thoughts. They felt that those cloud-capped towers were symbols of strength and the abode of Him who would help them in their need. For so we find the psalmists regarding them; and with our very different conceptions of the earth's natural features, we can but dimly perceive and realise the full force and meaning of the words, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

To take another example from antiquity, we find that the Himalayas and the source of the Ganges have from very early times been considered as holy by the people of India. Thousands of pilgrims from all parts of that vast country still continue to seek salvation in the holy waters of the Ganges, and at its sacred sources in the snowy Himalayas. And to those who know India the wondrous snowclad peaks of the Himalayas still seem to be surrounded with somewhat of the same halo of glory as of old.

Mountains are intimately associated with the history of nations, and have contributed much to the moulding of the human mind and the character of those who dwell among them; they have alike inspired the mind of the artist, the poet, the reformer, and the visionary seeking repose for his soul, that, dwelling far from the strife and turmoil of the world, he may contemplate alone the glory of the Eternal Being. They have been the refuge of the afflicted and the persecuted; they have braced the minds and bodies of heroes who have dwelt for a time among them before descending once more to the plain that they might play some noble part in the progress of the world.

Moses, while leading the flock of his father-in-law to the back of the wilderness, came to Mount Horeb and received the divine summons to return to Egypt and lead Israel out of bondage. David, with his six hundred followers, fleeing from the face of Saul, found a refuge in the hill country; and the life of peril and adventure which he led during these years of persecution was a part of his training for the great future task of ruling Israel, which he performed so well. Elijah summoned the false prophets of Baal and Asherah to Mount Carmel and slew them at the brook Kishon; and a little later we find him at Mount Horeb listening, not to the wind or to the earthquake or to the fire, but to the "still small voice" telling him to return and anoint Jehu to be king.

Or, to take another example from a later age, we find that Mahomet's favourite resort was a cave at the foot of Mount Hira, north of Mecca; here in dark and wild surroundings his mind was wrought up to rhapsodic enthusiasm.

And many, like these leaders of men, have received in mountain retreats a firmness and tenacity of purpose giving them the right to be leaders, and the power to redress human wrongs; or, it may be, a temper of mind and spirit enabling them to soar into regions of thought and contemplation untrodden by the careless and more luxurious multitudes who dwell on the plains below. Perhaps Mr. Lewis Morris was unconsciously offering his testimony to the influence of mountains when he wrote those words which he puts into the mouth of poor Marsyas,—

"More it is than ease,

Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries,

To have seen white presences upon the hills,

To have heard the voices of the eternal gods."[2]

The thunder and lightning, storm and cloud, as well as the soft beauty of colour, and the harmony of mountain outline, have been a part, and a very important part, of their training. The exhilarating air, the struggle with the elements in their fierceness, the rugged strength of granite, seem to have possessed the very souls of such men, and made them like "the strong ones,"—the immortal beings to whom in all previous ages the races of mankind have assigned their abode in the hills, as the Greek gods were supposed to dwell on Mount Olympus. On these heights such men seem to have gained something of the strength of Him who dwells in the heavens far above their highest peaks,—"the strength of the hills," which, as the Hebrew poet says, "is His also."

We have spoken of the attitude of the human mind towards mountains in the past; let us now consider the light in which they are regarded at the present time by all thoughtful and cultivated people. And it does not require a moment's consideration to perceive that a very great change has taken place. Instead of regarding them with horror or aversion, we look upon them with wonder and delight; we watch them hour by hour whenever for a brief season of holiday we take up our abode near or among them. We come back to them year by year to breathe once more the pure air which so frequently restores the invalid to health and brings back the colour to faded cheeks. We love to watch the ever-varying lights and shades upon them, as the day goes by. But it is towards evening that the most enchanting scenes are to be witnessed, when the sinking sun sheds its golden rays upon their slopes, or tinges their summits with floods of crimson light; and then presently, after the sun has gone down, pale mists begin to rise, and the hills seem more majestic than ever. Later on, as the full moon appears from behind a bank of cloud, those wonderful moonlight effects may be seen which must be familiar to all who know the mountains as they are in summer or autumn,—scenes such as the writer has frequently witnessed in the Highlands of Scotland, but which only the poet can adequately describe.

There are few sights in Nature which more powerfully impress the mind than a sunset among the mountains. General Sir Richard Strachey concludes his description of the Himalayas with the following striking passage:

"Here may the eye, as it sweeps along the horizon, embrace a line of snowclad mountains such as exist in no other part of the world, stretching over one third of the entire circle, at a distance of forty or fifty miles, their peaks towering over a sea of intervening ranges piled one behind another, whose extent on either hand is lost in the remote distance, and of which the nearest rises from a gulf far down beneath the spectator's feet, where may be seen the silver line that marks a river's course, or crimson fields of amaranth and the dwellings of man. Sole representative of animal life, some great eagle floats high overhead in the pure dark-blue sky, or, unused to man, fearlessly sweeps down within a few yards to gaze at the stranger who intrudes among these solitudes of Nature. As the sun sinks, the cold grey shadow of the summit where we stand is thrown forward, slowly stealing over the distant hills, and veiling their glowing purples as it goes, carries the night up to the feet of the great snowy peaks, which still rise radiant in the rosy light above the now darkening world. From east to west in succession the splendour fades away from one point after another, and the vast shadow of the earth is rapidly drawn across the whole vault of heaven. One more departing day is added to the countless series which has silently witnessed the deathlike change that passes over the eternal snows, as they are left raising their cold pale fronts against the now leaden sky; till slowly with the deepening night the world of mountains rises again, as it were, to a new life, under the changed light of the thousand stars which stud the firmament and shine with a brilliancy unknown except in the clear rarefied air of these sublime heights."

Year by year a larger number of busy workers from our great towns, availing themselves of the increased facilities for travel, come to the mountains to spend their summer holidays,—some to the Swiss Alps, others to Wales, Cumberland, Norway, or the Highlands of Scotland. There are few untrodden valleys in these regions, few of the more important mountains which have not been climbed.

Our knowledge of mountains, thanks to the labours of a zealous army of workers, is now considerable. The professors of physical science have been busy making important observations on the condition of the atmosphere in the higher regions; geographers have noted their heights and mapped their leading contours. Geologists have done a vast amount of work in ascertaining the composition and arrangement of the rocks of which mountain chains are composed, in observing their peculiar structures, in recording the changes which are continually effecting their waste and decay, and thus interpreting the story of the hills as it is written in the very rocks of which they are built up.

Naturalists have collected and noted the peculiar plants and animals which have their home among the hills, and so the forms of life, both animal and vegetable, which inhabit the mountains of Europe, and some other countries, are now fairly well known.

The historian, the antiquary, and the student of languages have made interesting discoveries with regard to the mountain races of mankind. And only to mention this country, such writers as Scott, Wordsworth, and Ruskin have given us in verse and prose descriptions of mountain scenery which will take a permanent place in literature; while Turner, our great landscape-painter, has expressed the glories of mountain scenery in pictures which speak more eloquently than many words. Thus we see that whatever line of inquiry be chosen, our subject is full of varied interest.

With regard to the characteristics of mountain races, it is not easy to say to what extent people in different parts of the world who live among mountains share the same virtues or the same failings; but the most obvious traits in the character of the mountaineer seem to be the result of his natural surroundings. Thus we find mountaineers generally endowed with hardihood, strength, and bravery. To spend one's days on the hillsides for a large part of the year, as shepherds and others do in Scotland or Wales, and to walk some miles every day in pure bracing air, must be healthy and tend to develop the muscles of the body; and so we find the highlanders of all countries are usually muscular, strong, and capable of endurance. And there can be little doubt that mountain races are kept up to a high standard of strength and endurance by a rigorous and constant weeding out of the weakly ones, especially among children. And if only the stronger live to grow up and become parents, the chances are that their children will be strong too. Thus Nature exercises a kind of "selection;" and we have consequently "the survival of the fittest." This "selection," together with the healthy lives they lead, is probably sufficient to account for their strength and hardiness.

As might be expected, mountaineers are celebrated for their fighting qualities. The fierce Afghans who have often faced a British army, and sometimes victoriously; the brave Swiss peasantry, who have more than once fought nobly for freedom; the Highlanders, who have contributed so largely to the success of British arms in nearly all parts of the world, and whose forefathers defied even the all-conquering Roman in their mountain strongholds,—these and many others all show the same valour and power of endurance. Etymologists, whose learned researches into the meaning of words have thrown so much light on the ages before history was written, tell us that the Picts were so called from their fighting qualities, and that the word "Pict" is derived from the Gaelic "peicta," a fighting man. And Julius Cæsar says the chief god of the Britons was the god of war.

In some countries—as, for instance, Greece, Italy, and Spain—the mountains are infested with banditti and robbers, who often become a terror to the neighbourhood. In more peaceful and orderly countries, however, we find among mountaineers many noble qualities,—such as patience, honesty, simplicity of life, thrift, a dignified self-reliance, together with true courtesy and hospitality. This is high praise; but who that knows mountain peasants would say it is undeserved? How many a tired traveller among the hills of Scotland or Wales has had reason to be grateful for welcome, food, and rest in some little cottage in a far-away glen! How many friendships have thus been formed! How many a pleasant talk has beguiled the time during a storm or shower! The old feuds are forgotten now that the Saxon stranger and invader is at peace with the Celtic people whom his forefathers drove into the hills. The castles, once centres of oppression or scenes of violence, lie in peaceful and picturesque ruins, and add not a little to the interest of one's travels in the North. What true courtesy and consideration one meets with at the hands of these honest folk, among whom the old kindly usages have not died out! Often too poor to be afflicted with the greed and thirst for wealth, which frequently marks the man of the plain as compared with the man of the hills,—the Lowlander as compared with the Highlander,—they exhibit many of those simple virtues which one hardly expects to meet with among busy townspeople, all bent on making money, or as the phrase is, "getting on in life."

BEN LOMOND. From a Photograph by J. Valentine

"The mountain cheer, the frosty skies,

Breed purer wits, inventive eyes;

And then the moral of the place

Hints summits of heroic grace.

Men in these crags a fastness find

To fight corruption of the mind;

The insanity of towns to stem

With simpleness for stratagem."

Mr. Skene, the Scotch historian, records a touching case of the devotion of Highlanders to their chief. He says,—

"There is perhaps no instance in which the attachment of the clan to their chief was so strongly manifested as in the case of the Macphersons of Cluny after the disaster of 'the Forty-five.' The chief having been deeply engaged in that insurrection, his life became of course forfeited to the laws; but neither the hope of reward nor the fear of danger could induce any one of his people to betray him. For nine years he lived concealed in a cave a short distance from his own house; it was situated in the front of a woody precipice of which the trees and shelving rocks concealed the entrance. The cave had been dug by his own people, who worked at night and conveyed the stones and rubbish into a neighbouring lake, in order that no vestige of their labour might appear and lead to the discovery of the retreat. In this asylum he continued to live secure, receiving by night the occasional visits of his friends, and sometimes by day, when the soldiers had begun to slacken the vigour of their pursuit. Upwards of one thousand persons were privy to his concealment, and a reward of £1,000 was offered to any one who should give information against him.... But although the soldiers were animated by the hope of reward, and their officers by promise of promotion for the apprehension of this proscribed individual, yet so true were his people, so inflexibly strict in their promise of secrecy, and so dextrous in conveying to him the necessaries he required in his long confinement, not a trace of him could be discovered, nor an individual base enough to give a hint to his detriment."

The mountaineer is a true gentleman. However poor, however ignorant or superstitious, one perceives in him a refinement of manner which cannot fail to command admiration. His readiness to share his best with the stranger and to render any service in his power are pleasing traits in his character. But there is one sad feature about mountaineers of the present day which one frequently notices in districts where many tourists come,—especially English or American. They are, we regret to say, losing their independence, their simple, old-fashioned ways, and becoming servile and greedy,—at least in the towns and villages. Such changes seem, alas! inevitable when rich townspeople, bent on pleasure or sport, invade the recesses of the hills where poverty usually reigns. On the one hand, we have people, often with long purses, eager for enjoyment, waiting to be fed, housed, or otherwise entertained; on the other hand, poor people, anxious to "make hay while the sun shines" and to extract as much money as possible from "the visitors," who often allow themselves to be unmercifully fleeced. Then there are in the Highlands the sportsmen, who require a large following of "gillies" to attend them in their wanderings, pay them highly for their services, and dismiss them at the end of the season; and so the men are in many cases left without employment all the winter and spring. Is it, then, surprising that they give way to a natural tendency to idleness, and fall into other bad habits? Any visitor who spends a winter, or part of one, in the Highlands will be better able to realise the extent of this evil, which is by no means small; and one cannot help regretting that the sportsmen's pleasure and the tourist's holiday should involve results of such grave consequence. We are inclined to think that in these days sport is overdone, and wish it could be followed without taking the hillman away from the work he would otherwise find, and which would render him a more useful member of society. With the agitation going on in some parts against deer-forests we do not feel much sympathy, because they are based on the erroneous idea that "crofters" could make a living out of the land thus enclosed; whereas those who know the land and its value for agricultural purposes tell us that with the exception of a few small patches here and there, hardly worth mentioning, it could not possibly be made to produce enough to maintain crofters and their families. Nevertheless, another way of looking at the matter is this: that the man who merely ministers to the pleasure of others richer than himself loses some of the self-respect and independence which he would acquire by working in his own way for a living.

