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Title: Great rivers of the world
as seen and described by famous writers
Editor: Esther Singleton
Release date: March 2, 2026 [eBook #78095]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1908
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78095
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT RIVERS OF THE WORLD ***
Great Rivers of the World
FAMOUS MARVELS
AND MASTERPIECES
OF THE WORLD
As Seen and Described by Great Writers
Collected and Edited by
ESTHER SINGLETON
Famous Paintings
Great Pictures
Modern Paintings
Great Portraits
Wonders of the World
Wonders of Nature
Famous Women
Romantic Castles and Palaces
Turrets, Towers and Temples
Historic Buildings of America
Historic Landmarks of America
Great Rivers of the World
Famous Sculpture
Famous Cathedrals
Fourteen volumes in all. Profusely illustrated. Each sold separately.
You can get any of the series where you bought this book and at the
same price.
[Illustration: THE RHINE]
Great Rivers of the World
As Seen and Described
By Famous Writers
COLLECTED AND EDITED BY
ESTHER SINGLETON
_With Numerous Illustrations_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
Copyright, 1908, by
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
_Published, November, 1908_
Preface
Rivers possess so many varied attractions and have so many claims
on the attention of the student of science and history, the
pleasure-seeker, the traveller, the poet and the painter, that no
apology need be offered for gathering into one volume selections from
the works of those who have described some of the most famous streams
of the world. Lyell says: “Rivers are the irrigators of the earth’s
surface, adding alike to the beauty of the landscape and the fertility
of the soil: they carry off impurities and every sort of waste
_débris_; and when of sufficient volume, they form the most available
of all channels of communication with the interior of continents.
They have ever been things of vitality and beauty to the poet, silent
monitors to the moralist, and agents of comfort and civilization to all
mankind.”
Thoreau says: “The Mississippi, the Ganges and the Nile, those
journeying atoms from the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh and Mountains
of the Moon, have a kind of personal importance in the annals of the
world--the heavens are not yet drained over their sources, but the
Mountains of the Moon still send their annual tribute to the Pasha
without fail, as they did to the Pharaohs, though he must collect the
rest of his revenue at the point of the sword. Rivers must have been
the guides which conducted the footsteps of the first travellers.
They are the constant lure, when they flow by our doors, to distant
enterprise and adventure, and, by a natural impulse, the dwellers on
their banks will at length accompany their currents to the lowlands of
the globe, or explore at their invitation the interior of continents.
They are the natural highways of all nations, not only levelling the
ground and removing obstacles from the path of the traveller, quenching
his thirst, and bearing him on their bosoms, but conducting him through
the most interesting scenery, the most populous portions of the globe,
and where the animal and vegetable kingdoms attain their greatest
perfection.”
In the following pages little will be found dealing with the material
blessings bestowed on mankind by the agency of rivers. The average
reader is more interested in the antiquarian and legendary lore of the
sources, rapids, banks and islands of a famous stream. Length of course
and volume of water are matters of no importance to lovers of the
picturesque, the venerable, or the romantic. Therefore the literature
of the Shannon is more fascinating than that of the Amazon, and the
Jordan attracts more pilgrims than the Volga. Small streams like the
Wye, the Yarrow, and the Oise consequently find a place among these
celebrated rivers.
E. S.
_New York, October, 1908._
Contents
THE RHINE _Victor Hugo_ 1
THE SEINE _A. Bowman Blake_ 8
THE GANGES _Sir William Hunter_ 19
MORNING ON THE GANGES _Pierre Loti_ 24
THE COLORADO _Henry Gannett_ 28
THE AVON _John Wilson Croker_ 34
DOWN THE ST. LAWRENCE _Charles Dickens_ 46
THE TIGRIS _George Rawlinson_ 52
THE OISE _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 55
THE HUDSON _Esther Singleton_ 65
THE TIBER _Strother A. Smith_ 76
THE SHANNON _Arthur Shadwell Martin_ 87
THE DANUBE _I. Bowes_ 94
THE NIGER _J. Hampden Jackson_ 101
THE AMAZON _Joseph Jones_ 107
THE YANGTSE CHIANG _W. R. Carles_ 113
THE THAMES _Charles Dickens, Jr._ 122
THE CONNECTICUT _Timothy Dwight_ 131
MOSEL _F. Warre Cornish_ 138
THE IRRAWADDY _Emily A. Richings_ 144
THE CLYDE _Robert Walker_ 155
THE VOLGA _Elisée Reclus_ 162
THE CONGO _J. Howard Reed_ 169
THE MACKENZIE RIVER _William Ogilvie_ 177
THE LOIRE _I. Victor Hugo_ 185
_II. Honoré de Balzac_ 189
THE POTOMAC _Esther Singleton_ 191
THE EUPHRATES _George Rawlinson_ 197
THE WYE _A. R. Quinton_ 201
THE INDIAN RIVER _L. C. Bryan_ 208
THE NILE _I. J. Howard Reed_ 213
_II. Isaac Taylor_ 219
THE DON _Elisée Reclus_ 223
THE COLUMBIA _J. Boddam-Whetham_ 228
THE PO _George G. Chisholm_ 235
THE MENAM _Mrs. Unsworth_ 241
THE MERRIMACK _Henry D. Thoreau_ 249
THE YEN-E-SAY _Henry Seebohm_ 254
THE YARROW _John MacWhirter_ 263
THE MISSISSIPPI _Alexander D. Anderson_ 272
THE ZAMBESI _Henry Drummond_ 280
THE URUGUAY _Ernest William White_ 286
THE TWEED _Sir Thomas Dick Lauder_ 293
NIAGARA _John Tyndall_ 304
THE NIAGARA RIVER _G. K. Gilbert_ 312
THE MEUSE _Esther Singleton_ 316
THE RHONE _Angus B. Reach_ 321
THE YUKON _William Ogilvie_ 328
THE JORDAN _Andrew Robert Fausset_ 338
THE CONCORD _Henry D. Thoreau_ 343
THE TAGUS _Arthur Shadwell Martin_ 350
THE INDUS _Edward Balfour_ 354
Illustrations
THE RHINE _Frontispiece_
THE SEINE 8
THE GANGES 20
THE COLORADO 28
THE AVON 34
THE ST. LAWRENCE 46
THE HUDSON 66
THE TIBER 76
THE SHANNON 88
THE DANUBE 94
THE THAMES 122
THE CONNECTICUT 132
THE IRRAWADDY 144
THE CLYDE 156
THE VOLGA 162
THE CONGO 170
THE LOIRE 186
THE POTOMAC 192
THE WYE 202
THE INDIAN 208
THE NILE 214
THE DON 224
THE COLUMBIA 228
THE PO 236
THE MENAM 242
THE MERRIMACK 250
THE YARROW 264
THE MISSISSIPPI 272
THE ZAMBESI 280
THE TWEED 294
THE NIAGARA 304
THE MEUSE 316
THE RHONE 322
THE JORDAN 338
THE CONCORD 344
THE TAGUS 350
THE RHINE
VICTOR HUGO
I love rivers; they do more than bear merchandise--ideas float along
their surface. Rivers, like clarions, sing to the ocean of the beauty
of the earth, the fertility of plains, and the splendour of cities.
Of all rivers, I prefer the Rhine. It is now a year, when passing the
bridge of boats at Kehl, since I first saw it. I remember that I felt
a certain respect, a sort of admiration, for this old, this classic
stream. I never think of rivers--those great works of Nature, which are
also great in history,--without emotion.
I remember the Rhone at Valserine; I saw it in 1825, in a pleasant
excursion to Switzerland, which is one of the sweet, happy
recollections of my early life. I remember with what noise, with what
ferocious bellowing, the Rhone precipitated itself into the gulf whilst
the frail bridge upon which I was standing was shaking beneath my feet.
Ah! well! since that time, the Rhone brings to my mind the idea of a
tiger,--the Rhine, that of a lion.
The evening on which I saw the Rhine for the first time, I was
impressed with the same idea. For several minutes I stood contemplating
this proud and noble river--violent, but not furious; wild, but still
majestic. It was swollen, and was magnificent in appearance, and was
washing its yellow mane, or, as Boileau says, its “slimy beard,” the
bridge of boats. Its two banks were lost in the twilight, and though
its roaring was loud, still there was tranquillity.
Yes, the Rhine is a noble river--feudal, republican, imperial--worthy,
at the same time, of France and Germany. The whole history of Europe is
combined within its two great aspects--in this flood of the warrior and
of the philosopher--in this proud stream, which causes France to bound
with joy, and by whose profound murmurings Germany is bewildered in
dreams.
The Rhine is unique; it combines the qualities of every river. Like
the Rhone, it is rapid; broad, like the Loire; encased, like the
Meuse; serpentine, like the Seine; limpid and green, like the Somme;
historical, like the Tiber; royal, like the Danube; mysterious, like
the Nile; spangled with gold, like an American river; and, like a river
of Asia, abounding with phantoms and fables.
Before the commencement of History, perhaps before the existence of
man, where the Rhine now is there was a double chain of volcanos, which
on their extinction left heaps of lava and basalt lying parallel, like
two long walls. At the same epoch the gigantic crystallizations formed
the primitive mountains; the enormous alluvions of which the secondary
mountains consist were dried up; the frightful heap, which is now cold,
and snow accumulated on them, from which two great streams issued, the
one--flowing towards the north, crossed the plains, encountered the
sides of the extinguished volcanos, and emptied itself into the ocean;
the other, taking its course westward, fell from mountain to mountain,
flowed along the side of the block of extinguished volcanos, which is
now Ardâche, and was finally lost in the Mediterranean. The first of
those inundations is the Rhine, and the second the Rhone.
From historical records we find that the first people who took
possession of the banks of the Rhine were the half-savage Celts, who
were afterwards named Gauls by the Romans. When Rome was in its glory,
Cæsar crossed the Rhine, and shortly afterwards the whole of the river
was under the jurisdiction of his empire. When the Twenty-second Legion
returned from the siege of Jerusalem, Titus sent it to the banks of the
Rhine, where it continued the work of _Martius Agrippa_. The conquerors
required a town to join Melibocus to Taunus; and Moguntiacum, begun by
Martius, was founded by the Legion, built by Trajan, and embellished
by Adrian. Singular coincidence! and which we must note in passing.
This Twenty-second Legion brought with it Crescentius, who was first
that carried the Word of God into the Rhingau, and founded the new
religion. God ordained that these ignorant men, who had pulled down
the last stone of His temple upon the Jordan, should lay the first
of another upon the banks of the Rhine. After Trajan and Adrian came
Julian, who erected a fortress upon the confluence of the Rhine and the
Moselle; then Valentinian, who built a number of castles. Thus in a few
centuries, Roman colonies, like an immense chain, linked the whole of
the Rhine.
At length the time arrived when Rome was to assume another aspect. The
incursions of the Northern hordes were eventually too frequent and too
powerful for Rome; so, about the Sixth Century, the banks of the Rhine
were strewed with Roman ruins, as at present with feudal ones.
Charlemagne cleared away the rubbish, built fortresses, and opposed the
German hordes; but notwithstanding his desire to do more, Rome died,
and the physiognomy of the Rhine was changed.
Already, as I before mentioned, an unperceived germ was sprouting in
the Rhingau. Religion, that divine eagle, began to spread its wings,
and deposited among the rocks an egg that contained the germ of a
world. St. Apollinaire, following the example of Crescentius, who, in
the year 70 preached the Word of God at Taunus, visited Rigomagum. St.
Martin, Bishop of Tours, catechized Confluentia; St. Materne, before
visiting Tongres, resided at Cologne. At Trèves, Christians began
to suffer the death of martyrdom, and their ashes were swept away
by the wind; but these were not lost, for they became seeds, which
were germinating in the fields during the passage of the barbarians,
although nothing at that time was seen of them.
After an historical period the Rhine became linked with the marvellous.
Where the noise of man is hushed, Nature lends a tongue to the nest of
birds, causes the caves to whisper, and the thousand voices of solitude
to murmur; where historical facts cease, imagination gives life to
shadows and realities to dreams. Fables took root, grew, and blossomed
in the voids of History, like weeds and brambles in the crevices of a
ruined palace.
Civilization, like the sun, has its nights and its days, its plenitudes
and its eclipses; now it disappears, but soon returns.
As soon as civilization again dawned upon Taunus, there were upon the
borders of the Rhine a whole host of legends and fabulous stories.
Populations of mysterious beings, who inhabited the now dismantled
castles, had held communion with the _belles filles_ and _beaux
chevaliers_ of the place. Spirits of the rocks; black hunters, crossing
the thickets upon stags with six horns; the maid of the black fen; the
six maidens of the red marshes; Wodan, the god with ten hands; the
twelve black men; the raven that croaked its song; the devil who placed
his stone at Teufelstein and his ladder Teufelsleiter, and who had the
effrontery to preach publicly at Gernsbach, near the Black Forest, but,
happily, the Word of God was heard at the other side of the stream; the
demon, Urian, who crossed the Rhine at Dusseldorf, having upon his back
the banks that he had taken from the sea-shore, with which he intended
to destroy Aix-la-Chapelle, but being fatigued with his burden, and
deceived by an old woman, he stupidly dropped his load at the imperial
city, where that bank is at present pointed out, and bears the name of
Loosberg. At that epoch, which for us was plunged into a penumbra, when
magic lights were sparkling here and there, when the rocks, the woods,
the valleys, were tenanted by apparitions; mysterious encounters,
infernal castles, melodious songs sung by invisible songstresses; the
frightful bursts of laughter emanating from mysterious beings,--these,
with a host of other adventures, shrouded in impossibility, and holding
on by the heel of reality, are detailed in the legends.
At last these phantoms disappear as dawn bursts in upon them.
Civilization again resumed its sway, and fiction gave place to fact.
The Rhine assumed another aspect: abbeys and convents increased;
churches were built along the banks of the river. The ecclesiastic
princes multiplied the edifices in the Rhingau, as the prefects of Rome
had done before them.
The Sixteenth Century approached; in the Fourteenth the Rhine
witnessed the invention of artillery; and on its bank, at Strasbourg,
a printing-office was first established. In 1400 the famous cannon,
fourteen feet in length, was cast at Cologne; and in 1472 Vindelin
de Spire printed his Bible. A new world was making its appearance;
and, strange to say, it was upon the banks of the Rhine that those two
mysterious tools with which God unceasingly works out the civilization
of man,--the catapult and the book--war and thought,--took a new form.
The Rhine, in the destinies of Europe, has a sort of providential
signification. It is the great moat which divides the north from the
south. The Rhine for thirty ages, has seen the forms and reflected the
shadows of almost all the warriors who tilled the old continent with
that share which they call sword. Cæsar crossed the Rhine in going
to the south; Attila crossed it when descending to the north. It was
here that Clovis gained the battle of Tolbiac; and that Charlemagne
and Napoleon figured. Frederick Barbarossa, Rudolph of Hapsbourg, and
Frederick the First, were great, victorious, and formidable when here.
For the thinker, who is conversant with History, two great eagles are
perpetually hovering over the Rhine--that of the Roman legions, and
that of the French regiments. The Rhine--that noble flood, which the
Romans named _Rhenus superbus_, bore at one time upon its surface
bridges of boats, over which the armies of Italy, Spain, and France
poured into Germany, and which, at a later date, were made use of by
the hordes of barbarians when rushing into the ancient Roman world:
at another, on its surface it floated peaceably the fir-trees of
Murg and St. Gall, the porphyry and the marble of Bale, the salt of
Karlshall, the leather of Stromberg, the quicksilver of Lansberg, the
wine of Johannisberg, the slates of Coab, the cloth and earthenware of
Wallendar, the silks and linens of Cologne. It majestically performs
its double function of flood of war and flood of peace, having,
without interruption, upon the ranges of hills which embank the most
notable portion of its course, oak-trees on the one side and vine-trees
on the other--signifying strength and joy.
For Homer the Rhine existed not; for Virgil it was only a frozen
stream--_Frigiora Rheni_; for Shakespeare it was the “beautiful Rhine”;
for us it is, and will be to the day when it shall become the grand
question of Europe, a picturesque river, the resort of the unemployed
of Ems, of Baden, and of Spa.
THE SEINE
A. BOWMAN BLAKE
Few persons outside of France have any acquaintance with, or knowledge
of, the rare beauties of Seine scenery. The river has thus far escaped
the vulgarity of becoming a common tourist’s high-road. The general
impression is current that the Seine, being destitute of the legendary
romance of the vine-clad Rhine, the vivid and somewhat spectacular
scenic effects of the Italian lakes, or even the lawn-like finish of
the Thames, offers no attractions to either amateur or tourist. This
opinion only proves the falsity of opinion based upon superficial
knowledge. From the artistic point of view, perhaps, no other one
river in Europe possesses a character of scenery so preëminently
beautiful, or so replete with the charm of contrast, or rich in
variety; for the picturesque portions of the noble river are by no
means confined to the grandeur and wildness of the Fontainebleau
forests, or of the animated quays and crumbling Mediæval houses of the
ancient city of Rouen. To one in search of scenes which shall unite
the charms of beautiful river scenery with the added note of pastoral
and village rusticity, almost every turning of the river will reveal
a mine of wealth. It is a characteristic of the scenery of the Seine
that it is eminently sketchable at almost every point. For it is
more than a purely picturesque, it is an essentially poetic river. A
conclusive proof of its superiority in point of artistic resources and
suggestivement is, perhaps, that no other European river scenery
has had so overwhelming an influence upon modern Art. During the past
forty years, in which the Seine and its tributaries have been the
principal camping-ground of the best French landscape-painters, the
peculiarities of its scenery, and the features of its rustic life, have
formed the taste, and developed a wholly original mode of treatment of
_genre_ and landscape in the modern French school. The two principal
characteristics of the scenery of the Seine are its naturalness, and
its possessing in the highest degree that individuality which marks its
landscapes as distinctively French. The Seine could never be mistaken
at any point for other than a French river. The Parisian masters, in
transferring to their canvasses the peculiarities of the river and
shore aspects, have produced a school of landscape as essentially
national in character as that which marks the Dutch and Flemish
masterpieces of two hundred years ago. The low wide meadows, the
stately poplars, the reedy shores, and the delicate atmosphere which
veils the jumble of roofs, and the quaint towers and turrets that are
lanced from the Seine shores, have already become as familiar features
of modern French landscape, as the cone-shaped hills of Flanders and
the flat windmill-dotted fields of Holland, which makes the character
of the landscape in Dutch and Flemish canvasses.
[Illustration: THE SEINE]
I have spoken of the naturalness of the Seine landscape. It is this
which makes its lasting charm. Along these banks Nature neither rises
to the sublime nor does she appear in too wild or dishevelled a state.
There is a happy blending of the cultivated and the uncultivated,
of course tamed and yet enjoying the wilder _abandon_ of freedom.
Nowhere are the scenes too grand or too wide for the pencil; the hills
suggest, but do not attain, the majestic; the wide, flat fields and
the long stretches of meadows are broken into possible distances by a
gently sloping ground, or an avenue of tall poplars. The villages and
farm-houses dotted along its banks wear a thoroughly rustic air; the
villas and _châteaux_ crowning its low hills become naturally a part
of the landscape by their happy adaptation, architecturally, to the
character of their surroundings; while the not infrequent ruins of
monastery or ancient castle group charmingly with the fluffy foliage
and dense shrubbery.
Perhaps the impressionist’s most ideal landscape would be found among
the villages of the upper Seine, that part of the Seine which flows
between Fontainebleau and Rouen, as beyond Rouen the river takes on a
stronger and bolder character both in its breadth and in the quality of
its scenery.
First in point of beauty among the villages contiguous to
Fontainebleau, is Grètz, a little village not directly upon the
Seine, but upon its tributary, the Loing. Grètz can be reached in an
hour’s drive from the town or palace of Fontainebleau. This charming
village must have grown here, close to the low sweet level of the
winding river’s banks, with a view to its being sketched. Not a
feature necessary to the making of a picture is wanting. The village
street lies back some distance from the shore, the backs of the houses
fronting on the river, the village and river life made one by the
straggling rose, fruit, and vegetable gardens running down between
their high stone-wall enclosures to the very edges of the swiftly
flowing streams. As one views the village from the mid-stream, one has
the outlined irregularity of the village houses limned against the sky.
To the right, between the tall grenadier-like poplars, or the higher
branches of the willow, rises a beautiful group of old buildings; the
blue spaces of the sky are seen through the arches and ruins of the old
_château_ of La Reine Blanche, that queen having made, centuries ago,
Grètz her dwelling place. The massive, simple lines of the castle’s
Norman tower contrast finely with the belfry of the still more ancient
church close beside it, the dark façades of these old buildings being
relieved by the gay touches of colour upon the adjacent houses. A
queer old bridge appears to leap directly from the very courtyard of
the _château_ to the opposite shore, and on the bridge is constantly
moving some picture of rustic life, peasants with loads of grapes or
fagots, a herd of oxen laboriously dragging the teeming hay-cart, a
group of chattering villagers, or the shepherd leading his flock to
richer pastures. The river banks themselves are not wanting in the
beauty of human activity. In the gardens, as our boat drifted along the
banks, were half-a-dozen bent old women weeding, sowing, and plucking.