The same changes for the worse are still more manifest in Switzerland; and even in some parts of Norway the people are being similarly spoiled. Mr. Ruskin, speaking of the former country, says:

"I believe that every franc now spent by travellers among the Alps tends more or less to the undermining of whatever special greatness there is in the Swiss character; and the persons I met in Switzerland whose position and modes of life render them best able to give me true information respecting the present state of their country, among many causes of national deterioration, spoke with chief fear of the influx of English wealth, gradually connecting all industry with the wants of strangers, and inviting all idleness to depend upon their casual help, thus resolving the ancient consistency and pastoral simplicity of the mountain life into the two irregular trades of the innkeeper and mendicant."[3]

Mountain people have still their superstitions; since the introduction of railways many of the old legends and popular myths have died out, but even what is left is interesting to the student of folk-lore,—indeed, we might say, to every one.

Sir A. Geikie, speaking of Scotch mountain scenery says,—

"To the influence of scenery of this kind on the mind of a people at once observant and imaginative, such legends as that of the Titans should in all likelihood be ascribed. It would be interesting to trace back these legends to their cradle, and to mark how much they owe to the character of the scenery amongst which they took their rise. Perhaps it would be found that the rugged outlines of the Bœotian hills had no small share in the framing of Hesiod's graphic story of that primeval warfare wherein the combatants fought with huge rocks, which, darkening the air as they flew, at last buried the discomfited Titans deep beneath the surface of the land. Nor would it be difficult to trace a close connection between the present scenery of our own country and some of the time-honoured traditionary stories of giants and hero kings, warlocks and witches, or between the doings of the Scandinavian Hrimthursar, or Frost Giants, and the more characteristic features of the landscapes and climate of the North."[4]

The following passage from Ruskin brings out more strongly the effects of mountains on men,—a subject to which he has given much attention:—

"We shall find, on the one hand, the mountains of Greece and Italy, forming all the loveliest dreams, first of Pagan, then of Christian mythology, on the other, those of Scandinavia, to be the first sources of whatever mental (as well as military) power was brought by the Normans into Southern Europe. Normandy itself is, to all intents and purposes, a hill country.... We have thus one branch of the Northern religious imagination rising among the Scandinavian fiords, tempered in France by various encounters with elements of Arabian, Italian, Provençal, or other Southern poetry, and then reacting upon Southern England; while other forms of the same rude religious imagination, resting like clouds upon the mountains of Scotland and Wales, met and mingled with the Norman Christianity, retaining even to the latest times some dark colour of superstition, but giving all its poetical and military pathos to Scottish poetry, and a peculiar sternness and wildness of tone to the Reformed faith, in its manifestations among the Scottish hills."[5]

The Alps, like most other mountainous countries, have their fair share of legends, some of which are very grotesque. We have selected the following, as related by Professor Bonney.[6] The wild huntsman's yell is still heard in many places by the shuddering peasants as his phantom train sweeps by the châlet. There is also the wild goat-herd, a wicked lad, who crucified an old he-goat and drove his flock to worship it; lightning consumed him; and now he wanders forever over the Alps, miserably wailing.

When the glacier of Gétroz burst, the Archfiend himself was seen swimming down the Rhone, with a drawn sword in one hand and a golden ball in the other; when opposite to Martigny he halted, and at his bidding the waters rose and swept away part of the town. A vast multitude of imps was seen about the same time on a mountain in the Val de Bagnes by two mendicant friars from Sion, who, hearing of this unlawful assembly, had gone out as detectives to learn what mischief was hatching.

Many places also have their spectral animals, the Valois, according to Tschudi, being the headquarters of these legends. There are also pygmies to be seen in the lonely mountains, like the Norwegian trolls, and brownies who make or mar the house, according as the goodwife is neat or a slattern.

Many Alpine stories have reference to the sudden destruction of pastures by the fall of rocks or ice. Here is one from the Clariden Alps:—

Once upon a time these were fertile pastures, on which dwelt a "senn." He grew rich, so that none could match him in wealth; but at the same time he grew proud and haughty, and spurned both the laws of Nature and the commandments of God. He was so foolishly fond of his mistress that he paved the way from the châlet to the byre with cheeses, lest she should soil her feet, and cared so little for his mother that when she lay at his door fainting with hunger, he offered her only milk to drink in which he had thrown the foulest refuse. Righteously indignant, she turned away, calling upon Heaven to punish such an insult. Before she reached her home, the rocks and ice had descended, crushing beneath them her wicked son, his mistress, and possessions.

In the neighbourhood of Monte Rosa there is a tradition that a valley exists in the heart of that mountain the entrance to which has been sealed up by impassable glaciers, though the floor of the "cirque" within is still a rich pasturage. In a certain valley they point out a spring which bursts from the ground, as the outlet of the torrent by which it is watered. Once, said they, a chasseur found the bed of this stream dry, and creeping up its subterranean channel, arrived on the floor of the valley. It was a huntsman's paradise; chamois were there in plenty, bears also, and even bouquetins, wandering over the richest pastures. He retraced his steps to announce the good news; but when he returned again, the waters had resumed their course, and the place has ever since remained inaccessible.

Mountains play a very important part in human history. In the first place, they are natural barriers separating the nations of the world from one another, and tending to keep them confined within certain definite bounds; we say, tending to keep them thus confined, because, as every one knows, these barriers have again and again been surmounted by conquering armies. The rugged Alps could not ward off Hannibal, who made his way through them to march upon the capital of the Roman empire. In like manner Napoleon defied this great natural rampart, made a road through it, and came to Italy. No mountains would seem to be quite impassable; but although liable in the course of ages to be occasionally overrun, they afford good protection and produce a feeling of security.

The Himalayas separate our great Indian empire from that of China; and we do not at present apprehend an invasion from that quarter. The Suliman Mountains divide us from the Afghans, and the great Russian and Persian empires farther west. Still, we know that in the eleventh century a great Mahometan invasion of India took place; our own armies have more than once penetrated to Kabul. Perhaps the common garden wall separating adjacent suburban residences furnishes a suitable illustration of the great natural walls which divide, not households or families, but much larger families than these,—the nations of the world.

Just as unruly boys sometimes climb over the neighbour's wall and play games in a garden which is not their own; or as burglars may surmount these obstacles to their progress, and finding a way into the house by a back door or kitchen window, commence their ravages,—so a neighbouring (but not neighbourly) nation, bent on conquest, may invade some natural garden of the world, such as India, by forcing their way through physical barriers which for ordinary purposes serve to protect those within.

The Thian Shan Mountains divide Russia from China's sphere of influence. The Caucasus Mountains separate Russia from Asia Minor. Austro-Hungary is bounded by the Carpathians, Spain by the Pyrenees. The Alps of Switzerland separate four nations not very friendly to each other; and lastly, in our own country the Cheviot Hills, together with the Tweed, form the boundary between Scotland and England.

Where there are no mountains or hills, rivers sometimes serve as boundaries, but of course they do not answer the purpose so well. Sometimes a nation actually builds a wall for a boundary. Of this the great wall of China and the Roman wall between the Cheviots and the Solway Firth are familiar examples.

In the second place, mountains have always been a refuge and shelter for conquered races; and the primitive tribes who once lived in the plains have been forced by adverse circumstances to take to the hills. This has taken place over and over again.

We know that the Celtic people now living in Brittany, Devonshire, Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, though now considerably mixed, are the descendants of the old Celtic inhabitants of France and Britain. But there is a great deal of unwritten history for which we may look in vain to the ordinary sources of information, such as books, and which is only to be read in quite different records,—in antiquities buried up in peat-beds, in bogs, in ruins and ancient forts, or camps; and last but not least, in the names of places, rivers, or mountains. The hills, the valleys, the rivers, are the only writing-tablets on which unlettered nations have been able to inscribe their annals. For this kind of history we must go to the antiquary, and, above all, to the philologist, who tells us the meaning of the names of places, and who the people were who gave the names that we see on our maps. The great advances which have of late years been made in our knowledge of the primeval races of men, or at least of nations but little known in the annals of history, are largely due to the interpretation of the obscure records preserved in local names. The Celtic, the Iberian, the Teutonic, the Scandinavian, and Sclavonic races have thus for the most part made known to us their migrations, conquests, and defeats. And so by studying the names of places, rivers, and hills, as well as by careful collection of works of art, implements, coins, such as may be seen in many a museum, it has been possible to read a great deal of early history which would otherwise have been lost.

Those who have studied these matters say they can trace wave after wave of population which has thus left its mark,—Gaelic, Cymric (or Welsh), Saxon, Anglian, Norwegian, Danish, Norman, and Flemish. Thus it can be proved from the names on the map that almost the whole of England was once Celtic, whereas now the Celts are almost entirely confined to the hills. The Peak of Derbyshire and the mountains of Cumberland retain a greater number of Celtic names than the districts surrounding them; and the hills of Devonshire long served as a barrier to protect the Celts of Cornwall from Anglo-Saxon conquerors.

But even mountain races are often a good deal mixed, and in the Pyrenees we find the descendants of the Iberians, who, a very long time ago, were driven from the lowlands of France and Spain. These Iberians are a very interesting race, of short stature, with long heads, and dark hair and eyes. This old type is to be met with in Wales and the Highlands even in the present day. And so we learn—if these conclusions are sound—that even the Celts in their early days were invaders, and drove before them an older population. This race, it seems, lived in Europe a very long time ago, before the discovery of metals, when people made axes, hammers, and spear-heads out of flints or other stones; and so they are said to belong to "the Stone Age." Their remains are found in many of the caves which of late years have been explored. Possibly the ancient people of Switzerland who lived in wooden houses, erected on piles near the shores of lakes (probably for safety), were also of the same stock.

It is curious to find how people living in separate valleys among the mountains of Switzerland have, in the course of time, become so much unlike their neighbours that they can hardly understand each other's speech, so effectually have the mountains kept them apart. In some districts almost every valley has its separate dialect. Switzerland is only twice the size of Wales, yet the local names are derived from half a dozen different languages, three or four of which are still spoken by the people. In the Alps, too, the same mixture of Celtic with an older Iberian stock has been detected.

A curious reversal of the usual order of things is noticed by the late Dean Stanley in his "Sinai and Palestine." He points out that the Jews took possession of many of the hills of Palestine soon after the invasion under Joshua, but could not drive out the peoples of the plains, because they were better armed, and had chariots of iron in great number. The conquerors in this case kept to the hills; while the Canaanites, Philistines, and other inhabitants of the country retained for a long time their hold of the lower ground.

CHAPTER II.
THE USES OF MOUNTAINS.

The valleys only feed; the mountains feed and guard and strengthen us.—Ruskin.

It is not an exaggeration to say that there are no physical features of the surface of the earth which render such a variety of services as mountains. The operations which they perform involve such far-reaching consequences that it is difficult to say where their effects cease. Indeed, it might almost be maintained that they are the mainspring of the world,—as far as its surface is concerned,—for it would fare ill with mankind if they were removed or in some way destroyed. Things would then very soon come to a standstill. The soil would become exhausted; streams would cease to flow; and the world would become a kind of stagnant pool.

The three main services of the hills are these:—

1. I.  Mountains help to condense water-vapour from the atmosphere, thus bringing back to the earth moisture which it loses continually by evaporation.
2. II.  Mountains are elevated reservoirs of water in one form or another, and thus not only feed the streams and rivers, but give them force and direction as well.
3. III. Mountains suffer themselves to be slowly worn away in order that the face of the earth may be renewed; in other words, they die that we, and all created things, may live.

I. Mountains help to condense water-vapour from the atmosphere, thus bringing back to the earth the moisture which it loses continually by evaporation. Every one knows that there is abundance of water-vapour in the atmosphere, but the question arises, How does it get there? The answer to this lies in the simple fact that every surface of water exposed to the air undergoes loss by evaporation. If you wish to satisfy yourself on this point, place a saucer of water in your room, and in a few days it will all be gone. We hang clothes out to dry, and so avail ourselves of this curious power that air has of taking up water in the form of vapour. Steam, or water-vapour, is really invisible, though we frequently talk of seeing the steam issuing from a locomotive; but what we really see is a cloud of condensed steam, and such clouds,[7] like those that we see floating in the air, are really masses of little tiny particles of water which can reflect or throw back the light which falls upon them, and thus they become visible. Again, a kettle of water, if left too long on the fire will entirely boil away. It is all turned into steam, and the steam is somehow hidden away in the air, though a little of it will be condensed into slight clouds by the colder air outside the kettle.