Farther down, beyond the bridge, is the washerwomen’s stand, the bare
arms, short skirts, and gay kerchiefs of these sturdy peasant women,
with the bits of colour their home-spun linens yield, making delightful
contrasts with the delicate arabesques which light foliage made against
the sky.
The upper valley of the Seine, that portion of the river lying between
Paris and Rouen, seems at a first glance to be a country as sterile in
artistic resources as it is interesting to the average tourist. But the
French artist, so far from finding the flat, wide stretches of field
and meadow, the scanty foliage, and the scattered group of farm-houses
which border the river banks, either too prosaic or too trite for
his pencil, has discovered from a close study of this apparently
common-place valley scenery a new feature of landscape beauty. This
feature has been the present original treatment of the flat surfaces
of ground and of large sunlit spaces. The character of all this valley
scenery may be summed up in a few words; tilled fields running down to
the water’s edge; wild uncultivated fields and rank dank meadows, their
flatness broken here and there by a clustering group of low shrubbery,
by rows of the slim, straight French poplars, or an avenue of stunted,
bulbous-trunk willows, with their straight, reed-like branches. The
entire landscape has but two lines, the horizontality of the meadows
and the perpendicular uprising of the trees, except that far off
in the distance run the waving outlines of the hills of Normandy.
Such is the aspect of the country in which some of the first among
contemporaneous French artists have found new sources of inspiration.
Those wide, sunlit meadows, breathing the rich luxuriance of nature
in undisturbed serenity; the golden spaces of the air shimmering like
some netted tissue between tree and tree; the shadows cast by a single
tree across the length of the field; an intimate knowledge and study of
this landscape have taught the French brush the secret of its power in
painting a flat picture, and in wresting from sunlight the glory of its
gold. The peculiar qualities of the atmosphere at certain seasons of
the year make the Seine valley entrancing, especially to Art Students.
In the spring, nothing can exceed the delicacy, purity and fineness of
the colouring of the foliage, and the tones of light are marvellous in
their dainty refinement and suggestiveness. Nature seems to be making
a sketch in outline of a picture, which summer is to fill in, so pure
are the outlines of foliage and landscape in that wonderful medium of
delicately coloured ether. In summer, sunlight fairly drenches the
fields. Autumn colours, also, here seem richer, firmer, more glowing
than in other parts of France, and the October twilights in their
brilliance and duration approach an American tint.
The first breaks in the monotony of the valley scenery are the
approaches to, and the immediate suburbs about, Rouen. The river banks
just below are particularly picturesque. The river between Rouen and
La Bouille assumes a character different from that which marks it
above a city. It was my special good fortune to traverse this portion
sometime before sunrise. We left the city behind us masked in grey
mist, only the iron _flèche_ of the cathedral piercing the cottony
wrappings. On the motionless Seine not a ripple was astir, and the
morning fog held leaves and trees in a close, breathless embrace. But
at Croisset, with the shooting of the sun above the horizon came the
melting hues and freshening breath of morning. As the clouds, slowly
rolled apart, gave us glimpses of the magnificent panorama of Rouen set
in its circlet of hills, the effect was that of the gradual lifting
of a drop-curtain upon some fine scenic landscape. The river itself
was a jewel of colour, reflecting the faintly tinted shipping along
the wharves, the rich emerald of the trees, and the shadowy grasses
along the shore. The steamer on its way steers in and out among a
hundred little islands which give a magical effect of enchantment, so
fairy-like and exquisite are their shapes and forms. With Croisset,
Hautot, Loquence, and Sahurs, the majesty of the Rouen quays, wharves,
spires, and cathedral towers gives place to the richer, softer beauty
of rural village loveliness. But the most beautiful picture greeted our
eyes as we approached La Bouille, which is picturesquely set against
the greenery of a hilly back-ground, its bright, light-coloured houses
so close to the water’s edge that the river was like a broken rainbow
of colour, reflecting their tints in its ripples. Across the river was
a magnificent expanse of meadow and tilled field, with a poplar now
and then to serve as a sentinel guarding the bursting grain. The banks
of the river are delightfully diversified by clusters of old thatched
farm-houses, spreading fishing-nets, and old boats moored in tiny
creeks. As we passed the last of the village houses, there were some
wonderful effects of light and colour; all the confused indecision of
light scurrying clouds piled above the meadows; the uncertain vagueness
of a mist rolling still, like the skirts of a fleecy robe, over the
distant river bends; and immediately above us the warmth, brilliance,
and goldenness of sunrise in its early splendour. Couched amidst the
mysterious shade of some dense foliage was the bending form of an old
woman, filling her pitcher at the river-side, scarlet kerchiefed and
dun skirted. Off in the grey distance was the figure of a peasant woman
carrying her child upon her back, her tall, straight form magnified
into strange attitude by the misty atmosphere. A brush capable of
strong handling, and an eye trained to seize the more fleeting beauties
of nature, would have found in this La Bouille picture a poem of colour
and tenderness.
I have already mentioned the naturalness of the rustic life of the
Seine fields and farm-houses. The sturdy simplicity of the Normandy
peasant is his well-known characteristic. The farmers at the plough,
the fishermen mending their nets, the shepherd tending his flocks,
are not the least poetic of the elements which make the charm of
this river scenery. There reigns here an Arcadian calm, a certain
patriarchal simplicity. The complicated ingenuities and labour-saving
machines of modern invention have not as yet become the fashion among
the Normandy peasant-farmers, and thus every agricultural implement,
seen out-of-doors, seems available for an artist’s purpose. The ploughs
are marvels of ancient construction; oxen and horses are harnessed
in ways known only to those who have learned the science as a secret
handed down from sire to son; and carts, threshing-machines, rakes, and
hoes have an air of venerability that matches well with the old gabled
houses and worn rustic dress of the farmers. It is this aspect of age
which imparts such beautiful low tones of colour to the pictures of
human life along these shores. There are no flaring, flashing hues,
no brilliant dashes of colour; instead, the tones of landscape, sky,
atmosphere, and the human life blend in a beautiful harmony of soft low
tints. In matters of toilet, the Normandy peasant’s taste is perfect.
The farmers wear blouses of dark, sober blues; the women short skirts
of dull green, brown or home-spun grey; their aprons are snuff-colour
or lilac, and their close-fitting embroidered cap, or the coloured
kerchief tied over their heads, brings into admirable relief their
brilliant complexions, strong prominent features, and flaxen tresses.
In that morning’s journey from Rouen to Havre we enjoyed a delightful
variety of out-door life. In the early sunrise hours there were visible
the first symptoms of the farm-house in early rising. The farmer was
seen striding over the dew-wet meadows to open barns or to drive forth
the cattle; women were busy milking, and the children trudging to the
river with pails and pitchers to be filled. Later, the fields were
alive with the ploughmen’s cries, and men and women were starting
out, rakes and scythes in hand, for their day’s work; children stood
up to their chins in the yellow grain, in the midst of the scarlet
_coquelicots_ and the star-eyed daisies. Towards noon there was a
pretty picture of a farmer wheeling along the river bank a huge load of
green grass, atop of which were seated two round, moon-faced children
whose laps and hands were full of the brilliant field-flowers. Behind
them walked the mother with a rake slung over her shoulder, her short
skirts and scant draperies permitting a noble freedom of step and
movement, her head poised as only the head of a woman used to the
balancing of heavy burdens is ever held. Hers was altogether a striking
figure, and the brush of Vollen or of Breton would have seized upon
her to embody the type of one of his rustic beauties, whose mingled
fierceness and grace make their peasants the rude goddesses of the
plough.
One of the chief charms of the Seine scenery is the variety and
contrast its shores present. One passes directly from the calm and the
rural naturalness of sloping meadows fringed with osiers, willows,
and poplars, to the walled quays of Caudebec, with its spires, broad
avenues, and garden-enclosed houses. Caudebec is characterized by
an imposing _château_ crowning its hillside, by beautiful gardens,
terraces, its long row of “striped” houses stretching along its quays,
and the beauty of its cathedral spire rising above the tree-trops.
Perhaps Villequier may be said to be the culminating point of beauty
upon the Seine. Here the river seems only like a large lake, a fact
which invests the landscape with its noble uprising hills and the
beautiful, thickly wooded spurs of the hillocks, with something of
the rounded finished aspect which belongs to lake scenery. The lovely
village of Villequier itself peeps in and out of its encompassing
trees as if with a conscious air of coquetry. The bright, gaily
coloured houses grouped upon the water’s edge give a touch of Italian
brilliancy to the scene, while its fine _château_ of Villequier and
the old Gothic spire of the village church add the noble lines to the
_ensemble_.
This bay of Villequier is the beginning of the bolder beauty of the
Seine scenery. Its quieter aspects lie above Villequier. The artist
in search of striking scenes and a rich variety of contrasts will
find this part of the river afford fine material. On the way to
Quillebœuf and Tancarville the shores of the river assume a hundred
different aspects. There is the forest of Bretonne, the lovely valley
of the Bolbec, the beautiful _château_ of Etalan, and the ruins of
the Twelfth Century church. Quillebœuf itself stands boldly out into
the river, perched upon a spur of rising ground, and is, perhaps,
the most pretentious town upon the Seine. After Quillebœuf and
Tancarville the loftier hills and thickly wooded shores of the river
give place to wide, flat marshes and open valleys. The marshes just
beyond Quillebœuf are, to our taste, its most distinguishing beauty;
they run directly out to the most distant points of the horizon, and
the rich yellow-green grass, with its brilliant bouquets of wild
flowers scattered profusely over the flat treeless surface, makes
a kaleidoscope of colour under the broad unbroken splendour of the
noon-day sun. Cattle in large herds, horses, and sheep, pasture upon
the rich meadows, so that the animal-painter finds here a superb
landscape for the setting of his ruminating cows, fleecy sheep, or wild
unbridled colts.
Just beyond these meadows the Seine loses all the character of a river.
It has assumed, before its final plunge into the ocean, the turbulent,
tumultuous aspect of a small sea, and like a lover wearing his lady’s
colours, the river turns to the deeper greys and colder blues of the
sea’s dark tint. The boat stops long enough at the wonderful old
seaport town of Honfleur for one to catch a glimpse of its quaint
turreted houses, its crooked narrow streets, its wharves with their
picturesque assemblage of lateen-shaped sails. Then Havre is reached,
and with those swarming quays and bright pebbly shores the Seine is
lost in the great Atlantic.
THE GANGES
SIR WILLIAM W. HUNTER
Of all great rivers on the surface of the globe, none can compare in
sanctity with the Ganges, or Mother Gangá, as she is affectionately
called by devout Hindus. From her source in the Himálayas, to her
mouth in the Bay of Bengal, her banks are holy ground. Each point of
junction of a tributary with the main stream has its own special claims
to sanctity. But the tongue of land at Allahábád, where the Ganges
unites with her great sister river the Jumna, is the true _Prayág_,
the place of pilgrimage whither hundreds of thousands of devout Hindus
repair to wash away their sins in her sanctifying waters. Many of
the other holy rivers of India borrow their sanctity from a supposed
underground connection with the Ganges. This fond fable recalls the
primitive time when the Aryan race was moving southward with fresh and
tender recollections of the Gangetic plains. It is told not only of
first-class rivers of Central and Southern India, like the Narbadá, but
also of many minor streams of local sanctity.
An ancient legend relates how Gangá, the fair daughter of King Himálaya
(Himávat) and of his queen, the air-nymph Menaka, was persuaded, after
long supplication, to shed her purifying influence upon the sinful
earth. The icicle-studded cavern from which she issues is the tangled
hair of the god Siva. Loving legends hallow each part of her course;
and from the names of her tributaries and of the towns along her
banks, a whole mythology might be built up. The southern offshoots of
the Aryan race not only sanctified their southern rivers by a fabled
connection with the holy stream of the north. They also hoped that in
the distant future, their rivers would attain an equal sanctity by the
diversion of the Ganges waters through underground channels. Thus,
the Bráhmans along the Narbadá maintain that in this iron age of the
world (indeed, in the year 1894 A. D.) the sacred character of the
Ganges will depart from her now polluted stream, and take refuge by an
underground passage in their own Narbadá river.
The estuary of the Ganges is not less sacred than her source. Ságar
Island at her mouth is annually visited by a vast concourse of
pilgrims, in commemoration of her act of saving grace; when, in order
to cleanse the 60,000 damned ones of the house of Ságar, she divided
herself into a hundred channels, thus making sure of reaching their
remains with her purifying waters, and so forming the delta of Bengal.
The six years’ pilgrimage from her source to her mouth and back again,
known as _pradak-shina_, is still performed by many; and a few devotees
may yet be seen wearily accomplishing the meritorious penance of
“measuring their length” along certain parts of the route. To bathe in
the Ganges at the stated festivals washes away guilt, and those who
have thus purified themselves carry back bottles of her water to their
kindred in far-off provinces. To die and be cremated on the river bank,
and to have their ashes borne seaward by her stream, is the last wish
of millions of Hindus. Even to ejaculate “Gangá, Gangá, at the distance
of one hundred leagues from the river,” said her more enthusiastic
devotees, might atone for the sins committed during three previous
lives.
[Illustration: THE GANGES]
The Ganges has earned the reverence of the people by centuries of
unfailing work done for them. She and her tributaries are the unwearied
water-carriers for the densely-peopled provinces of Northern India, and
the peasantry reverence the bountiful stream which fertilizes their
fields and distributes their produce. None of the other rivers of India
comes near to the Ganges in works of beneficence. The Brahmaputra and
the Indus have longer streams, as measured by the geographer, but
their upper courses lie beyond the great mountain wall in the unknown
recesses of the Himálayas.
Not one of the rivers of Southern India is navigable in the proper
sense. But in the north, the Ganges begins to distribute fertility
by irrigation as soon as she reaches the plains, within 200 miles of
her source, and at the same time her channel becomes in some sort
navigable. Thenceforward she rolls majestically down to the sea in a
beautiful stream, which never becomes a merely destructive torrent in
the rains, and never dwindles away in the hottest summer. Tapped by
canals, she distributes millions of cubic feet of water every hour in
irrigation; but her diminished volume is promptly recruited by great
tributaries, and the wide area of her catchment basin renders her
stream inexhaustible in the service of man. Embankments are in but few
places required to restrain her inundations, for the alluvial silt
which she spills over her banks affords in most parts a top-dressing
of inexhaustible fertility. If one crop be drowned by flood, the
peasant comforts himself with the thought that the next crop from his
silt-manured fields will abundantly requite him.
The Ganges has also played a preëminent part in the commercial
development of Northern India. Until the opening of the railway
system, from 1855 to 1870, her magnificent stream formed almost the
sole channel of traffic between upper India and the seaboard. The
products not only of the river plains, but even the cotton of the
Central Provinces, were formerly brought by this route to Calcutta.
Notwithstanding the revolution caused by the railways, the heavier and
more bulky staples are still conveyed by the river, and the Ganges may
yet rank as one of the greatest waterways in the world.
The value of the upward and downward trade of the interior with
Calcutta, by the Gangetic channels, may be taken at about 400,000,000
of rupees per annum, of which over 153,000,000 go by country-boats,
and nearly 240,000,000 by steamers (1891). This is exclusive of the
sea-borne commerce. But the adjustments which have to be made are so
numerous that the calculation is an intricate one. As far back as 1876,
the number of cargo boats registered at Bámangháta, on one of the
canals east of Calcutta, was 178,627; at Hugli, a river-side station on
a single one of the many Gangetic mouths, 124,357; and at Patna, 550
miles from the mouth of the river, the number of cargo boats entered
in the register was 61,571. The port of Calcutta is itself one of the
world’s greatest emporia for sea and river-borne commerce. Its total
exports and imports landward and seaward amounted in 1881 to about
1,400,000,000 of rupees (Rx. 140,000,000) and to 1,523,000,000 of
rupees (Rx. 152,363,583) in 1891.
Articles of European commerce, such as wheat, indigo, cotton, opium,
and saltpetre, prefer the railway; so also do the imports of Manchester
piece goods. But if we take into account the vast development in the
export trade of oil-seeds, rice, etc., still carried by the river, and
the growing interchange of food-grains between interior districts of
the country, it seems probable that the actual amount of traffic on the
Ganges has increased rather than diminished since the opening of the
railways. At well-chosen points along her course, the iron lines touch
the banks, and these river-side stations form centres for collecting
and distributing the produce of the surrounding country. The Ganges,
therefore, is not merely a rival, but a feeder of the railway. Her
ancient cities, such as Allahábád, Benares, and Patna, have thus been
able to preserve their former importance; while fishing villages like
Sahibganj and Goalanda have been raised into thriving river marts.
For, unlike the Indus and the Brahmaputra, the Ganges is a river of
great historic cities. Calcutta, Patna, and Benares are built on
her banks; Agra and Delhi on those of her tributary, the Jumna; and
Allahábád on the tongue of land where the two sister streams unite.
Many millions of human beings live by commerce along her margin.
Calcutta, with its suburbs on both sides of the river, contains a
population of nearly a million. It has a municipal revenue of four
and one-fourth millions of rupees; a sea-borne and coasting commerce
in 1891 of 770,000,000 of rupees, with a landward trade of over
750,000,000. These figures vary from year to year, but show a steady
increase. Calcutta lies on the Hugli, the most westerly of the mouths
by which the Ganges enters the sea. To the eastward stretches the
delta, till it is hemmed in on the other side by the Meghná, the
most easterly of the mouths of the Ganges. More accurately speaking,
the Meghná is the vast estuary by which the combined waters of the
Brahmaputra and Gangetic river-systems find their way into the Bay of
Bengal.
MORNING ON THE GANGES
PIERRE LOTI
Nearly all the streets lead to the Ganges, where they grow wider and
become less gloomy. Here, suddenly, the magnificent palaces and all the
brightness of the day dawn upon us.
These massive tiers of steps, which stretch along the banks and reach
to the water’s edge even in these times of drought, where fallen
temples emerge from their slimy bed, were made in honour of the Ganges,
and on each landing there are little granite altars, shaped like
niches, in which diminutive gods are placed. These images are like
those of the temples, but they are of more massive construction, so as
to withstand the swirl of the waters which cover them during the annual
rains.
The sun has just risen from the plain through which old Ganges wanders,
a plain of mud and vegetation still overshadowed by the mists of night;
and waiting there for the first red rays of dawn lie the granite
temples of Benares, the rosy pyramids, the golden shafts, and all the
sacred city, extended in terraces, as if to catch the first light and
deck itself in the glory of the morning.
This is the hour which, since the Brahmin faith began, has been sacred
to prayer and to religious ecstasy, and it is now that Benares pours
forth all its people, all its flowers, all its garlands, all its birds,
and all its living things on to the banks of the Ganges. Awakened by
the kiss of the sun, all that have received souls from Brahma rush
joyously down the granite steps. The men, whose faces beam with calm
serenity, are garbed in Kashmir shawls, some pink, some yellow, and
some in the colours of the dawn. The women, veiled with muslins in the
antique style, form white groups along the road, and the reflection
from their copper ewers and drinking vessels shimmer amongst the
silvery glints of their many bracelets, necklets, and the rings which
they wear round their ankles. Nobly beautiful both of face and gait,
they walk like goddesses, while the metal rings on their arms and feet
murmur musically.
And to the river, already encumbered with garlands, each one comes to
offer a new wreath. Some have twisted ropes of jasmine flowers which
look like white necklets, others garlands of Indian pinks whose flowers
of golden yellow and pale sulphur gleam in contrast, resembling the
changing colours of an Indian veil.
And the birds that had been sleeping all along friezes of the houses
and the palaces awake too and fill the air with chirpings and with song
in the mad joy of dawn.
In all the temples the gods have their morning serenades, and the angry
roar of the tom-toms, the wail of the bag-pipes, and the howling of the
sacred trumpets, are heard from every side.
Naked children holding each other by the hand come in gay throngs;
yoghis and slowly-moving fakirs descend the steps; the sacred cattle
advance with deliberate steps, while people stand respectfully aside
offering them fresh wreaths of reeds and flowers. They, too, seem to
look on the splendours of the sun, and in their harmless fashion appear
to understand and pray.
Next come the sheep and goats; then dogs and monkeys hurry down the
steps.
All the granite temples scattered on the steps that serve as niches and
altars, some for Vishnu, some for the many-armed Ganesa, protrude into
the sunlight their squat little gods--gods which are grey with mud, for
they have slept many months under the troubled waters of the river to
which the ashes of the dead are consigned.
Now that the rays of the sun are fierce the people shelter under large
umbrellas whose shade awaits them. For these huge parasols, which
resemble gigantic mushrooms clustering under the walls of the city, are
always left open.
The many rafts and the lower steps are thronged with Brahmins, who,
after setting down their flowers and ewers, hasten to disrobe. Pink and
white muslins and cashmeres of all colours lie mingled on the ground,
or are hung over bamboo canes, and now the matchless nude forms appear,
some of pale bronze, others of a deeper shade.
The men, slim and of athletic build, plunge to their waists into the
sacred waters. The women, still wearing a veil of muslin round their
shoulders and waists, merely plunge their many-ringed arms and ankles
into the Ganges; then they kneel at the extremest edge and let fall
their long unknotted coils of hair into the water. Then, raising
their heads once more, they allow the water dripping from their
drenched hair to fall upon their necks and bosoms. And now with their
tightly-clinging draperies they look like some statue of a “winged
Victory,” more beautiful and more voluptuous than if they had been nude.