But how can water stow itself away in the air without being seen or felt?

An illustration may help to explain this. Suppose you scatter a spoonful of small shot over a carpet or a dark-coloured table-cloth; you would probably not be able to see them at a little distance. Now, gather them together in a heap, and you see them at once. The heap of shot in some ways resembles a drop of water, for in a drop of water the tiny particles (or molecules) of which it is composed are close together; but by heating water you cause them to fly asunder and scatter themselves in various directions. They are lost to sight, and moreover have no power of attracting each other or of acting in concert; each one then takes its own course, whereas in the drop of water they were in some wonderful way bound together by mutual attraction. They dance in groups; but the rude force of heat will scatter these little dancing groups, and break them up into that state which we call a state of vapour.

The forces of heat and cohesion are directly at variance; and it is just a question of degree whether the one or the other gets the mastery in this "tug of war." The more you heat the water, the faster the little groups of molecules break up and disappear in the air. They must in some way go moving between the particles of air, and collisions keep taking place with inconceivable rapidity.

And now another question arises; namely, how much water-vapour can the air take? That depends chiefly on its temperature. Air when heated will take up a great deal of steam; and the more you heat air, the more it can take up. When air at a given temperature can take up no more, it is said to be saturated for that temperature; but if the temperature be raised, it will immediately begin to take up more. For each degree of temperature there is a certain amount of water-vapour which can be absorbed, and no more. But suppose we take some air which is already saturated and lower its temperature by giving it a sudden chill, what will happen? It will immediately give up part of its steam, or water-vapour; namely, the exact amount which it is unable to contain at the lower temperature.[8]

There are various ways in which you can test this matter for yourself. For instance, take a hand-glass, and breathe on it. You know what will happen: a film of moisture forms upon it; and you know the reason why. It is simply that the cold glass gives a chill to one's breath (which being warm is highly charged with water-vapour from the lungs), and so some of the vapour is at once condensed. Now, this serves very well to explain how mountains catch water-vapour, and condense it. They are, as it were, a cold looking-glass; and the hot breath of the plains, as it strikes their sides, receiving a sudden chill, throws down part of the vapour it contains. On the higher parts of mountain-ranges the cold is so great that the water assumes the form of snow.

CLOUDS ON BEN NEVIS

Mountains, as every one knows, are colder than the plains below. No one cares to stay very long on a mountain-top, for fear of catching cold. It may be worth while to consider why they are cold. Perhaps you answer, "Because they are so high." That is true, but not a complete answer to our question. We must look at the matter a little more closely. The earth is a warm body surrounded by space in which the cold is inconceivably intense; but just as we protect our bodies against cold with garments, so the earth is wrapped up in an atmosphere which serves more or less to keep in the heat. All warm bodies give out heat as luminous bodies give out light; but the rays of heat, unlike those of light, are quite invisible to our eyes, so that we are unaware of them. These "dark heat-rays," as they are called, do not make any impression on the retina, because our eyes are not capable of responding to them as they do to the ordinary rays of light. But there is a delicate little instrument known as the thermopile, which responds to, and so detects these invisible rays; and if our eyes were sensitive to such vibrations as these, we should see heat-rays (which like light and sound are due to vibrations) streaming from every object, just as light does from a candle-flame.

Those parts of the earth which are least covered or protected by the atmosphere lose heat most rapidly,—in the same way that on a frosty day one's fingers become cold unless covered up. Now, there is less air over mountains; and in those higher regions above the peaks what air there is, is more rarefied, and therefore less capable of stopping the heat-rays coming from the earth. Professor Tyndall has shown that water-vapour in the air has a great power of stopping dark heat-rays; and the lower regions, which contain more vapour, stop or absorb a good deal of heat which would otherwise escape into space.

Look at a map of any continent, and you will see the rivers streaming away from the mountains. All those vast quantities of water come from the atmosphere; and mountains do a large share of the work of condensing it from the state of vapour to that of water. Take the map of India, and look at the great range of the Himalayas. At their feet is the hot valley of the Ganges, which meets that of the Brahmapootra River. An immense amount of evaporation takes place from these mighty rivers, so that the air above them becomes laden with water-vapour. Farther south is the tropical Indian Ocean, from which the direct rays of the sun draw up still vaster quantities of water. And so when south winds blow over India, they are full of water-vapour; and presently they strike the flanks of the Himalayas, and at once they are chilled, and consequently part with a large amount of the vapour which they contained. This is best illustrated by the case of the southwest monsoon wind of the summer season, which sets in during the month of April, and continues to blow steadily towards the northeast till October. After leaving the Bay of Bengal, this warm wind, laden with vapour, meets ere long with the range known as the Khasi Hills, and consequently throws down a large part of its vapour in the form of rain. The rainfall here in the summer season reaches the prodigious total of five hundred inches, or about twenty times as much as falls in London during a whole year. After passing over these hills, the monsoon wind presently reaches the Himalayas; and another downpour then takes place, until by the time it reaches the wide plains of Thibet, so much water has been given up that it becomes a very dry wind instead of a moist one.

It must not be supposed, however, that the condensation effected by mountains is entirely due to this coldness. They have another simple and effective way of compelling the winds to give up rain: their sloping sides force the winds which strike them to ascend into higher regions,—wedging them up as waves run up a sloping stony bank on the seashore,—and when the winds reach higher regions of the atmosphere they must (as explained above) suffer loss of heat, or in other words, have their temperature lowered. They also expand considerably as they rise into regions where the atmospheric pressure is less; and as every gas or vapour loses heat in the act of expansion, they undergo a further cooling from this cause also.

We have now learned that the cooling process is brought about in three different ways: (1) By contact with the cold body of the mountains; (2) By giving out heat into space; (3) By expansion of the air as it reaches into the higher regions of the atmosphere. The "cloud-caps" on certain mountains and promontories are to be explained by all these causes combined.

The west coast of Great Britain illustrates the same thing on a smaller scale. There the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, travelling in a northeasterly direction straight away from the Gulf of Mexico, strike the west coast of Ireland, England, and Scotland; and as most people are aware, the mild climate of Great Britain is chiefly due to this fact. If you contrast for a moment the east and west coasts of Britain, you will see that the latter is much more rocky and mountainous than the east coast. Mountains run down nearly all our western coasts. Now, it is this elevated and rocky side of Britain which catches most of the rain. Very instructive it is to compare the annual rainfall in different parts of Britain. On Dartmoor about 86 inches of rain fall every year, while in London only about 24 inches fall annually; but then London has no range of mountains near, and is far away from the west coast. Again, while people in Ambleside have to put up with 78 inches of rain, in Norfolk they are content with the modest allowance of 24 inches or so. At a place called Quoich on the west coast of Scotland, about 117 inches fall every year. These differences are chiefly due to the different contour of the land down the west side of Britain, which is mountainous, while the east side is flat, and also to the fact that while easterly winds, which have come over the continent, are dry, our prevailing winds are from the west and southwest, and are consequently heavily laden with vapour from the Atlantic Ocean. These winds follow the direction of the Gulf Stream, driving it along before them; and in so doing they take up large quantities of vapour from its surface. When these warm winds touch our western coasts, they receive a chill, and consequently are no longer able to contain all the vapour which they bring with them, and so down comes the rain.

II. Mountains are elevated reservoirs of water in one form or another, and thus not only feed the streams and rivers, but give them force and direction as well. It is very important that the mountains should not allow the waters they collect to run away too fast. Try to think for a moment what would happen if instead of being, as it were, locked up in the form of snowfields and glaciers, the water were all in the liquid form. It would soon run away, and for months together the great river-valleys would be dry and desolate. When the rain came, there would be tremendous floods; dire destruction would be wrought in the valleys; and very soon the great rivers would dwindle down to nothing. Vegetation too would suffer seriously for want of water during the summer months; and the valleys generally would cease to be the fertile sources of life which they are at present. The earth would become for the most part like a stagnant marsh.

But in the higher mountain regions there is a beneficent process going on which averts such an evil. The precious supplies of water are stored up in the solid forms of snow and ice. Now, we all know that snow and ice take a long time to melt; and thus Nature regulates and like a prudent housewife economises her precious stores. The rivers which she feeds continually, from silent snowfields and glaciers among her mountain-peaks, are the very arteries and veins of the earth; and as the blood in our bodies is forced to circulate by pressure from the heart, so the rivers are compelled to flow by pressure from the great heart of the hills,—slow, steady, continuous pressure, not the quick pulses which the human heart sends through the body.

And again, as the blood, after circulating through the body in an infinite number of life-giving streams, returns to the heart once more on its journey, so the thousand streams which wander over the plains find their way back to the heart of the mountains, for the water is brought there in the form of vapour and clouds by the winds.

When we build water-towers, and make reservoirs on high ground to give pressure to the water in our pipes, and make it circulate everywhere,—even to the tops of our houses,—we are only taking a hint from Nature. The mountains are her water-towers, and from these strong reservoirs, which never burst, she commands her streams, forcing them along their courses in order that they may find their way to the utmost bounds of continents.

But there is another way in which mountains regulate the supply of water, and prevent it from running away too fast,—one not so effective as the freezing process, but still very useful, because it applies to the lower hills below the line of perpetual snow. This may be well illustrated by the state of some of the Scotch hills in the middle of summer or autumn, when there is little if any snow resting upon them.

Any one familiar with these hills will have noticed how full of water their sides are. Tiny threads of streams trickle slowly along everywhere; peat-beds are saturated with dark-brown water; even the grass and soil are generally more or less wet, especially under pine forests. One can generally get a cup of water somewhere, except after a long dry summer, which is exceptional. Then there is the dew forming every night. Forests with their undergrowth of soil—moss and fern—also help very considerably to check the flow of water. We have often asked ourselves when watching some swift-flowing river, "Where does all this water come from? Why does it not dry up in hot weather?" The answer came fully after we had climbed several mountains, and seen with our eyes the peat-beds among the hills, and heard the trickling of the tiny rivulets hurrying along to feed some neighbouring burn, or perhaps to run into some mountain tarn or loch, and noticed the damp, spongy state of the soil everywhere,—not to mention the little springs which here and there well up to the surface, and so contribute their share.

The rivers and streams of Scotland assume various tints of amber and dark-brown, according to the amount of rain which has recently fallen. These colours are due to organic matter from the peat. Compare Scott's description of the Greta:—

"In yellow light her currents shone,

Matching in hue the favourite gem

Of Albion's mountain diadem."

The waters of some Scotch rivers after heavy rain look as black as pitch.

Nor must we omit the lakes which abound in most mountain regions, and serve as natural reservoirs for the rivers, besides giving a wonderful charm to mountain scenery.

The largest lakes in mountainous regions are found on the courses of the rivers; and there is good reason to believe that they were formed, not by any process of subsidence, but by the same operations that carved out the valleys. In many cases they are due to the damming up of a stream. But in some countries the streams dry up during summer,—in Palestine or Sinai, where there is but little soil on the hills, and consequently hardly any vegetation. Such barren hills cannot hold the continual supplies which pour gently forth from the mountains of higher latitudes.

The Alps feed four of the principal rivers of Europe. We cannot do better than quote Professor Bonney, whose writings on the Alps are familiar to all geologists. In his "Alpine Regions of Switzerland" the following passage occurs:—

"This mass of mountains, the great highlands of Europe, is therefore of the utmost physical and geographical importance. Rising in places to a height of more than fifteen thousand feet above the sea, and covered for an extent of many thousand square miles with perpetual snow, it is the chief feeder of four of the principal rivers in Europe,—the Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, and the Danube. But for those barren fields of ice, high up among the silent crags, the seeming home of winter and death, these great arteries of life would every summer dwindle down to paltry streams, feebly wandering over stone-strewn beds. Stand, for example, on some mountain-spur, and look down on the Lombardy plain, all one rich carpet of wheat and maize, of rice and vine; the life of those myriad threads of green and gold is fed from these icy peaks, which stand out against the northern sky in such strange and solemn contrast. As it is with the Po, so it is with the Rhine and the Rhone, both of which issue from the Alps as broad, swelling streams; so, too, with the Danube, which, although it does not rise in them, yet receives from the Inn and the Drave almost all the drainage of the eastern districts."

A very little reflection will serve to convince any one how vastly important and beneficial is the slope of the mountains, and how it gives force and direction to streams and rivers. Without this force, due to universal gravitation, by which the waters seek continually lower levels, the supplies in the hills would be useless. Mere lakes on flat surfaces would not answer the purpose; and so the sources of water are elevated in order that it may pour over the world below.