From all sides the bowing people shower their garlands and their
flowers into the Ganges; all fill their ewers and jars and then,
stooping, fill their hollowed hand and drink. Here religious feeling
reigns supreme, and no sensual thought ever seems to assail these
beauteous mingled forms. They come into unconscious contact with each
other, but only heed the river, the sun, and the splendour of the
morning in a dream of ecstasy. And when the long ritual is ended, the
women retire to their homes, while the men, seated on the rafts amid
their garlands dispose themselves for prayer.
Oh! the joyful awakenings of this primeval race, praying in daily
unison to God, where the poorest may find room amongst the splendours
of the sun, the waters, and the flowers.
All the life of Benares centres round the river. People come from
the palaces and jungles to die on its sacred banks, and the old and
the sick are brought here by their families to await their end. The
relatives never return to their homes in the country after the death
has taken place, and so Benares, which already contains three hundred
thousand inhabitants, increases rapidly in size. For those who feel
their end approaching this is the spot so eagerly desired.
Oh! to die at Benares. To die on the banks of the Ganges! To have one’s
body bathed for the last time, and then to have one’s ashes strewn into
the river!
THE COLORADO
HENRY GANNETT
The country drained by the Colorado River is a peculiar region. It is a
country of plateaus and canons, the plateaus mainly arid and sterile,
where the few streams flow in deep gorges far below the surface.
The longest and most northern branch of the Colorado is Green River,
which heads in the Wind River Mountains, against the sources of the
Bighorn and Snake Rivers. This stream, in its long course towards the
south, receives the waters of the Uinta from the west, and the Yampa
and White Rivers from the east. Near latitude 38° 15′ and longitude
110° it is joined by Grand River, a stream of nearly equal size, which
heads in Middle Park, Colorado, drawing its first supplies of water
from the snowfields of Long Peak. The stream below the junction of
these two forks is known as the Colorado.
Below their junction, the principal branches of the Colorado from the
east are the San Juan, the Colorado Chiquito, Williams Fork, and the
Gila; on the west, the “Dirty Devil,” Paria, and Virgin.
This region is limited on the east, north, and north-west by high
mountain ranges. Its surface is nearly flat, but by no means unbroken.
There is little rolling or undulating country. Changes of level take
place by very gentle, uniform slopes, or by abrupt, precipitous steps.
A large part of the surface consists of bare rocks, with no soil or
vegetation. A part is covered with a thin sandy soil, which supports
a growth of sage and cacti, or even a few pinon pines and cedars. The
only vegetation is that characteristic of an arid country.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE
COLORADO]
This aridity has modified orographic forms to an astonishing degree.
Where, under different climatic conditions, there would be produced
a region similar in most respects to the prairies of the Mississippi
valley, we find a country, flat indeed, or inclined at low angles, but
one whose water-courses are far beneath the general level, deep down in
cañons, hundreds, thousands of feet beneath the surface.
Great cliffs, thousands of feet in height, and extending like huge
walls for hundreds of miles, change the level of the country at a
single step.
Isolated buttes and mesas, of great height, are scattered over the
plateaus, indicating the former height of the plain of which they
formed parts.
“The landscape everywhere, away from the river, is of rock--cliffs of
rock, tables of rock, terraces of rock, crags of rock--ten thousand
strangely carved forms. Rocks everywhere, and no vegetation: no soil,
no land. When speaking of these rocks, we must not conceive of piles of
boulders, or heaps of fragments, but a whole land of naked rock, with
giant forms carved on it; cathedral-shaped buttes, towering hundreds
or thousands of feet; cliffs that cannot be scaled, and cañon walls
that shrink the river into insignificance, with vast hollow domes
and tall pinnacles, and shafts set on verge overhead, and all highly
coloured--buff, grey, red, brown, and chocolate; never lichened, never
moss-covered, but bare and often polished.”
The above description by Major J. W. Powell, who has explored the
cañons of the Colorado, gives a graphic pen-picture of the lower and
more arid plateaus of this region.
Nearly every watercourse, whether the stream be perennial or not, is a
cañon; a narrow valley, with precipitous walls. In many cases, these
cañons are so numerous that they cut the plateau into shreds--a mere
skeleton of a country. Of such a section Lieutenant Ives, who explored
the course of lower Colorado, writes: “The extent and magnitude of the
system of cañons in that direction is astounding. The plateau is cut
into shreds by these gigantic chasms, and resembles a vast ruin. Belts
of country, miles in width, have been swept away, leaving only isolated
mountains standing in the gap; fissures so profound that the eye cannot
penetrate their depths are separated by walls whose thickness one can
almost span; and slender spires, that seem tottering on their base,
shoot up a thousand feet from vaults below.”
But few of these cañons contain water throughout the year. Most of them
are dry at all times, excepting for a few days in the early spring,
or for a few minutes or hours at most after a heavy shower. It is
characteristic of Western North America, as of all arid countries,
that the streams, away from their sources in the mountains, lose
water, rather than gain it, in traversing the lower country. The dry
atmosphere and the thirsty soil absorb it, and, in many cases, large
streams entirely disappear in this way. This is the case to a great
extent in the plateau country, and still more so in the Great Basin,
where these are the only outlets to the drainage.
Those who have long and carefully studied the Grand Cañon of the
Colorado do not hesitate for a moment to pronounce it by far the most
sublime of all earthly spectacles. If its sublimity consisted only
in its dimensions, it could be sufficiently set forth in a single
sentence. It is more than 200 miles long, from five to twelve miles
wide, and from 5,000 to 6,000 feet deep. There are in the world valleys
which are longer and a few which are deeper. There are valleys flanked
by summits loftier than the palisades of the Kaibab. Still the Grand
Cañon is the sublimest thing on earth. It is not alone by virtue of its
magnitudes, but by virtue of the whole--its _ensemble_.
The space under immediate view from our stand-point, fifty miles long
and ten to twelve wide, is thronged with a great multitude of objects
so vast in size, so bold yet majestic in form, so infinite in their
details, that as the truth gradually reveals itself to the perceptions
it arouses the strongest emotions. Unquestionably the great, the
overruling feature is the wall on the opposite side of the gulf. Can
mortal fancy create a picture of a mural front a mile in height, seven
to ten miles distant, and receding into space in either direction? As
the mind strives to realize its proportions its spirit is broken and
its imagination completely crushed. If the wall were simple in its
character, if it were only blank and sheer, some rest might be found
in contemplating it; but it is full of diversity and eloquent with
grand suggestions. It is deeply recessed by alcoves and amphitheatres
receding far into the plateau beyond, and usually disclosing only
the portals by which they open into the main chasm. Between them the
promontories jut out ending in magnificent gables with sharp mitred
angles. Thus the wall rambles in and out, turning numberless corners.
Many of the angles are acute, and descend as sharp spurs like the
forward edge of a ploughshare. Only those alcoves which are directly
opposite to us can be seen in their full length and depth. Yet so
excessive, nay, so prodigious, is the effect of foreshortening, that it
is impossible to realize their full extensions.
Numerous detached masses are also seen flanking the ends of the long
promontories. These buttes are of gigantic proportions, and yet so
overwhelming is the effect of the wall against which they are projected
that they seem insignificant in mass, and the observer is often deluded
by them, failing to perceive that they are really detached from the
wall and perhaps separated from it by an interval of a mile or two.
At the foot of this palisade is a platform through which meanders the
inner gorge, in whose dark and sombre depths flows the river. Only
in one place can the water surface be seen. In its winding the abyss
which holds it extends for a short distance towards us and the line of
vision enters the gorge lengthwise. Above and below this short reach
the gorge swings its course in other directions and reveals only a
dark, narrow opening, while its nearer wall hides its depth. This inner
chasm is 1,000 to 2,000 feet deep. Its upper 200 feet is a vertical
ledge of sandstone of a dark rich brownish colour. Beneath it lies the
granite of a dark iron-grey shade, verging towards black, and lending
a gloomy aspect to the lowest deeps. Perhaps half a mile of the river
is disclosed. A pale, dirty red, without glimmer or sheen, a motionless
surface, a small featureless spot enclosed in the dark shade of the
granite, is all of it that is here visible. Yet we know it is a large
river, 150 yards wide, with a headlong torrent foaming and plunging
over rocky rapids.
The walls of the Grand Cañon and the level of the plateau descend by
a succession of great steps, produced by faults, until the level of
the river is reached at the mouth of the Grand Wash; and thus ends the
Grand Cañon.
Below the Grand Wash, a dry stream bed which enters the Colorado from
the north, the river turns south again and enters the Black Cañon of
Lieutenant Ives’ report--a cañon which would be a remarkable feature
were it not brought into such close juxtaposition with that described
above.
Below it the river runs in narrow valleys and low cañons to its mouth.
THE AVON
JOHN WILSON CROKER
There are Avons and Avons. Of course, Shakespeare’s Avon is the famous
stream which takes precedence of all others. It rises at Naseby, in the
yard of a small inn near the church. So for two things is that village
of Naseby renowned. A good many years ago a hospitable agriculturist,
resident near Naseby, asked me to come over and see the battle-field
and source of the Avon. I came and saw. The battle-field, truth to say,
impressed me in no degree more than the river-head; I saw a quantity of
ploughed land, undulating in true Northamptonshire fashion. Doubtless
grim old Oliver and hot Prince Rupert saw a good deal more; and that
heavy land is responsible for many oaths on the part of the prince,
and prayers from the ever-prayerful lips of the Roundhead general.
But Naseby field is very much like all the rest of Northamptonshire.
There is not a hill in the country, or a brook that a boy cannot leap,
or a church spire that a boy cannot throw a stone over, or enough
level ground for a game of cricket. Yet it is a capital hunting county
nevertheless.
[Illustration: THE AVON]
Descending the Avon from Naseby, we pass through much dreary
Northamptonshire scenery. At a village called Catthorpe, we are
reminded of a certain poetaster named Dyer. Poetry was in a poor state
when the author of _Grongar Hill_ could be considered a poet. He was
an amiable clergyman, who wrote mediocre verse; but Horace’s opinion
of such verse is peculiarly popular in the present day. The first
town of any consequence which the pedestrian reaches is Lutterworth;
and concerning Lutterworth there is little to be said, except that
Wicliffe was once its rector; and the ashes of the great reformer were
disinterred by certain ecclesiastical vultures, and thrown into the
brook which runs into the Avon at Lutterworth. So says Fuller, whom
Wordsworth has followed: “This brook hath conveyed his ashes into Avon,
Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow seas, they into the main
ocean. And thus the ashes of Wicliffe are the emblem of his doctrine,
which now is dispersed all the world over.”