No writer has given such fascinating descriptions of mountains as Mr. Ruskin; and no one has more eloquently described the functions they perform. In the fourth volume of his "Modern Painters," which every one who cares for mountains should read, we find the following beautiful passage:—

"Every fountain and river, from the inch-deep streamlet that crosses the village lane in trembling clearness, to the massy and silent march of the everlasting multitude of waters in Amazon or Ganges, owe their play and purity and power to the ordained elevations of the earth. Gentle or steep, extended or abrupt, some determined slope of the earth's surface is of course necessary before any wave can so much as overtake one sedge in its pilgrimage; and how seldom do we enough consider, as we walk beside the margins of our pleasant brooks, how beautiful and wonderful is that ordinance, of which every blade of grass that waves in their clear waters is a perpetual sign,—that the dew and rain fallen on the face of the earth shall find no resting-place; shall find, on the contrary, fixed channels traced for them from the ravines of the central crests down which they roar in sudden ranks of foam to the dark hollows beneath the banks of lowland pasture, round which they must circle slowly among the stems and beneath the leaves of the lilies; paths prepared for them by which, at some appointed rate of journey, they must evermore descend, sometimes slow, and sometimes swift, but never pausing; the daily portion of the earth they have to glide over marked for them at each successive sunrise; the place which has known them knowing them no more; and the gateways of guarding mountains opened for them in cleft and chasm, none letting them in their pilgrimage, and from afar off the great heart of the sea calling them to itself: 'Deep calleth unto deep.'"

Geologists, however, do not in these days teach that the present paths of rivers were made for them, but rather that the rivers have carved out their own valleys for themselves. The old teaching before the days of Lyell and Hutton, the founders of modern geology, was that valleys were rents in the rocks of the earth's crust formed by some wonderful convulsion of Nature, whereby they were cracked, torn asunder, and upheaved. But a careful study of rivers and their valleys for many years has shown that there is no evidence of such sudden convulsions. The world is very old indeed, and rivers have been flowing much as we see them for ages and ages. A few thousand years is to the geologist but a short space of time; and there can be no doubt that a stream can in the course of time carve out for itself a valley. The operations of Nature seem slow to us because our lives are so short, and we can see so little change even in a generation; but the effects of these changes mount up enormously when continued through a long space of time. Nature works slowly; but then she has unlimited time, and never seems in a hurry. It is like the old story of the hare and the tortoise; and the river, working on steadily and quietly for hundreds or thousands of years, accomplishes far more in the end than sudden floods or violent catastrophes of any sort.

III. Mountains suffer themselves to be slowly worn away in order that the face of the earth may be renewed; in other words, they die that we, and all created things, may live. The reader will find a full account of the methods by which these results are accomplished in chapters v. and vii., and therefore we must not anticipate this part of the subject. Let it suffice for the present to say that this destruction of the hills is brought about by the action of heat and cold, of rain and frost, of snow and ice, and the thousand streams that flow down the mountain-sides. It is with soils that we are chiefly concerned at present. Try to think for a moment of the literally vital consequences which follow from the presence of good rich soils over different parts of the earth, and ask whether it would be possible for civilised races of men to flourish and multiply as they do if it were not for the great fertile valleys and plains of the world. Mountain races are neither rich nor powerful. Man exists mainly by cultivation of the soil; and among mountains we only find here and there patches that are worthy of the labour and expenditure of capital involved in cultivation. But in the great plains, in the principal river-valleys of the world, and among the lesser hill-ranges it is different. The lowlands are the fertile regions. All great and powerful nations of the world are children of the plains. It was so in the past; it will be so in the future, unless men learn to feed on something else than corn, milk, and flesh, which is not very likely.

The Egyptians, the earliest civilised race of which we have satisfactory records, dwelt in the fertile valley and delta of the Nile. They clearly perceived the value of this great river to themselves, and worshipped it accordingly. They knew nothing of its source in the far-away lakes of Central Africa; but they knew truly, as Herodotus tells us, that Egypt was "the gift of the Nile," for the alluvial soil of its delta has been formed by the yearly floods of that great river, as its waters, laden with a fine rich mud, spread over its banks, and for a time filled the valley with one sheet of water. The Assyrians and Babylonians had their home in the valley of the Euphrates and Tigris. The Chinese, too, have their great rivers. Russia is well watered by powerful rivers. The most populous parts of the United States of America are watered by the great Mississippi, and the other rivers which flow into it. England, Germany, and France are furnished with well-watered plains.

Soils are the chief form of national wealth. Minerals, such as coal and iron, are of course extremely valuable, and help to make an industrious race rich; but the land is the main thing, after all, and by land we mean soil. The two words are almost synonymous. But since the soil is formed chiefly of débris brought from the mountains, it would be more true to say that these are the real sources of wealth. Soils contain besides a large amount of valuable organic matter (that is, decayed matter which has once had animal or vegetable life) different kinds of minerals, which are necessary to the support of plant life: potash, soda, carbonate of lime, silica, magnesia, iron, phosphorus, and manganese in their various compounds are all present in the rocks of which mountains are composed. We must again fall back upon "Modern Painters" for an effective description of the forming of soil by destruction of the hills:—

"The higher mountains suffer their summits to be broken into fragments and to be cast down in sheets of massy rock, full, as we shall presently see, of every substance necessary for the nourishment of plants; these fallen fragments are again broken by frost, and ground by torrents into various conditions of sand and clay,—materials which are distributed perpetually by the streams farther and farther from the mountain's base. Every shower that swells the rivulets enables their waters to carry certain portions of earth into new positions, and exposes new banks of ground to be moved in their turn.... The process is continued more gently, but not less effectively, over all the surface of the lower undulating country; and each filtering thread of summer rain which trickles through the short turf of the uplands is bearing its own appointed burden of earth down on some new natural garden in the dingles beneath."

It may be laid down as a simple economic truth, that no nation can be powerful, rich, or prosperous, unless it possess in the first place a good soil. Other conditions, such as large navigable rivers, a good seaboard for harbouring ships, are also important; but unless the land will yield plenty of food, the population cannot be very great, for people must be fed. Foreign supplies of corn at a low price, meat and provisions of various kinds, supplement what is grown in England; but without a good soil we could not have become a powerful nation.

A high state of civilisation is in a large measure to be traced to climate and soil. The sequence is somewhat as follows:—

Mountains collect rain.

Rain fills the rivers.

Rivers make rich alluvial plains.

Agriculture follows; and food is produced.

Abundant food maintains a large population.

The population works to supply its various wants; such as roads, railways, ships, houses, machinery, etc. Then follows exchange with other countries. They send us what they can best produce, and we send them what we can best and most easily produce, and so both parties gain.

Thus towns spring up. Education, refinement, learning, and the higher arts follow from the active life of towns, where more brain-work is required, and the standard of life is higher.

And thus we may, in imagination, follow step by step the various stages by which the highest phases of civilisation are brought to pass, beginning at the mountains and ending with human beings of the highest type,—the philosopher, artist, poet, or statesman, not omitting the gentler sex, who are often said to rule the world.

The following lines of Milton possess, in the light of these facts, a deeper meaning than the poet probably intended to convey:—

"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures

Whilst the landscape round it measures:

Russet lawns and fallows grey,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;

Mountains on whose barren breast

The labouring clouds do often rest;

Meadows trim with daisies pied,

Shallow brooks and rivers wide;

Flowers and battlements it sees

Bosomed high in tufted trees,—

Where perhaps some beauty lies,

The cynosure of neighbouring eyes."

With a little rearrangement of the lines, the sequence we have indicated above would be well illustrated. The mountains must come first; then the clouds, ready to bring forth their rain; then the brooks and rivers, then "russet lawns and fallows grey,"—with their "nibbling flocks." Then come the human elements in the scene,—the "towers and battlements," containing armed warriors, well fed, no doubt, and ready to do their master's bidding; lastly, the lady who adorns the home of her lord, and, let us hope, makes it worth fighting for.

For commercial purposes, large navigable rivers are of great use. And in spite of the modern railway, rivers still exert an influence in determining the routes followed by trade. London, Liverpool, Glasgow, and other busy centres of life owe their importance to the rivers which flow through them, especially since they are tidal rivers. Heavily laden barges may be seen from London Bridge going up and down with the tide every day.

Since the direction as well as the existence of large rivers is regulated by mountains, it is clear that mountains have a very direct influence on the trade of the world.

Mountains supply many of our wants. Besides water and soil, how many useful things come from the hills! Their slopes, watered by the clouds, frequently support an abundant growth of pine forest; and thus we get wood for the shipwright and joiner. Again, mountains are composed of harder rocks than we find in the plains, and that is one reason why they stand out high above the rest of the world. Their substance has been hardened to withstand for a longer time the destruction to which all rocks are subjected. They have been greatly compressed and generally more or less hardened by subterranean heat. We bake clay and make it into hard bricks; so Nature has baked and otherwise hardened the once soft strata of which mountains are chiefly composed, converting them into slates, schist, gneiss, and other kinds of rock called "metamorphic" by geologists, because they have been altered or metamorphosed from their original condition (see chapter viii., page [277]). Again, granite, basalt, and other rocks known as "igneous," which once existed in a molten condition, have forced their way up from subterranean regions into the rocks forming mountain-chains; and a good deal of the hardening just alluded to is due to the presence of these fiery intruders, which have baked and hardened the rocks around them to a considerable extent, altering at the same time their mineral composition. The same causes which led to the injection of granite, basalt, and other igneous rocks in mountain-ranges brought other consequences in their train. Whatever the causes, they were closely connected with volcanic eruptions, so that highly heated water and steam found their way through cracks and other fissures in the rocks; and in the course of time the chemical actions thus set up led to the deposition of valuable metallic ores within these fissures. In this way mineral veins were formed; and volcanic action seems to be largely responsible for the production of minerals. Thus we find around Vesuvius, and in fact in all volcanic regions, large and varied supplies of minerals. Now, the geologist discovers that many mountain-chains—such, for example, as the Grampians, Alps, and Carpathians—have in past geological periods been the seats of volcanic action on a grand scale; and so we need not be surprised to learn that mountainous countries yield large supplies of valuable gems and metallic ores (see chapter viii., page [277]). Even in the days of Solomon, the active and business-like Phœnicians were carrying on trade with Great Britain; and the tin came from Cornwall. Besides tin, gold, silver, lead, copper, zinc, and other metals come from our hills. Now, however, we get our copper mostly from the Andes, and our gold from Australia or South Africa, because it can be got more cheaply from these countries, to which many of our Cornish miners have emigrated.

Precious stones also come chiefly from the hills, for the same reason; for they were formed at the same time and by the same causes. Cairngorms, agates, chalcedony, jasper, onyx, topaz, diamonds, and many other gems are silent but certain witnesses to the action of subterranean heat, acting long ago on the rocks which we now see standing up high above the general surface of the ground, though once they were buried deep down below the surface. Diamonds as well as gold are often got from the beds of streams, but this is easily accounted for; the streams have washed them out and brought them down from the hills.

The following words from the Book of Job (xxviii. 5) might well be applied to the hills.

"As for the earth, out of it cometh bread:

And underneath it is turned up as it were by fire.

The stones thereof are the place of sapphires,

And it hath dust of gold."

We have thus explained the three principal services rendered by mountains, but some others remain to be mentioned.

Mountains have an important influence on climate. The climate of highlands everywhere has certain peculiarities which distinguish it from that of adjacent lowlands. The air resting on mountains is less dense than that of the lowlands, and hence has fewer molecules to obstruct the entering sunbeams by day, or to stop the outward radiation at night. Therefore mountain air must be cooler; and so we find that on mountains the mean, or average, annual temperature is lower. This rarity of the air causes the ground to become hotter by day and colder by night than the ground of the plains; and so the extremes of temperature are greater. These extremes are injurious to vegetation in the higher regions, and the want of moisture still more so. But mountain-slopes up to a certain height usually have a moist climate; that is, they have more clouds and rain than the surrounding lowlands. Below the region of snow there is generally a heavy growth of forest; and forests in their turn exercise an important influence, helping to collect moisture, and in various ways to prevent extremes either of heat or cold.

The earth is divided into three well-marked zones or belts of climate: (1) The torrid zone within the tropics, where the sun is vertical twice a year, and days and nights are nearly equal; (2) The temperate zones, where the sun's rays come more obliquely, and so are less powerful, and where the length of day and night varies considerably; and (3) The frigid zones, round each of the poles, regions of intense cold, where for six months of the year the sun is never seen. Now, these broad divisions, so familiar to school children, are considerably interfered with by the height of various districts above the sea-level, or, as geographers say, by altitude. High ranges of mountains bring somewhat arctic conditions with them, even in low latitudes, where one would expect great heat. Thus the climate of the plains is very different from that of their neighbouring mountain-ranges, although their latitudes are practically the same. Travellers in Switzerland know how hot it can be in the Rhone Valley or in the plain of Lombardy, and how much cooler it is when you get up among the glaciers and the snowfields. Or to take an illustration from Great Britain: a hot summer would be somewhat trying in Edinburgh, Glasgow, or even Inverness, because they lie low, while among the Grampians, on Speyside, or Braemar, it would be very pleasant.

Vegetation follows climate. The sultry plains of the Ganges show a luxuriant tropical vegetation, while on the middle slopes of the Himalayas the climate is temperate, like that of Europe, and consequently the vegetation resembles that of a temperate region; and the highest parts of this great range are like polar latitudes in their climate, and partly also in their vegetation.

The arctic character of the climate of high mountain regions shows itself in the flora; for on the High Alps and the Highlands of Scotland and Norway, we find no small number of truly arctic plants whose home is much farther north. A very long time ago, when the climate of the whole of Northern Europe was extremely severe, and when great glaciers descended from the mountains into the plains, so that the aspect of the country was somewhat similar to that of Greenland at the present day, arctic plants and animals came down from their northern home, and flourished abundantly. This was during the Great Ice Age, which has left behind unmistakable evidences which the geologist can interpret as if they were written records. Then for some reason the climate became milder, the glaciers melted away, in Great Britain at least; but these arctic plants were left behind, and flourished still on the cool mountains, though they died out on the warm plains (see chap. iv., pp. [123]-[124]).

SNOW ON THE HIGH ALPS. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin

Mountains help to cause movement and change in the atmosphere. Let us see how this takes place. Mountains expose on one side their masses of rock to the full heat of the sun. Rocks are capable of becoming highly heated under a blazing sun: we have known stone walls, even in England, to be almost too hot to touch; and perhaps the reader may have often noticed the quivering of the hot air as it rises from the ground on a summer day, especially over a road or any piece of bare rocky ground. This quivering tells us that the air is highly heated by the ground beneath, and is consequently rising. You know how the pebbles look beneath a clear running stream; and the things which we see through air in this state all seem to be similarly moving or quivering. It is easy then to imagine how masses of heated air would rise up from the side of a mountain-range which faces the sun,—that is, the southern side,—while on the other, or northern side they cast a soft shadow for leagues over the plains at their feet. In this way mountains divide a district into two different climates, with a light warm air on their southern slopes, and colder air on the northern, and the rising of the warm air will cause a certain amount of circulation and movement. Hence mountains help to make currents in the atmosphere, and these currents produce important consequences.

When mountain-ranges trend more or less directly across the direction of prevailing winds, they always have a moist side and a dry one. In the torrid zone, where easterly winds prevail, the eastern slope is usually the moist side; but in higher latitudes, as, for example, in Europe, the western side of mountain-ranges receives the greatest amount of rainfall, because westerly winds prevail there.

Mountains are barriers dividing not only one nation from another, but separating also various tribes of plants and animals. It will be readily understood that with the exception of birds, whose powers of flight render them independent of physical barriers, most animals find mountains more impassable than men do. We can make roads and railways, but they cannot thus aid their powers of locomotion; hence mountains put limits to their migrations. Still, climate and food supplies have a greater influence in determining the boundaries of zoölogical provinces (see chapter [iv.]).

Mountains are the backbones of continents. A glance at a map of the world will show that there is evidently a close connection between continents and great mountain-chains. This connection shows itself both in the shapes and general direction of continents. Thus, the long continuous line of mountain-chain which extends from the southern spur of the Andes to the northern end of the Rocky Mountains,—a distance of about nine thousand miles,—corresponds with the general trend of the North American continent, and forms the axis or backbone of that vast tract of land. It seems as if the sea on its western side were kept at bay by this great rocky wall, while on its eastern side the rivers have formed new land. A line of mountains is often the coast line, for the sea cannot overcome it unless subsidence takes place. The backbone of Asia and Europe runs east and west, and the continental area of the Old World follows the same general direction.

These are the chief uses of mountains, and the facts which we have brought forward will serve to show how indispensable they are. The following eloquent passage from "Modern Painters" may form a fitting close to the present chapter:—

"And thus those desolate and threatening ranges which in nearly all ages of the world men have looked upon with aversion or with horror, and shrunk back from as if they were haunted by perpetual images of death, are in reality sources of life and happiness, far fuller and more beneficent than all the bright fruitfulness of the plain. The valleys only feed; the mountains feed and guard and strengthen us. We take our ideas of fearfulness and sublimity alternately from the mountains and the sea; but we associate them unjustly. The sea-wave, with all its beneficence, is yet devouring and terrible; but the silent wave of the blue mountain is lifted towards heaven in a stillness of perpetual mercy; and the one surge, unfathomable in its darkness, the other unshaken in its faithfulness, for ever bear the seal of their appointed symbolism:—

"'Thy righteousness is like the great mountains,

Thy judgements are a great deep.'"

CHAPTER III.
SUNSHINE AND STORM ON THE MOUNTAINS.

I would entreat your company

To see the wonders of the world.

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

"The spirit of the hills is action, that of the lowlands repose."[9] The plains, with their peaceful meadows and meandering streams, might almost be said to be asleep; but the mountains are wide awake. They are emphatically scenes of violent or rapid action. The wind blows more fiercely among the mountain-peaks than over the plains below; heat and cold are more extreme; and every process of change or decay seems quickened.

Avalanches, falls of rock, earthquakes, storms, and floods exhibit the more terrible aspects of the hills. Yet they have their gentler moods: witness the brightness of the starry sky overhead, and its intense blue by day, the wonderful sunrises and sunsets, the lovely effects of light and shade, of cloud and mist, the stillness and silence of the eternal snows in summer, and the beauty of the Alpine flower.

Let us see what those who know mountains best have to say about the wonderful things they have seen there. To begin with sunset and sunrise. Professor Bonney remarks,—

"Not the least interesting peculiarity of an Alpine sunset is the frequency with which its most beautiful effects are revealed quite unexpectedly. Often at the close of a rainy afternoon, the clouds, just before the sun goes down, break, roll up, sometimes disperse as if by magic, in the glory of those crimson rays that come darting upon them and piercing every rift. Many a time have I watched the vapours around a mountain-peak curling lightly upwards, and melting away into the sky, till at last the unclouded summit glowed with flushes of orange and rose, ere it grew pale and dead in its shroud of fresh-fallen snow."[10]

Here is a description by Professor Tyndall of a sunset witnessed in the neighbourhood of the Weisshorn:—

"As the day approached its end, the scene assumed the most sublime aspect. All the lower portions of the mountains were deeply shaded, while the loftiest peaks, ranged upon a semicircle, were fully exposed to the sinking sun. They seemed pyramids of solid fire; while here and there long stretches of crimson light drawn over the higher snowfields linked the glorified summits together. An intensely illuminated geranium flower seems to swim in its own colour, which apparently surrounds the petals like a layer, and defeats by its lustre any attempt of the eye to seize upon the sharp outline of the leaves. A similar effect has been observed upon the mountains; the glory did not seem to come from them alone, but seemed also effluent from the air around them. This gave them a certain buoyancy which suggested entire detachment from the earth. They swam in splendour which intoxicated the soul; and I will not now repeat in my moments of soberness the extravagant analogies which ran through my brain. As the evening advanced, the eastern heavens low down assumed a deep purple hue, above which, and blended with it by infinitesimal gradations, was a belt of red, and over this again zones of orange and violet. I walked round the corner of the mountain at sunset, and found the western sky glowing with a more transparent crimson than that which overspread the east. The crown of the Weisshorn was embedded in this magnificent light. After sunset the purple of the east changed to a deep neutral tint; and against the faded red which spread above it, the sun-forsaken mountains laid their cold and ghostly heads. The ruddy colour vanished more and more; the stars strengthened in lustre, until finally the moon and they held undisputed possession of the blue-grey sky."[11]

Marvellous sunsets are to be witnessed from the mountains of the New World. The following is a short and graphic description of sunset glories on the Sierra Nevada Mountains by Mr. Clarence King, whose name is well known to geologists:—

"While I looked, the sun descended, shadows climbed the Sierras, casting a gloom over foothill and pine, until at last only the snow summits, reflecting the evening light, glowed like red lamps along the mountain-wall for hundreds of miles. The rest of the Sierra became invisible. The snow burned for a moment in the violet sky, and at last went out."

These marvellous effects appeal powerfully to our sense of beauty and produce in most minds feelings of intense delight; but they also appeal to the reasoning faculty in man, and an intelligent observer naturally inquires, "Why are these things so? How are those glorious colours of crimson, orange, and yellow produced?" A full explanation cannot be attempted here; but this much may perhaps be said without tiring the patience of the reader. White light, such as sunlight or the light from an electric arc, is composed of all the colours of the rainbow,—violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. A ray of sunlight on passing through a prism is split up into all these colours in the above order, and we get them arranged in a band which is known as the spectrum. Thus it is proved that white light is made up of all colours (black is not a colour, but the absence of colour). Now, when the sun is low down in the sky, as at sunset, only some of these colour-rays are able to pass through the atmosphere and so to reach our eyes, while others are stopped in passing through very many miles of atmosphere (as they must obviously do when the sun is low). Those which are stopped are the blue rays and others allied to blue, such as purple and green; but the red and yellow rays are able to pass on till they come to us. Hence red, yellow, and orange are the prevailing sunset tints.

What, then, becomes of the missing blue rays? They are caught by the myriads of little floating particles in the air, and reflected away from us. That is why we do not see them; their course is turned back, just as waves breaking against a stone sea-wall are turned back or reflected. A person situated behind such a wall will not see the waves which break against it; but suppose a very big wave came: it would come right over, and then we should soon become aware of its presence. So it is with the little waves of light: some are stopped and turned back as they break against the myriads of little dust particles and the still more numerous particles of mist always floating in the air; while others, which are larger, break over them and travel on undisturbed until they reach our eyes. Now, the larger waves of light are the red waves, while the smaller ones are the blue waves; hence there is no difficulty in understanding why the red waves (or vibrations) are seen at sunset and sunrise, to the exclusion of the blue waves. But it must be borne in mind that light-waves are of infinitesimal smallness, thousands and thousands of them going to make up an inch. Sound also travels in waves, and the phenomena of sound serve to illustrate those of light; but sound-waves are very much larger.

The reason why the sky overhead appears blue is that we see the blue rays reflected down to the earth from myriads of tiny dust and water particles, while the red rays pass on over our heads, which is just the reverse of what happens at sunset.

On the southern slopes of the Alps the blues of the sky are generally very different from those on the northern side; and this is probably due to the greater quantity of water-vapour in the air, for the moist winds come from the south. Sunrises in the Alps are quite as glorious to behold as sunsets; but comparatively few people rise early enough to see them. Speaking generally, it may be said that in Alpine sunrises the prevailing colours are orange and gold, in sunsets crimson or violet-pink. After a cool night the atmospheric conditions will obviously be different from those which exist after a warm day, and more water-vapour will have been condensed into mist or cloud. Hence we should expect a somewhat different effect.

The snowfields on high ranges of mountains are of a dazzling whiteness; and their bright glare is so great as to distress the eyes of those who walk over them without blue glasses, and even to cause inflammation. At these heights the traveller is not only exposed to the direct rays of the sun, untempered save for a thin veil of rarefied air, but also to an intense glare produced by the little snow-crystals which scatter around the beams of light falling upon them. Scientific men, who have studied these matters, say that the scorching of the skin and "sun-burning" experienced by Alpine travellers is not caused, as might be supposed, by the heat of the sun, but by the rays of light darting and flashing on all sides from myriads of tiny snow-crystals.

Occasionally a soft lambent glow has been observed on snowfields at night. This is a very curious phenomenon, to which the name of "phosphorescence" has, rightly or wrongly, been given. A pale light may often be seen on the sea during a summer night, when the water is disturbed in any way; and if one is rowing in a boat, the oars seem glowing with a faint and beautiful light. It is well known that this is caused by myriads of little light-producing animalcules in the sea-water. But we can hardly suppose that the glow above referred to is produced by a similar cause. One observer says the glow is "something like that produced by the flame of naphtha;" and he goes on to say that at every step "an illuminated circle or nimbus about two inches in breadth surrounded our feet, and we seemed to be ploughing our way through fields of light, and raising clods of it, if I may be allowed the expression, in our progress." Another observer, also an Alpine traveller, says that at almost every footstep the snowy particles, which his companion in front lifted with his feet from the freshly fallen snow, fell in little luminous showers. The exact cause which produces this strange effect at night has not been ascertained.

There is another curious phenomenon often seen just before sunset on a mountain in Hungary. It is known as "The Spectre of the Brocken." The Brocken is the highest summit of the Hartz Mountains. As you step out upon the plateau upon the top of the hill, your shadow, grim and gigantic, is apparently flung right out against the eastern sky, where it flits from place to place, following your every movement. The explanation is simply this: to the east of the Hartz Mountains there is always a very dense and hazy atmosphere, so dense that it presents a surface capable of receiving the impression of a shadow, and of retaining it, as a wall does. The shadows are really close at hand, not a long way off, as might at first sight be supposed. If very far away, they would be too faint to be visible.