The next town is Rugby; an immortal town, forever connected with the
greatest of school-masters.
The scenery about Avon begins to improve near Newnham Regis; a small
village, remarkable for having nothing of the church left except the
tower. The rector of Church Lawford is also vicar of King’s Newnham;
and as the two villages cannot count five hundred inhabitants, we
perhaps need not regret the destruction of the ancient church.
The city of Coventry lies not very far from the Avon. It is, I think,
the dirtiest place in England, Bristol and Birmingham not excepted. In
days gone by it had great fame, this _Coventria civitas_; and its earl,
Leofric, who used to stride about his hall among his dogs,
“His beard a foot before him, and his hair
A yard behind,”
was a worthy ancestor of Lord Palmerston; and we all remember who wrote,
“I waited for the train at Coventry;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires.”
What strikes me in this city of Coventry--when I look at those noble
spires, which Tennyson has immortalized (St. Michael’s is second to
Salisbury only), and at the splendid city-hall--is the wonderful change
between the past and the present. It is now one of the most sordid
and miserable towns in the empire. What generous and magnificent
inhabitants must it have had when the spires of St. Michael’s and
Trinity were raised heavenwards! I’ll be hanged if Godiva the beautiful
would have
“Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt”
for the present population of Coventry. I fear that among its makers of
watches and ribbons there are goodly number of “low churls, compact of
thankless earth.”
The beauty of Avon begins where it enters the park of Stoneleigh
Abbey, seat of Lord Leigh. The first baron, when Mr. Chandos Leigh,
published some elegant poetry. His title to the estate was at one time
questioned; and an inventive attorney produced a most marvellous case
against him, accusing him and Lady Leigh of pulling down one side of
Stoneleigh Church, to get rid of some genealogical testimony furnished
by the Monuments, and of causing a huge stone to be dropped on some men
who were engaged in building a bridge across the river Sow, it being
important to suppress their evidence; I forget how many murders this
lawyer (who very justly suffered imprisonment) charged against one of
the gentlest and most amiable of men. Of the old abbey nothing is left
but a gateway; and the great mansion of the Leighs, though doubtless
magnificent and luxurious within, has no external beauty. But the
park is redolent of _As you like it_. All this Warwickshire woodland
breathes of Shakespeare. Under these stately oaks, the noblest I have
ever seen, beside this sparkling river, how sweet it were to moralize
with melancholy Jaques, to while away the golden time with joyous
Rosalind! As the traveller lies beneath a patrician tree, amid the
magical noontide, well might he fancy the mellow voice of Amiens in the
distance, cheering the banished Duke with music. Of Stoneleigh village
I have only to say, that when last there I found it impossible to
obtain a glass of ale; Lord Leigh having an objection to that wholesome
liquid. An English village without ale is awful to think of.
Two miles through field and woodland, and we are at Kenilworth. Wise
were the monks when they settled down in that green valley. Very
quaint is the village that clusters round the old church; traditions
of monastic and baronial times linger there; the exteriors of several
of the antique houses made me wish to catch a glimpse of the interiors
and their inhabitants, which I was not lucky enough to do. They are
just the sort of houses where a good dinner and a bottle of rare
port is the order of the day. The end of the village near the church
is quite another affair; instead of seeming coeval with the castle
and the priory, it appears to have sprung up simultaneously with the
railway-station. Extremes meet at Kenilworth: in these modern villas
you would expect to find no inhabitant less active than a commercial
traveller; in the old houses at the other end you would hardly be
startled by an interview with Sir Walter Raleigh or rare Ben Jonson.
Of course I ought to describe Kenilworth Castle; but I cannot do
it, that’s a fact; besides which, the thing has been done a hundred
times. It is a glorious ruin; and as one lies on the turf on a summer
day in the shadow of its grey stonework, watching the flying clouds,
and the choughs in the ivy, and the little river shimmering through
the meadows, and the immoveable old towers decaying in their stately
strength, there descends upon the spirit a mystic and unutterable
feeling, worth more than all the poetry ever written, ay, or all the
claret ever pressed from Bordeaux grapes.
Avon winds back into Stoneleigh Park after leaving Kenilworth, and
passes the little village of Ashow, where I tasted the juiciest
mulberries I ever ate,--blood-ripe as those wherewith the laughing
Naiad Ægle stained the temples of Silenus. Cool and peaceful is that
pleasant village, where Avon murmurs softly amid reedy islets. Passing
onward, we see a cross upon a wooded hill: there poor Piers Gaveston
was beheaded, some five centuries and a half ago. There is a capitally
written inscription on the cross. Somewhat farther is Milverton Church,
with a quaint wooden tower: they say it is not worth while to build a
stone one, as the lightning strikes it so often. But Guy’s Cliff!
Perhaps I had better let those three words stand as sole suggestion of
what that exquisite residence is. The strange legend of Guy of Warwick,
vanquisher of Colbrand the Dane, and of the Dun Cow, hovers around
this delightful old place. But I don’t know whether Mr. Bertie Percy’s
poetic dwelling is not surpassed by the mill close thereto.
Few places I have seen dwell in my memory like this beautiful old mill,
surrounded by a wealth of water, a luxury of leafage. If there be
mills in fairy-land, they are built on this pattern. If the miller’s
daughter, “so dear, so dear” to the Laureate that he plagiarized from
Anacreon for her sake, had any actual existence, it must have been at a
mill like this of Guy’s Cliff.
I scarce dare approach Warwick after Nathaniel Hawthorne. The reaction
from a fast, loud, vulgar, sordid life, makes the most refined and
poetic natures of America dreamers of dreams. Such, with especial
emphasis, was Hawthorne. To him the ideal was more real than reality.
What visions he saw in Warwick, where the great castle “floats double”
in the lucid Avon; where a strange old-world tranquillity broods over
the famous Earl of Leicester’s antique hospital! After Windsor (and
I do not forget Alnwick), I think Warwick the noblest castellated
building in England. Built into the solid rock, it overhangs Avon with
a wild sublimity. As you look down from the windows of the great hall
upon the river far beneath, you think that thus may Guinevere and
Lancelot have looked, when the angry Queen cast into the water the nine
great diamonds, while the doomed barge bore to her burial the lily maid
of Astolat. Why over that old broken bridge, green with the ivy of a
thousand years, may not the blameless King have passed, and Merlin the
sage, and Tristram of Lyonnesse, leading Iseult of Ireland? Who knows?
Are these things fables? Are ye enchanters, Alfred Tennyson and Matthew
Arnold?
The Earl of Warwick’s courtesy throws the castle open to the public two
or three days a week. Rumour says that the late Earl’s housekeeper,
whose monument may be seen in Warwick Church, left her master sixty
thousand pounds, accumulated by visitors’ fees! At the very gateway
you are met by wonders,--an iron porridge-pot of the great Sir Guy,
holding a hogshead or two, I suppose. The old knight must have had
a rare appetite for breakfast. There is also his sword, a gigantic
weapon, which I defy Jacob Omnium to wield with both hands. As for
the contents of the castle, I will not say a word about them; though
of historical portraits, Vandykes and Rubenses, there is a fine
collection. I commend the traveller upon looking out upon Avon from
those wondrous rooms, to call back, if he can, the heroic and poetic
times when it was possible to build such a castle; when it seemed fit
habitation for those who dwelt in it,--for Neville the Kingmaker, to
wit, who fills a marvellous page, brilliant with gold and stained with
blood, in England’s history; and who well deserved to be found in
Shakespeare’s peerless portrait-gallery.
Warwick town is very quaint, and has two old-fashioned hostelries, the
Warwick Arms and the Woolpack, at either of which a hungry and thirsty
traveller will find ample refreshment of the right sort. From the
top of Warwick Church tower there is a magnificent view over a rich
country. The church’s chief glory is the Beauchamp Chapel, just 400
years old, a perfect poem in stone, an absolute triumph of the good
old artist-workmen, who find no rivals in the days when artists are
never workmen, and workmen never artists. Its dead inhabitant was last
of the Beauchamp Earls, and that crowned saint, Henry VI., conferred
the earldom upon the Kingmaker; thus commencing the third line of
its holders, for the first Earl was a Newburgh, or Neuburg, of the
Conqueror’s creation; then, two centuries later, it passed through a
female to the Beauchamps; two centuries more, and the last Beauchamp
was succeeded by a Nevil; on Nevil’s death, “false, fleeting, perjured
Clarence” had the earldom, whose son, last of the Plantagenets, ended
the fourth line, when he and Perkin Warbeck died on Tower Hill; next
came the Dudleys, creatures of Henry VIII., the elder of whom, Lady
Jane Grey’s father-in-law and worst enemy, is better known as Duke
of Northumberland; then Lord Rich, whose great grand-son married
Cromwell’s daughter, was created Earl of Warwick by James I.; and
finally George II. conferred the title on Greville, Earl Brooke,
ancestor of the present Earl. Thus six families at least have held this
famous earldom.
The traveller will of course turn aside to Leamington, town of fashion
and frivolity, about a mile and a half from the poetic stream.
Leamington owes its existence, as anything beyond a village, to one Dr.
Jephson, who hit on the brilliant notion that the mineral waters of
the place would cure all possible diseases. A great hotel sprang up,
the Regent, which for years was a kind of hospital for Dr. Jephson’s
patients. This medical genius is quite deified in the town. There are
pleasant gardens dedicated to him, to which none are admitted save
subscribers of a guinea, or something of the sort. It is a downright
apotheosis (or apodiabolosis) of physic. But other causes concurred
to bring Leamington into the first rank of pleasure towns: there is
capital hunting in the neighbourhood, and a first-rate pack of hounds.
It is almost the metropolis of archery, a pastime which young ladies
wisely patronize, since a pretty girl cannot look prettier than in her
toxophilite costume of Lincoln-green. Nothing can be more beautiful
than the walk by the margin of Avon through Lord Warwick’s park.
After passing through several pleasant villages, full of Warwickshire
quaintness, we reach Charlecote House, the seat of the Lucy family.
It has always appeared to me that Haydon more admirably than any
man expressed the feeling which is produced in poetic minds by the
places sacred to Shakespeare. Painting under the stress of a noble
ambition, with the sad certainty that the age could not perceive his
greatness, had injured his health; instead of joining “the vulgar
idlers at a watering-place” he sought change of scene at Stratford.
How the man enjoyed it, and how vigorously he depicts his enjoyment!