In all mountainous regions the permanent habitations of men cease at a limit far below the most elevated points reached by the mountain-climber. St. Veran and Gargl, the highest villages of France and Germany, are situated at the respective heights of 6,591 and 6,197 feet; but the Hospice of St. Bernard, in Switzerland, built centuries ago to shelter travellers when benumbed with the cold, is much more elevated, its height being 8,110 feet above sea-level. The most elevated cluster of houses in the world is the convent of Hanle, inhabited by twenty Thibetan priests; its height is 14,976 feet. None of the villages of the Andes, except perhaps that of Santa Anna, in Bolivia, have been built at so great a height.

Travellers who venture to ascend lofty mountains not only have to suffer all the rigours of cold and run the risk of being frozen on their route, but they may also experience painful sensations owing to the rarefaction of the air. It would naturally be supposed that at an elevation at which the pressure of the atmosphere is reduced to one half, or even to one fourth that of the plains below, a certain uneasiness should be caused by the change, the more so since other conditions, such as warmth and moisture, are different. Undaunted climbers, like Professor Tyndall, who have never felt the effect of this "mountain-sickness" (mal de montagne), deny that the sensations proceed from anything else than mere fatigue. In the Himalayas, the traveller does not begin to suffer from the attacks of this ailment until he has reached a height of 16,500 feet; while on the Andes a large number of persons are affected by it at an altitude of 10,700 feet. In the South American mountains, the symptoms are much more serious: to the fatigue, head-ache, and want of breath are added giddiness, sometimes fainting-fits, and bleeding from lips, gums, and eyelids. The aeronaut, however, who is spared all the fatigue of climbing, rarely suffers any inconvenience except from cold, at such elevations. But on rising to greater heights, 30,000 or 40,000 feet, the malady shows itself; and if the balloon continued to rise, the aerial voyager would infallibly perish.

Professor Bonney says:—

"I have occasionally seen persons singularly affected on high mountains; and as the barometer stands at about sixteen inches on Mont Blanc, and at thirty at sea-level, one would expect this great difference to be felt. Still, I do not think it easy to separate the inconveniences due to atmosphere from those caused by unwonted fatigue, and am inclined to attribute most of them to the latter."

But the fact that the aeronaut suffers seems conclusive.

The violent storms which break upon mountain districts often cause floods of considerable magnitude, such as may be compared with the memorable bursting of the Holmfirth reservoir. Hardly a year passes without considerable damage being done: bridges are swept away; roads are buried under torrents of mud, and fields overwhelmed with débris. In August of the year 1860 a severe storm was witnessed by visitors staying at Zermatt. It began with a thunder-storm; and rain fell for about thirty-six hours, after which, as may be supposed, the torrents were swollen far beyond their usual size. Lower down in the valleys much harm was done, but there one bridge only was swept away. It was, however, an awful sight to see the Visp roaring under one of the bridges that remained, and to hear the heavy thuds of the boulders that were being hurried on and dashed against one another by the torrent.

In September, 1556, the town of Locarno, in the Canton Ticino, was visited by a destructive storm and flood. The day began by several shocks of earthquake, followed, about five o'clock, by a terrific gale from the south. Part of the old castle was blown down; the doors of St. Victor's Church were burst open by a blast while the priest was at the altar; and everything within was overturned. At midday the clouds were so thick that it was almost as dark as night. A violent thunder-storm and torrents of rain followed, lasting from two to six o'clock in the evening. The rivulets all became torrents; the stream flowing through the town was so choked by uprooted trees and rocks that its water flooded the streets and almost buried them under mud and gravel. Such a sight as this gives one a powerful impression of the geological work of streams when greatly swollen; for all this débris must have been brought down from the surrounding mountains. Many lives were lost by this calamity, and a great deal of property was destroyed. Late in the year, during unsettled weather, the traveller often encounters on Alpine passes a sudden storm of snow, accompanied by violent gusts of wind, which fill the air with drifted flakes; so that becoming bewildered, he loses his way, and at last sinks down benumbed with cold and dies. Many a frequented pass in Switzerland has been the scene of death from this cause. Exhausted with fatigue, and overcome with cold, the traveller sinks down by the wayside, and the guides, after having in vain endeavoured to urge him on, are compelled, in order to save their own lives, to leave him to his fate and press forward. The name "Tourmente" is given to these storms.

On the tops of the highest mountains, even in very fine weather, the wind often blows with great force; and the north wind, supposed to be the mountaineer's best friend, is sometimes his enemy. It not unfrequently happens that a gale renders the passage of some exposed slope or ridge too dangerous, or the intense cold produces frost-bites, so that an expedition has to be abandoned when success is within reach, which naturally is very annoying. Professor Bonney, speaking of such a gale which he experienced in 1864, says,—

"The cold was something horrible; the wind seemed to blow not round, but through me, freezing my very marrow, and making my teeth chatter like castanets; and if I stopped for a moment, I shook as if in an ague-fit. It whisked up the small spiculæ of frozen snow, and dashed them against my face with such violence that it was hardly possible to look to windward. Thin sheets of ice as large as my hand were whirled along the surface of the glacier like paper.... When these gales are raging, the drifted snow is blown far to leeward of the peaks in long streamers like delicate cirrus-clouds; and on such occasions the mountain is said by the guides fumer sa pipe (to smoke his pipe). This Mont Blanc was doing to some purpose the day that we were upon him."

It is a curious fact that these gales are often confined to the crests of the mountains, so that the wind may be raging among the peaks while a few hundred feet lower down there is comparative calm.

The chief of the prevailing winds in the Alps is the Föhn. This is a hot blast from the south which probably comes from the African deserts. On its approach the air becomes close and stifling, the sky, at first of unusual clearness, gradually thickens to a muddy and murky hue, animals become restless and disquieted by the unnatural dryness of the hot blast which now comes sweeping over the hills. In some villages, it is said, all the fires are extinguished when this wind begins to blow, for fear lest some chance spark should fall on the dry wooden roofs and set the whole place in a blaze. Still the Föhn is not altogether an "ill wind that blows nobody any good," for under its warm touch the winter snows melt away with marvellous rapidity. In the valley of Grindelwald it causes a snow-bed two feet thick to disappear in about a couple of hours, and produces in twenty-four hours a greater effect than the sun does in fifteen days. There is a Swiss proverb which rather profanely says: "If the Föhn does not blow, the golden sun and the good God can do nothing with the snow."

In summer-time, however, the south wind is never welcome, for the vapour which it brings from the Italian plains is condensed by the snows of the Alps, and streams down in torrents of rain.

A thunder-storm is always a grand spectacle. Among mountains such storms are more frequent than on the plains, and also, as might be expected, far more magnificent, especially at night. Flashes, or rather sheets, of unutterable brilliancy light up the sky; distant chains of mountains are revealed for a moment, only to be instantly eclipsed by the pall of night. Says Professor Bonney,—

"No words can adequately express the awful grandeur of these tempests when they burst among the mountains. I have often been out in them,—in fact, far more frequently than was pleasant; but perhaps the grandest of all was one that welcomed me for the first time to Chamouni. As we entered the valley, and caught sight of the white pinnacles of the glacier des Bossons, a dark cloud came rolling up rapidly from the west. Beneath it, just where two tall peaks towered up, the sky glowed like a sheet of red-hot copper, and a lurid mist spread over the neighbouring hills, wrapping them, as it seemed, in a robe of flame. Onward rolled the cloud; the lightning began to play; down the valley rushed a squall of wind, driving the dust high in air before it, and followed by a torrent of rain. Flash succeeded flash almost incessantly,—now darting from cloud to cloud; now dividing itself into a number of separate streaks of fire, and dancing all over the sky; now streaming down upon the crags, and at times even leaping up from some lofty peak into the air. The colours were often most beautiful, and bright beyond description."

A STORM ON THE LAKE OF THUN. After Turner.

The mountain traveller, when caught in a thunder-storm, undergoes a strange experience, not unattended with danger. One observer[12] thus describes his sensations:—

"A loud peal of thunder was heard; and shortly after I observed that a strange singing sound, like that of a kettle, was issuing from my alpenstock. We halted, and finding that all the axes and stocks emitted the same sound, stuck them into the snow. The guide from the hotel now pulled off his cap, shouting that his head burned; and his hair was seen to have a similar appearance to that which it would have presented had he been on an insulated stool under a powerful electrical machine. We all of us experienced the sensation of pricking and burning in some part of the body, more especially in the head and face, my hair also standing on end in an uncomfortable but very amusing manner. The snow gave out a hissing sound, as though a heavy shower of hail were falling; the veil on the wide-awake of one of the party stood upright in the air; and on waving our hands, the singing sound issued loudly from the fingers. Whenever a peal of thunder was heard, the phenomenon ceased, to be resumed before its echoes died away. At these times we felt shocks, more or less violent, in those portions of the body which were most affected. By one of these shocks my right arm was paralysed so completely that I could neither use nor raise it for several minutes, nor indeed until it had been severely rubbed; and I suffered much pain in it at the shoulder-joint for some hours."

The successive layers of snow which fall on the mountains do not remain there for ever. Unless got rid of in some way their thickness would mount up to an enormous extent. It is reckoned that on the Alps the average yearly fall of snow is thirty-three feet. In the course of a century, therefore, the height of these mountains would be increased by 3,300 feet, which we know is not the case. Various causes prevent its accumulating, among which we may mention the powerful influence of the sun's rays, the evaporation promoted by the atmosphere, the thawing influence of rain and mist, avalanches, and lastly, which is perhaps the most important, the fact that the snow composing the snowfields, as they are called, of the high regions slowly creeps down towards the valleys, where they move along as glaciers, the ends of which are gradually melted away by the warm air surrounding them, and thus the muddy glacier-streams are originated. Few perils are more dreaded by the inhabitant of the Alps than those of the avalanches. The particular way in which each avalanche descends is varied according to the shape of the mountain, the condition of the snow, and the time of the year. Hence there are three different kinds of avalanche. First, there is the ice-avalanche. The smaller glaciers, which, in the Alps, cling to the upper slopes of the higher mountains, frequently terminate abruptly on the edge of some precipice. Thus the ice, urged on by the pressure of the masses above it, moves forward until it plunges over and falls into the abyss below. Large portions break off; and these, as they bound down the cliffs, are dashed into countless pieces, which leap from crag to crag high into the air: now the falling mass, like some swollen torrent, dashes with sullen roar through a gully, now, emerging, crashes over a precipice, or spreads itself out like a fan, as it hisses down a snow-slope. These avalanches expend their force in the higher regions, and are harmless, unless any one happens to be crossing their track at the time; but accidents from this source can generally be avoided. In the distance the avalanches look like waterfalls of the purest foam, but when approached are found to be composed of fragments of ice of every size, from one, two, or more cubic yards down to tiny little balls. In spring and summer, when the white layers, softened by the heat, are falling away every hour from the lofty summits of the Alps, the pedestrian, taking up a position on some adjacent headland, may watch these sudden cataracts dashing down into the gorges from the heights of the shining peaks. Year after year travellers seated at their ease on the grassy banks of the Wengern Alp have watched with pleasure the avalanches rolling to the base of the silvery pyramid of the Jungfrau. First, the mass of ice is seen to plunge forth like a cataract, and lose itself in the lower parts of the mountain; whirlwinds of powdered snow, like clouds of bright smoke, rise far and wide into the air; and then, when the cloud has passed away, and the region has again assumed its solemn calm, the thunder of the avalanche is suddenly heard reverberating in deep echoes in the mountain gorges, as if it were the voice of the mountain itself.

The other two kinds of avalanche are composed of snow. The dust-avalanche usually falls in winter-time, when the mountains are covered deep with fresh-fallen snow. Such masses of snow, not yet compacted into ice, rest insecurely upon the icy slopes, and hang in festoons and curtains over the peaks, or lie on smooth banks of pasture, until some accident, such as a gust of wind, breaks the spell, and the whole mass slides down into the valley below. These avalanches are accompanied by fearful blasts of wind which work dire destruction. Almost the whole village of Leukerbad was destroyed by one of these on the 14th of January, 1719, and fifty-five persons perished. In 1749, more than one hundred persons were killed in the village of Ruaras (Grisons), which during the night was overwhelmed by an avalanche. So silently were some of the houses buried that the inhabitants, on waking in the morning, could not conceive why the day did not dawn. It is said, though it seems almost incredible, that in the time of the Suabian War, in the year 1498, one of these avalanches swept four hundred soldiers over a cliff, and they all escaped without serious injury.

The army of General Macdonald, in his celebrated passage of the Splügen in December, 1800, suffered severely from these dust-avalanches. A troupe of horse was completely cut through while on the march; and thirty dragoons were precipitated into a gulf below the road, where they all perished. And again, some days afterwards, in descending a gorge, the columns were repeatedly severed by avalanches; and more than one hundred soldiers, with a number of horses and mules, were lost. On one of these occasions the drummer of a regiment was carried away; and it is said that they heard him beating his drum in the gorge below, in the hope that his comrades would come to his rescue. Help, however, was out of the question. The sounds gradually became fainter, and the poor lad must have perished in the cold.

The ground-avalanches are different from those just described, consisting of dense and almost solid masses of snow which have lain for a long time exposed to atmospheric influences. They are much heavier than the dust-avalanches, and therefore more destructive; so that the inhabitants take great pains to protect themselves from this source of danger. Thickly planted trees are the best protection against avalanches of every kind. Snow which has fallen in a wood cannot very well shift its place; and when masses of snow descend from the slopes above, they are unable to break through so strong a barrier. Small shrubs, such as rhododendrons, or even heaths and meadow-grass, are often sufficient to prevent the slipping of the snow; and therefore it is very imprudent not to allow them to grow freely on mountain-slopes. But it is still more dangerous to cut down protecting forests, or even to do so partly. This was illustrated by the case of a mountain in the Pyrenees, in the lofty valley of Neste; after it had been partially cleared of trees, a tremendous avalanche fell down in 1846, and in its fall swept away more than fifteen thousand fir-trees.

The Swiss records tell us what a terrible scourge the avalanche can be in villages which in summer-time appear such calm and happy scenes of pastoral life. M. Joanne, in the introduction to his valuable "Itinéraire de la Suisse"[13] gives a list of twelve of the most destructive avalanches that have fallen in Switzerland. In old days they seem to have been as great a source of danger as in modern times. Thus we find that in the year 1500, a caravan of six hundred persons was swept away in crossing the Great St. Bernard; three hundred were buried under an avalanche which fell from Monte Cassedra (Ticino). Another one in the year 1720, at Obergestelen, in the Rhone Valley, destroyed one hundred and twenty cottages, four hundred head of cattle, and eighty-eight persons. The bodies were buried in a large pit in the village cemetery, on the wall of which was engraved the following pathetic inscription: "O God, what sorrow!—eighty-eight in a single grave!" ("Gott, welche Trauer!—acht und achtzig in einem Grab!")

It is a curious fact that animals have a wonderful power of anticipating coming catastrophes. When human beings are unaware of danger, they are often warned by the behaviour of animals. Country people sometimes say that they can tell from the birds when the weather is about to change; and there is little doubt but that sea-gulls come inland before rough, stormy weather. But in the case of earthquakes the behaviour of birds, beasts, and even fishes is very striking. It is said that before an earthquake rats, mice, moles, lizards, and serpents frequently come out of their holes, and hasten hither and thither as if smitten with terror. At Naples, it is said that the ants quitted their underground passages some hours before the earthquake of July 26, 1805; that grasshoppers crossed the town in order to reach the coast; and that the fish approached the shore in shoals. Avalanches, it is well known, produce tremors similar to those due to slight earthquake shocks; and there are many stories in Switzerland of the behaviour of animals just before the catastrophe takes place. Berlepsch relates that a pack-horse on the Scaletta Pass, which was always most steady, became restive when an avalanche was coming; so that he was valuable to his owners in bad weather. One day, when near the summit of the pass, he suddenly stopped. They foolishly took no notice of his warning this time; but he presently darted off at full speed. In a few seconds the avalanche came and buried the whole party.

If these stories can be relied upon, it would seem that animals are either more sensitive to very slight tremors of the earth, or else that they are more on the lookout than human beings. Perhaps North American Indians have learned from animals in this respect, for they can tell of a coming enemy on the march by putting their ears to the ground and listening.

But there are worse dangers in the mountains than falls of snow and ice, for sometimes masses of rock come hurtling down, or worse still, the whole side of a mountain gives way and spreads ruin far and wide. Perpendicular or overhanging rocks, which seem securely fastened, suddenly become detached and rush headlong down the mountain-side. In their rapid fall, they raise a cloud of dust like the ashes vomited forth by a volcano; a horrible darkness is spread over a once pleasant valley; and the unfortunate inhabitants, unable to see what is taking place, are only aware of the trembling of the ground, and the crashing din of the rocks as they strike together and shatter one another in pieces. When the cloud of dust is cleared away, nothing but heaps of stones and rubbish are to be seen where pastures once grew, or the peasant ploughed his acres in peace. The stream flowing down the valley is obstructed in its course, and changed into a muddy lake; the rampart of rocks from which some débris still comes crumbling down has lost its old form; the sharpened edges point out the denuded cliff from which a large part of the mountain has broken away. In the Pyrenees, Alps, and other important ranges there are but few valleys where one cannot see the confused heaps of fallen rocks.

Many of these catastrophes, known as the "Bergfall," have been recorded; and the records tell of the fearful havoc and destruction to life and property due to this cause. In Italy the ancient Roman town of Velleja was buried, about the fourth century, by the downfall of the mountain of Rovinazzo; and the large quantity of bones and coins that have been found proves that the fall was so sudden that the inhabitants had no time to escape.

Taurentum, another Roman town, situated, it is said, on the banks of Lake Geneva, at the base of one of the spurs of the Dent d'Oche, was completely crushed in A. D. 563 by a downfall of rocks. The sloping heap of débris thus formed may still be seen advancing like a headland into the waters of the lake. A terrible flood-wave, produced by the deluge of stones, reached the opposite shores of the lake and swept away all the inhabitants. Every town and village on the banks, from Morges to Vevay, was demolished, and they did not begin the work of rebuilding till the following century. Some say, however, that the disaster was caused by a landslip which fell from the Grammont or Derochiaz across the valley of the Rhone, just above the spot where it flows into the Lake of Geneva. Hundreds of such falls have taken place within the Alps and neighbouring mountains within historic times.

Two out of the five peaks of the Diablerets fell down, one in 1714 and the other in 1749, covering the pastures with a thick layer of stones and earth more than three hundred feet thick, and by obstructing the course of the stream of Lizerne, formed the three lakes of Derborence. In like manner the Bernina, the Dent du Midi, the Dent de Mayen, and the Righi have overspread with ruin vast tracts of cultivated land. In Switzerland the most noted Bergfalls are those from the Diablerets and the Rossberg. The former mountain is a long flattish ridge with several small peaks, overhanging very steep walls of rock on either side. These walls are composed of alternating beds of limestone and shale. Hence it is easily perceived that we have here conditions favourable for landslips, because if anything weakens one of these beds of shale the overlying mass might be inclined to break away. The fall in the year 1714, already referred to, was a very destructive one.

THE MATTERHORN. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin.

"For two whole days previously loud groaning had been heard to issue from the mountain, as though some imprisoned spirit were struggling to release himself, like Typhœus from under Etna; then a vast fragment of the upper part of the mountain broke suddenly away and thundered down the precipices into the valley beneath. In a few minutes fifty-five châlets, with sixteen men and many head of cattle, were buried for ever under the ruins. One remarkable escape has indeed been recorded, perhaps the most marvellous ever known. A solitary herdsman from the village of Avent occupied one of the châlets which were buried under the fallen mass. Not a trace of it remained; his friends in the valley below returned from their unsuccessful search, and mourned him as dead. He was, however, still among the living; a huge rock had fallen in such a manner as to protect the roof of his châlet, which, as is often the case, rested against a cliff. Above this, stones and earth had accumulated, and the man was buried alive. Death would soon have released him from his imprisonment, had not a little rill of water forced its way through the débris and trickled into the châlet. Supported by this and by his store of cheese, he lived three months, labouring all the while incessantly to escape. Shortly before Christmas he succeeded, after almost incredible toil, in once more looking on the light of day, which his dazzled eyes, so long accustomed to the murky darkness below, for a while could scarcely support. He hastened down to his home in Avent, and knocked at his own door; pale and haggard, he scarcely seemed a being of this world. His relations would not believe that one so long lost could yet be alive, and the door was shut in his face. He turned to a friend's house; no better welcome awaited him. Terror seized upon the village; the priest was summoned to exorcise the supposed demon; and it was not till he came that the unfortunate man could persuade them that he was no spectre, but flesh and blood."[14]

The valley is still a wild scene of desolation, owing to the enormous masses of stones of every shape and size with which its bed is filled.

In September of the year 1806, the second fall of the mountain Rossberg took place, after a wet summer. It is underlaid by beds of clay which, when water penetrates, are apt to give way. The part which fell was about three miles long and 350 yards wide and 33 yards thick. In five minutes one of the most fertile valleys in Switzerland was changed to a stony desert. Three whole villages, six churches, 120 houses, 200 stables or châlets, 225 head of cattle, and much land were buried under the ruins of the Rossberg; 484 persons lost their lives. Some remarkable escapes are recorded.

In the year 1618 the downfall of Monte Conto buried 2,400 inhabitants of the village of Pleurs, near Chiavenna. Excavation among the ruins was subsequently attempted, but a few mangled corpses and a church-bell were all that could be reached.

Geologically these phenomena, appalling as they are from the human point of view, possess a certain interest, and their effects deserve to be studied.

There is yet another danger to which dwellers in mountains are occasionally exposed; namely, the earthquake. It seems to be an established fact that earthquake shocks are more frequent in mountainous than in flat countries. The origin of these dangerous disturbances of the earth's crust has not yet been fully explained. They are probably caused in various ways; and it is very likely that the upheaval of mountain-chains is one of the causes at work. Earthquakes have for many years been carefully studied by scientific men, and some valuable discoveries have been made. Thus we find that they are more frequent in winter than summer, and also happen more often by night than by day. Day and night are like summer and winter on a small scale, and so we need not be surprised at this discovery. Some have maintained that there is a connection between earthquakes and the position of the moon; while others consider that the state of the atmosphere also exerts an influence, and that earthquakes are connected with rainy seasons, storms, etc. Earthquakes are very often due to volcanic eruptions, but this is not always the case (see chapter vi., page [199]).

CHAPTER IV.
MOUNTAIN PLANTS AND ANIMALS.

The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and so are the stony rocks for the conies.—Psalm civ. 18.

There must be few people who have neither seen nor heard of the beauty and exquisite colours of Alpine[15] flowers. They are first seen on the fringes of the stately woods above the cultivated land; then in multitudes on the sloping pastures with which many mountain-chains are robed, brightening the verdure with innumerable colours; and higher up, where neither grass nor loose herbage can exist, among the slopes of shattered fragments which roll down from the mountain-tops,—nay, even amidst the glaciers,—they gladden the eye of the traveller and seem to plead sweetly with the spirits of destruction. Alpine plants fringe the vast hills of snow and ice of the high hills, and sometimes have scarcely time to flower and ripen a few seeds before being again covered by their snowy bed. When the season is unfavourable, numbers of them remain under the snow for more than a year; and here they safely rest, unharmed by the alternations of frost and biting winds, with moist and springlike days. They possess the great charm of endless variety of form and colour, and represent widely separated divisions of the vegetable kingdom; but they are all small and low-growing compared to their relatives grown in the plains, where the soil is richer and the climate milder. Among them are tiny orchids quite as interesting in their way as those from the tropics; liliputian trees, and a tree-like moss (Lycopodium dendroideum) branching into an erect little pyramid as if in imitation of a mountain pine; ferns that peep cautiously from narrow rocky crevices as if clinging to the rock for shelter from the cold blasts; bulbous plants, from lilies to bluebells; evergreen shrubs, perfect in leaf and blossom and fruit, yet so small that one's hat will cover them; exquisite creeping plants spreading freely along the ground, and when they creep over the brows of rocks or stones, draping them with curtains of colour as lovely as those we see in the forests; numberless minute plants scarcely larger than mosses, mantling the earth with fresh green carpets in the midst of winter; succulent plants in endless variety; and lastly the ferns, mosses, and lichens which are such an endless source of pleasure and delight to the traveller. In short, Alpine vegetation presents us with nearly every type of plant life of northern and temperate climes, chastened in tone and diminished in size.

It is not difficult to account for the small size of these plants; for in the first place we cannot expect a large or luxuriant growth where the air is cold, the soil scanty, and the light of the sun often obscured by clouds, and where the changes of temperature are rapid,—which is very unfavourable to most plants. Again, in the close struggle for existence which takes place on the plains and low tree-clad hills, the smaller forms of plant life are often overrun by trees, trailing plants, bushes, and vigorous herbs; but where these cannot find a home, owing to the severity of the winter and other causes, the little Alpine plants, covered up by snow in the winter, can thrive abundantly. And lastly, like the older and conquered races of men who have been driven to the hills (see chap. i., p. [28]) and find shelter there, so there are both plants and animals living in the mountains which man will not suffer to live in the plain where he grows his crops, pastures his cattle, or builds his cities. We would also venture to suggest that possibly some plants have been ousted from plains by newer and more aggressive types, which came and took their place. If so, vegetable life would afford an illustration of a process which has so often taken place in human history. This is only a speculation, but still it might be worth following up. If Alpine plants, or any considerable number of them, could be shown to belong to more ancient types, such as flourished in the later geological periods, that would afford some evidence in favour of the idea. Whether this is so or not, plant life on the mountains is almost entirely protected from the destroying hands of men with their ploughs and scythes, as well as from many grazing animals. As Mr. Ruskin quaintly says:

"The flowers which on the arable plain fell before the plough now find out for themselves unapproachable places, where year by year they gather into happier fellowship and fear no evil."