“To Charlecote,” says he, “I walked as fast as my legs could carry
me, and crossing the meadow, entered the immortalized park by a back
pathway. Trees, gigantic and umbrageous, at once announce the growth
of centuries: while I was strolling on, I caught a distant view of
the old red-bricked house, in the same style and condition as when
Shakespeare lived; and on going close to the river-side, came at once
on two enormous old willows, with a large branch across the stream,
such as Ophelia hung to. Every blade of grass, every daisy and cowslip,
every hedge-flower and tuft of tawny earth, every rustling, ancient
and enormous tree which curtains the sunny park with its cool shadows,
between which the sheep glitter on the emerald green in long lines of
light, every ripple of the river with its placid tinkle,
“Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
It overtaketh in its pilgrimage,”
announced the place where Shakespeare imbibed his early, deep, and
native taste for forest scenery. Oh, it was delightful, indeed!
Shakespeare seemed to hover and bless all I saw, thought of, or trod
on. Those great roots of the lime and the oak, bursting, as it were,
above the ground, bent up by the depth they had struck into it,
Shakespeare had seen--Shakespeare had sat on.
In the same spirit of delight, and with the same realizing power, did
the great painter--one of those
“Mighty poets in their misery dead,”
“of whom the world was not worthy”--enjoy Stratford itself. Thus does
he write of what he felt as sunset descended on the church where lies
all that was mortal of God’s greatest human creature. “I stood and
drank into enthusiasm all a human being could feel; all that the most
ardent and devoted lover of a great genius could have a sensation
of; all that the most tender scenery of river, trees, and sunset sky
together could excite. I was lost, quite lost; and in such a moment
should wish my soul to take its flight (if it please God) when my time
is finished.” God willed otherwise; that great soul took flight in a
moment, not of delight, but of agony.
There seem to be always American visitors at Stratford. The refined and
thoughtful Americans, like Washington Irving and Hawthorne, have by
the intensity of their reverie, thrown a halo of fresh beauty around
many places sacred to genius. But too many of these trans-atlantic
travellers merely visit a place like Stratford just to say they have
been there; and people of that kind are singularly unpleasant to meet.
There is a story that one Yankee offered an enormous sum of money for
Shakespeare’s house, to take it to the States for exhibition.
I must hurry on. Village after village, quaint and beautiful, lie along
the margin of Avon; the keen eye will notice whence Shakespeare drew
his choicest descriptions of nature; the longest summer-day will not be
too long to loiter around the vicinity of Stratford. One of the best
proofs that Avon River flows through rich and lovely country is the
multitude of monastic institutions which have left their names to the
villages, with here and there a noble tower or graceful gateway.
Founders of abbeys loved a pleasant river flowing through fertile
meadows; salmon and trout and eels for fast-days were as important as
beeves and deer for festivals. So there are more conventual remains
between Naseby and Tewkesbury than in almost any equal distance of
which I have knowledge; and the glory of those old ecclesiastic
foundations is peculiarly realized as the noble bell-tower of Evesham
Abbey rises above the town. The great monastery had lasted more than a
thousand years when the ruthless hand of Henry VIII. fell upon it. The
bell-tower and a most delightful old gateway are the only relics of it
left.
The pilgrim through the beautiful Vale of Evesham comes upon another
battle-field, where, 600 years ago, fell a famous leader of the Commons
against the Crown. Simon de Montfort fought for the right, so far as we
can judge at this remote period; but his antagonist was the greatest
general of the day, and afterwards became England’s greatest king. He
was but twenty-six when he won the immortal victory known as the Murder
of Evesham. If Montfort gave England its first parliament, Edward gave
us Wales and Scotland, and made the priests pay taxes in defiance of
the Pope. A poetic prince, as well as a gallant; for did he not, when
Eleanora the Castilian died in Lincolnshire, cause Peter l’Imagineur
to build a stately cross wherever her corpse rested on its way to
Westminster? Thanks to the poetry of a railway company, London sees the
last and stateliest of those crosses rebuilt in what was once the quiet
village of Charing.
There was another abbey at Pershore, which takes its name from its
abundant pear-trees. Bredon Hill, not far from this town, is worth
climbing, for its fine view towards the Malverns. At the village of
Strensham the author of _Hudibras_ was born. I must not be retarded
by reminiscences of that most humorous writer of wonderful doggerel;
but pass on to Tewkesbury, last of the towns on the Avon, which here
falls into the wide and shining Severn. Tewkesbury had also its abbey
and its famous battle; it has, moreover, its legend of that unfortunate
gentleman, Brictric of Bristol, who, somewhere about the noon of the
Eleventh Century, made love to Matilda, daughter of Count Baldwin of
Flanders, and then jilted her. ’Twas the unluckiest action of his life.
For Matilda married a certain fierce and resolute Duke of Normandy,
who used to thrash her occasionally; and this same duke became King of
England by the strong hand; and then Matilda coaxed him (nothing loth,
I guess) to seize all Brictric’s wide demesnes, and imprison their
owner. So the poor fellow died in Winchester Castle; and his manors in
half-a-dozen counties, as may be seen by Domesday book, passed into the
hands of the queen. So much for the _spretæ injuria formæ_.
DOWN THE ST. LAWRENCE
CHARLES DICKENS
Queenston, at which place the steamboats start from Toronto (or I
should rather say at which place they call, for their wharf is at
Lewiston, on the opposite shore), is situated in a delicious valley,
through which the Niagara River, in colour a very deep green, pursues
its course. It is approached by a road that takes its winding way among
the heights by which the town is sheltered; and seen from this point is
extremely beautiful and picturesque.
Our steamboat came up directly this had left the wharf, and soon bore
us to the mouth of the Niagara: where the Stars and Stripes of America
flutter on one side, and the Union Jack of England on the other: and so
narrow is the space between them that the sentinels in either fort can
often hear the watchword of the other country given. Thence we emerged
on Lake Ontario, an inland sea; and by half-past six o’clock were at
Toronto.
The country round this town being very flat, is bare of scenic
interest; but the town itself is full of life and motion, bustle,
business, and improvement. The streets are well paved, and lighted
with gas; the houses are large and good; the shops excellent. Many of
them have a display of goods in their windows, such as may be seen in
thriving county towns in England; and there are some which would do no
discredit to the metropolis itself.
[Illustration: THE ST. LAWRENCE]
The time of leaving Toronto for Kingston is noon. By eight o’clock
next morning, the traveller is at the end of his journey, which is
performed by steamboat upon Lake Ontario, calling at Port Hope and
Coburg, the latter a cheerful, thriving little town. Vast quantities of
flour form the chief item in the freight of these vessels. We had no
fewer than one thousand and eighty barrels on board, between Coburg and
Kingston.
We left Kingston for Montreal on the tenth of May, at half-past nine in
the morning, and proceeded in a steamboat down the St. Lawrence River.
The beauty of this noble stream at almost any point, but especially
in the commencement of this journey when it winds its way among the
Thousand Islands, can hardly be imagined. The number and constant
successions of these islands, all green and richly wooded; their
fluctuating sizes, some so large that for half an hour together one
among them will appear as the opposite bank of the river, and some so
small that they are mere dimples on its broad bosom; their infinite
variety of shapes; and the numberless combinations of beautiful forms
which the trees growing on them present: all form a picture fraught
with uncommon interest and pleasure.
In the afternoon we shot down some rapids where the river boiled and
bubbled strangely, and where the force and headlong violence of the
current were tremendous. At seven o’clock we reached Dickenson’s
Landing, whence travellers proceed for two or three hours by
stage-coach: the navigation of the river being rendered so dangerous
and difficult in the interval, by rapids, that steamboats do not make
the passage. The number and length of those _portages_, over which the
roads are bad, and the travelling slow, render the way between the
towns of Montreal and Kingston somewhat tedious.
Our course lay over a wide, uninclosed tract of country at a little
distance from the riverside, whence the bright warning lights on the
dangerous parts of the St. Lawrence shone vividly. The night was dark
and raw, and the way dreary enough. It was nearly ten o’clock when we
reached the wharf where the next steamboat lay; and went on board, and
to bed.
She lay there all night, and started as soon as it was day. The morning
was ushered in by a violent thunder-storm, and was very wet, but
gradually improved and brightened up. Going on deck after breakfast,
I was amazed to see floating down with the stream, a most gigantic
raft, with some thirty or forty wooden houses upon it, and at least as
many flag-masts, so that it looked like a nautical street. I saw many
of these rafts afterwards, but never one so large. All the timber, or
“lumber,” as it is called in America, which is brought down the St.
Lawrence, is floated down in this manner. When the raft reaches its
place of destination, it is broken up; the materials are sold, and the
boatmen return for more.
At eight we landed again, and travelled by a stage-coach for four hours
through a pleasant and well-cultivated country, perfectly French in
every respect: in the appearance of the cottages; the air, language,
and dress of the peasantry; the signboards on the shops and taverns;
and the Virgin’s shrines, and crosses, by the wayside. Nearly every
common labourer and boy, though he had no shoes to his feet, wore
round his waist a sash of some bright colour: generally red: and the
women, who were working in the fields and gardens, and doing all kinds
of husbandry, wore, one and all, great flat straw hats with most
capacious brims. There were Catholic Priests and Sisters of Charity
in the village streets; and images of the Saviour at the corners of
cross-roads, and in other public places.
At noon we went on board another steamboat, and reached the village of
Lachine, nine miles from Montreal, by three o’clock. There we left the
river, and went on by land.
Montreal is pleasantly situated on the margin of the St. Lawrence, and
is backed by some bold heights, about which there are charming rides
and drives. The streets are generally narrow and irregular, as in most
French towns of any age; but in the more modern parts of the city, they
are wide and airy. They display a great variety of very good shops;
and both in the town and suburbs there are many excellent private
dwellings. The granite quays are remarkable for their beauty, solidity
and extent.
There is a very large Catholic cathedral here, recently erected; with
two tall spires, of which one is yet unfinished. In the open space
in front of this edifice, stands a solitary, grim-looking, square
brick tower, which has a quaint and remarkable appearance, and which
the wiseacres of the place have consequently determined to pull down
immediately. The Government House is very superior to that at Kingston,
and the town is full of life and bustle. In one of the suburbs is a
plank road--not foot-path--five or six miles long, and a famous road it
is, too. All the rides in the vicinity were made doubly interesting by
the bursting out of spring, which is here so rapid, that it is but a
day’s leap from barren winter, to the blooming youth of summer.
The steamboats to Quebec perform the journey in the night; that is to
say, they leave Montreal at six in the evening, and arrive in Quebec at
six next morning. We made this excursion during our stay in Montreal
(which exceeded a fortnight), and were charmed by its interest and
beauty.
The impression made upon the visitor by this Gibraltar of America:
its giddy heights; its citadel suspended, as it were, in the air; its
picturesque steep streets and frowning gateways; and the splendid views
which burst upon the eye at every turn: is at once unique and lasting.