It is clear that the climate of a mountainous region determines the character of the vegetation. Now, the climate will be different in different parts of a mountain-range, and will depend upon the height above the sea and other causes.[16] Some writers upon this subject have attached too much importance to absolute height above the sea, as though this were the only cause at work. It is a very important cause, no doubt, but there are others which also have a great influence, such as the position of each locality with respect to the great mountain masses, the local conditions of exposure to the sun and protection from cold winds, or the reverse. However, in spite of local irregularities there are in the Alps certain broad zones or belts of vegetation which may be briefly described as follows:—

1. The Olive region.—This region curiously illustrates what has just been said about other causes besides height influencing the climate and vegetation. For along the southern base of the Alps, the lower slopes and the mouths of the valleys have a decidedly warmer climate than the plains of Piedmont and Lombardy. Thus, while the winter climate of Milan is colder than that of Edinburgh, the olive can ripen its fruit along the skirts of the mountain region, and penetrates to a certain distance towards the interior of the chain along the lakes and the wider valleys of the Southern Alps. Even up the shores of the Lake of Garda, where the evergreen oak grows, the olive has become wild. The milder climate of the Borromean Islands, and some points on the shores of the Lago Maggiore, will permit many plants of the warmer temperate zone to grow; while at a distance of a few miles, and close to the shores of the same lake, but in positions exposed to the cold winds from the Alps, plants of the Alpine region grow freely, and no delicate perennials can survive the winter. The olive has been known to resist a temperature of about 16° F. (or 16° below the freezing point of water), but is generally destroyed by a less degree of cold. It can only be successfully cultivated where the winter frosts are neither long nor severe, where the mean temperature of winter does not fall below 42° F., and a heat of 75° F. during the day is continued through four or five months of the summer and autumn.

2. The Vine region.—The vine, being more tolerant of cold than the olive, can grow at a higher level; and so the next zone of vegetation in the Alps may be called "the Vine region." But to give tolerable wine it requires at the season of ripening of the grape almost as much warmth as the olive needs. Vines can grow in the deeper valleys throughout a great part of the Alpine chain, and in favourable situations up to a considerable height on their northern slopes. On the south side, although the limit of perpetual snow is lower, the vine often reaches near to the foot of the greater peaks. But the fitness of a particular spot for the production of wine depends far more on the direction of the valley and of the prevailing winds than on the height. And so it happens that in the Canton Valais, the Valley of the Arc in Savoy, and some others on the north side of the dividing range, tolerable wine is made at a higher level than in the valleys of Lombardy, whose direction allows the free passage of the keen northern blasts. It is a curious fact that in the Alps the vine often resists a winter temperature which would kill it down to the roots in the low country; and we must explain it by the protection of the deep winter snow. Along with the vine many species of wild plants, especially annuals, characteristic of the flora of the south of Europe, show themselves in the valleys of the Alps.

3. The Mountain region, or region of deciduous trees.—Many writers take the growth of corn as the characteristic of the colder temperate zone, corresponding to what has been called the mountain region of the Alps. But so many varieties, all with different requirements, are in cultivation, that it is impossible to take the growth of cereals in general as marking clearly any natural division of the surface. A more natural limit is marked by the presence of deciduous trees (trees which shed their leaves). Although the oak, beech, and ash do not exactly reach the same height, and are not often seen growing side by side in the Alps, yet their upper limit marks pretty accurately the transition from a temperate to a colder climate that is shown by a general change in the wild, herbaceous vegetation. The lower limit of this zone is too irregular to be exactly defined, but its upper boundary is about 4,000 feet on the cold north side of the Alps, and often rises to 5,500 feet on the southern slopes, which of course get more sunshine and warmth. The climate of this region is favourable to the growth of such trees as the oak, beech, and ash, but it does not follow that we should see them there in any great numbers at the present time; for it is probable that at a very early date they were extensively destroyed for building purposes, and to clear space for meadow and pasture land, so that with the exception of the beech forests of the Austrian Alps, there is scarcely a considerable wood of deciduous trees to be seen anywhere in the chain. In many districts where the population is not too dense, the pine and Scotch fir have taken the place of the oak and beech, mainly because the young plants are not so eagerly attacked by goats, the great destroyers of trees.

4. The region of Coniferous trees.—Botanically this region is best distinguished by the prevalence of coniferous trees, forming vast forests, which if not kept down by man (and by goats) would cover the slopes of the Alps. The prevailing species are the common fir and the silver fir. In districts where granite abounds, the larch flourishes and reaches a greater size than any other tree. Less common are the Scotch fir and the arolla, or Siberian fir. In the Eastern Alps the dwarf pine becomes conspicuous, forming a distinct zone on the higher mountains above the level of other firs. The pine forests play a most important part in the natural economy of the Alps; and their preservation is a matter of very great importance to the future inhabitants. But in some places they have been considerably diminished by cutting. This has especially happened in the neighbourhood of mines; and in consequence the people of the unfrequented communes have become so alive to this that some jealousy is felt of strangers wandering among the mountains, lest they should discover metals and cause the destruction of the woods. Their fears are not unreasonable; for the forests, besides exerting a good deal of influence on rainfall and climate, form natural defences against the rush of the spring avalanches (see chapter iii., page [93]). It is recorded that after the war of 1799, in which many of those near the St. Gothard Pass were destroyed, the neighbouring villages suffered terribly from this scourge. Hence the laws do not allow of timber being cut in certain forests called "Bannwalde;" and in most places the right of felling trees is strictly regulated, and the woods are under the inspection of officials.

In spots high up among the mountains, to which access is difficult, the timber is converted into charcoal, which is then brought down in sacks by horses and mules. There are two ways in which timber is conveyed down from the forest: either it is cut up into logs some five feet long, and thrown into a neighbouring torrent, which brings it down over cliff and gorge to the valley below; or else trough-like slides are constructed along the mountain-sides, down which the trunks themselves are launched.

It is this region of coniferous trees which mainly determines the manner of life of the population of the Alps. In the month of May the horned cattle, having been fed in houses during the winter (as they are in the Scotch Highlands, where the cowsheds are called "byres"), are led up to the lower pastures. The lower châlets, occupied in May and part of June, generally stand at about the upper limit of the mountain region. Towards the middle or end of June the cattle are moved up to the chief pastures, towards the upper part of the region of coniferous trees, where they usually remain for the next two or three months. But there are some available pastures still higher up, and hither some of the cattle are sent for a month or more.

5. The Alpine region.—This is the zone of vegetation extending from the upper limit of trees to where permanent masses of snow first make their appearance; so that where the trees cease, the peculiar Alpine plants begin; but we still find shrubs, such as the common rhododendron, Alpine willow, and the common juniper, which extend up to, and the latter even beyond, the level of perpetual snow. The limits of this interesting and delightful botanical region may be fixed between 6,000 and 8,000 feet above the sea, and at least 1,000 feet higher on the south slopes of the Alps, which get more sunshine. It is used to some extent for pasture; and in Piedmont it is not uncommon to find châlets at the height of 8,500 feet, and vegetation often extends freely up to 9,500 feet. Here and there, at levels below this zone, many Alpine species may be found, either transported by accident from their natural home, or finding a permanent refuge in some cool spot sheltered from the sun, and moistened by streamlets descending from the snow region. But it is chiefly here that those delightful flowers grow which make the Alps like a great flower-garden,—great anemones, white and sulphur-coloured; gentians of the deepest blue, like the sky overhead; campanulas, geums, Alpine solanellas, and forget-me-nots; asters, ox-eyed daisies, pale pink primulas, purple heartsease, edelweiss, saxifrages, yellow poppies, Alpine toad-flax, monkshood, potentilla, and others too numerous to mention. Says Professor Bonney,—

"Who cannot recall many a happy hour spent in rambling from cluster to cluster on the side of some great Alp?—the scent of sweet herbage or of sweeter daphne perfuming the invigorating air, the melody of the cattle-bells borne up from some far-off pasture, while the great blue vault of heaven above seems reflected in the gentian clusters at his feet. The love of flowers seems natural to almost every human being, however forlorn his life may have been, however far it may have missed its appointed mark. It may well be so; they at least are fresh and untainted from their Maker's hand; the cry of 'Nature red in tooth and claw' scarce breaks their calm repose. Side by side they flourish without strife; none 'letteth or hindereth another,' yet so tender and delicate, doomed to fade all too soon, a touch of sadness is ever present to give a deeper pathos to our love."

6. The Glacial region.—This comprehends all that portion of the Alps that rises above the limit of perpetual snow. But a word of explanation is necessary. The highest parts of the Alps are not covered by one continuous sheet of snow; otherwise we should never see any peaks or crags there. Some are too steep for the snow to rest upon them, and therefore remain bare at heights much greater than the so-called "limit of perpetual snow," and that limit varies considerably. Still this term has a definite meaning when rightly understood. Leaving out of account masses of snow that accumulate in hollows shaded from the sun, the "snow-line" is fairly even, so that on viewing an Alpine range from a distance, the larger patches and fields of snow on adjoining mountains, with the same aspect, are seen to maintain a pretty constant level.

ON A GLACIER.

Vegetation becomes scarce in this region, not, as commonly supposed, because Alpine plants do not here find the necessary conditions for growth, but simply for want of soil. The intense heat of the direct rays of the sun (see chapter iii., pages [76]-[77]) compensates for the cold of the night; and it is probable that the greater allowance of light also stimulates vegetable life. But all the more level parts are covered with ice or snow; and the higher we ascend, the less the surface remains bare, with the exception of the projecting rocks which usually undergo rapid destruction and breaking up from the freezing of whatever water finds its way into their fissures.

Nevertheless, many species of flowering plants have been found even at the height of eleven thousand feet.

It is in this region that plants are found whose true home is in the arctic regions (see chapter ii., pages [64]-[65]).

For the sake of those who love ferns, lycopods, and other cryptogamic or flowerless plants, a few words may be said here. Of the polypodies, the beech fern and oak fern are generally common, so is the limestone polypody in places where limestone occurs. Another species (P. alpestre) very like the lady fern grows plentifully in many places. The parsley fern, familiar to the botanist in Wales and other parts of Great Britain, is common, especially on the crystalline rocks, and ascends to above seven thousand feet. The holly fern is perhaps the most characteristic one of the higher Alps. It is abundant in almost every district from the Viso to the Tyrol, ranging from about five thousand feet to nearly eight thousand feet. The finest specimens are to be found in the limestone districts. Nestling down in little channels worn out of the rock, it shoots out great fronds, often more than eighteen inches long, which are giants compared to the stunted specimens seen on rockwork in English gardens.

Asplenium septentrionale is very common in most of the districts where crystalline rocks abound. The hart's tongue is hardly to be called a mountain fern. The common brake is confined to the lower slopes.

Cistopteris fragillis and C. dentata are common, and the more delicate C. Alpina is not rare. The noble Osmunda regalis keeps to the warmer valleys. The moonwort abounds in the upper pastures.

The club-mosses (Lycopodium), which are found in Great Britain, are common in most parts of the Alps, especially the L. selago, which grows almost up to the verge of the snows. Lower down is the delicate L. velveticum, which creeps among the damp mosses under the shade of the forest. Many of the smaller species stain with spots of crimson, orange, and purple the rocks among the snowfields and glaciers, and gain the summits of peaks more than eighteen thousand feet above the sea, reaching even to the highest rocks in the Alpine chain. For the sake of readers who are not familiar with that wonderful book, "Modern Painters," we will quote some exquisite passages on lichens and mosses, full of beautiful thoughts:—

"We have found beauty in the tree yielding fruit and in the herb yielding seed. How of the herb yielding no seed,—the fruitless, flowerless[17] lichen of the rock?

"Lichens and mosses (though these last in their luxuriance are deep and rich as herbage, yet both for the most part humblest of the green things that live),—how of these? Meek creatures!—the first mercy of the earth, veiling with trusted softness its dintless rocks, creatures full of pity, covering with strange and tender honour the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet finger on the trembling stones to teach them rest. No words that I know of will say what these mosses are; none are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green; the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do grass; the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace? They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet or love token; but of these the wild bird will make its nest and the wearied child his pillow.

"And as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift to us. When all other service is vain, from plant and tree the soft mosses and grey lichen take up their watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing grasses, have done their parts for a time, but these do service for ever. Tree for the builder's yard—flowers for the bride's chamber—corn for the granary—moss for the grave.