It is a place not to be forgotten or mixed up in the mind with other
places, or altered for a moment in the crowd of scenes a traveller can
recall. Apart from the realities of this most picturesque city, there
are associations clustering about it which would make a desert rich in
interest. The dangerous precipice along whose rocky front Wolfe and
his brave companions climbed to glory; the Plains of Abraham, where he
received his mortal wound; the fortress, so chivalrously defended by
Montcalm; and his soldier’s grave, dug for him while yet alive, by the
bursting of a shell; are not the least among them, or among the gallant
incidents of history. That is a noble Monument, too, and worthy of two
great nations, which perpetuates the memory of both brave generals, and
on which their names are jointly written.
The city is rich in public institutions and in Catholic churches and
charities, but it is mainly in the prospect from the site of the Old
Government House, and from the Citadel, that its surpassing beauty
lies. The exquisite expanse of country, rich in field and forest,
mountain-height and water, which lies stretched out before the view,
with miles of Canadian villages, glancing in long white streaks, like
veins along the landscape; the motley crowd of gables, roofs, and
chimney-tops in the old hilly town immediately at hand; the beautiful
St. Lawrence sparkling and flashing in the sunlight; and the tiny
ships below the rock from which you gaze, whose distant rigging looks
like spiders’ webs against the light, while casks and barrels on their
decks dwindle into toys, and busy mariners become so many puppets: all
this, framed by a sunken window in the fortress and looked at from
the shadowed room within, forms one of the brightest and the most
enchanting pictures that the eye can rest upon.
In the spring of the year, vast numbers of emigrants who have newly
arrived from England or from Ireland, pass between Quebec and Montreal
on their way to the backwoods and new settlements of Canada. If it be
an entertaining lounge (as I very often found it) to take a morning
stroll upon the quay at Montreal, and see them grouped in hundreds on
the public wharfs about their chests and boxes, it is matter of deep
interest to be their fellow-passenger on one of these steamboats, and,
mingling with the concourse, see and hear them unobserved.
THE TIGRIS
GEORGE RAWLINSON
The Tigris, like the Euphrates, rises from two principal sources. The
most distant, and therefore the true source is the western one, which
is in latitude 38° 10′ longitude, 39° 20′, nearly, a little to the
south of the high mountain lake called Göljik, in the peninsula formed
by the Euphrates where it sweeps round between Palon and Telek. The
Tigris’s source is near the south-western angle of the lake, and cannot
be more than two or three miles from the channel of the Euphrates. The
course of the Tigris is at first somewhat north of east, but after
pursuing this direction for about twenty-five miles it makes a sweep
round to the south, and descends by Arghani Maden upon Diarbekr. Here
is a river of considerable size, and it is crossed by a bridge of ten
arches a little below that city. It then turns suddenly to the east,
and flows in this direction past Osman Kieui to Til where it once
more alters its course and takes that south-easterly direction, which
it pursues with certain slight variations, to its final junctions
with the Euphrates. At Osman Kieui it receives the second or Eastern
Tigris, which descends from Niphates, with a due course south, and,
collecting on its way the waters of a large number of streams, unites
with the Tigris half-way between Diarbekr and Til, in longitude 41°
nearly. Near Til a large stream flows into it from the north-east,
bringing almost as much water as the main channel ordinarily holds.
The length of the whole stream, exclusive of meanders, is reckoned at
1,146 miles. From Diarbekr to Samara the navigation is much impeded by
rapids, rocks and shallows, as well as by artificial bunds or dams,
which in ancient times were thrown across the stream, probably for
purposes of irrigation. The average width of the Tigris in this part
of its course is 200 yards, while its depth is very considerable. From
the west the Tigris obtains no tributary of the slightest importance,
for the Tharthar, which is said to have once reached it, now ends in a
salt lake, a little below Tekrit. Its volume, however, is continually
increasing as it descends, in consequence of the great bulk of water
brought in from the east, particularly by the Great Zab and the Diyaleh.
The Tigris, like the Euphrates, has a flood season. Early in the month
of March, in consequence of the melting of the snow on the southern
flank of Niphates, the river rises rapidly. Its breadth gradually
increases at Diarbekr from 100 or 120 to 250 yards. The stream is swift
and turbid. The rise continues through March and April, reaching its
full height generally in the first or second week of May. At this time
the country about Baghdad is often extensively flooded, not, however,
so much from the Tigris as from the overflow of the Euphrates, which is
here poured into the eastern stream through a canal. About the middle
of May the Tigris begins to fall, and by midsummer it has reached its
normal level.
We find but little mention of the Tigris in Scripture. It appears
indeed under the name of Hiddekel, among the rivers of Eden, and
is there correctly described as “running eastward to Assyria.” But
after this we hear no more of it, if we except one doubtful allusion
in Nahum, until the Captivity, when it becomes well known to the
prophet Daniel, who had to cross it in his journeys to and from Susa.
With Daniel it is “the Great River”--an expression commonly applied
to the Euphrates; and by its side he sees some of his most important
visions. No other mention seems to occur except in the apocryphal
books; and there it is unconnected with any real history. The Tigris,
in its upper course, anciently ran through Armenia and Assyria. Lower
down, from above the point where it enters on the alluvial plain, it
separated Babylonia from Susiana. In the wars between the Romans and
the Parthians we find it constituting, for a short time (from A. D. 114
to A. D. 117), the boundary line between these two empires. Otherwise
it has scarcely been of any political importance. The great chain
of Zagros is the main natural boundary between Western and Central
Asia; and beyond this, the next defensible line is the Euphrates.
Historically it is found that either the central power pushes itself
westward to that river; or the power ruling the west advances eastward
to the mountain barrier.
The water of the Tigris, in its lower course, is yellowish, and is
regarded as unwholesome. The stream abounds with fish of many kinds,
which are often of a large size. Abundant water-fowl float on the
waters. The banks are fringed with palm trees and pomegranates, or
clothed with jungle and reeds, the haunt of the wild-boar and the lion.
THE OISE
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The river was swollen with the long rains. From Vadencourt all the way
to Origny, it ran with ever quickening speed, taking fresh heart at
each mile, and racing as though it already smelt the sea. The water was
yellow and turbulent, swung with an angry eddy among half-submerged
willows, and made an angry clatter along stony shores. The course
kept turning and turning in a narrow and well-timbered valley. Now,
the river would approach the side, and run grinding along the chalky
base of the hill, and show us a few open colza fields among the trees.
Now, it would skirt the garden-walls of houses, where we might catch
a glimpse through a doorway and see a priest pacing in the chequered
sunlight. Again the foliage closed so thickly in front, that there
seemed to be no issue; only a thicket of willows, overtopped by elms
and poplars, under which the river ran flush and fleet, and where a
kingfisher flew past like a piece of the blue sky. On these different
manifestations, the sun poured its clear and catholic looks. The
shadows lay as solid on the swift surface of the stream as on the
stable meadows. The light sparkled golden in the dancing poplar leaves,
and brought the hills into communion with our eyes. And all the while
the river never stopped running or took breath; and the reeds along the
whole valley stood shivering from top to toe.
There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it not) founded on
the shivering of the reeds. There are not many things in nature more
striking to man’s eye. It is such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and
to see such a number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in every
nook along the shore, is enough to infect a silly human with alarm.
Perhaps they are only a-cold, and no wonder, standing waist deep in
the stream. Or perhaps they have never got accustomed to the speed and
fury of the river’s flux, or the miracle of its continuous body. Pan
once played upon their forefathers; and so, by the hands of the river,
he still plays upon these later generations down all the valley of the
Oise; and plays the same air, both sweet and shrill, to tell us of the
beauty and the terror of the world.
The canoe was like a leaf in the current. It took it up and shook it
and carried it masterfully away, like a Centaur carrying off a nymph.
To keep some command on our direction, required hard and diligent
plying of the paddle. The river was in such a hurry for the sea! Every
drop of water ran in a panic, like as many people in a frightened crowd.
There was never any mistake about the Oise, as a matter of fact. In
these upper reaches, it was still in a prodigious hurry for the sea.
It ran so fast and merrily, through all the windings of its channel
that I strained my thumb, fighting with the rapids, and had to paddle
all the rest of the way with one hand turned up. Sometimes it had to
serve mills; and being still a little river, ran very dry and shallow
in the meanwhile. We had to put our legs out of the boat, and shove
ourselves off the sand of the bottom with our feet. And still it went
on its way singing among the poplars and making a green valley in
the world. After a good woman and a good book, and tobacco, there is
nothing so agreeable on earth as a river. I forgave it its attempt on
my life; which was after all one part owing to the unruly winds of
heaven that had blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanagement,
and only a third part to the river itself, and that not out of malice,
but from its great preoccupation over its business of getting to the
sea. A difficult business, too; for the _détours_ it had to make are
not to be counted. The geographers seem to have given up the attempt;
for I found no map representing the infinite contortion of its course.
A fact will say more than any of them. After we had been some hours,
three if I mistake not, flitting by the trees at this smooth, breakneck
gallop, when we came upon a hamlet and asked where we were, we had got
no farther than four kilometres (say two miles and a half) from Origny.
If it were not for the honour of the thing (in the Scotch saying), we
might almost as well have been standing still.
Moy (pronounce Moÿ) was a pleasant little village gathered round a
_château_ with a moat. The air was perfumed with hemp from neighbouring
fields. At the Golden Sheep we found excellent entertainment. German
shells from the siege of La Fère, Nürnberg figures, gold fish in a
bowl, and all manner of knick-knacks embellished the public room.
The landlady was a stout, plain, short-sighted, motherly body, with
something not far short of a genius for cookery.... We made a very
short day of it to La Fère; but the dusk was falling and a small rain
had begun before we stowed the boats....
Below La Fère the river runs through a piece of open pastoral country;
green, opulent, loved by breeders; called the Golden Valley. In wide
sweeps, and with a swift and equable gallop, the ceaseless stream of
water visits and makes green the fields. Kine and horses, and little
humorous donkeys browse together in the meadows, and come down in
troops to the riverside to drink. They make a strange feature in the
landscape; above all when startled, and you can see them galloping to
and fro, with their incongruous forms and faces. It gives a feeling
as of great unfenced pampas and the herds of wandering nations. There
were hills in the distance upon either hand; and on one side the river
sometimes bordered on the wooded spurs of Coucy and St. Gobain....
All the time, the river stole away like a thief in straight places,
or swung round corners with an eddy, the willows nodded and were
undermined all day long; the clay banks tumbled in; the Oise, which had
been so many centuries making the Golden Valley, seemed to have changed
its fancy, and be bent upon undoing its performance. What a number of
things a river does, by simply following Gravity in the innocence of
its heart!
Noyon stands about a mile from the river, in a little plain surrounded
by wooded hills, and entirely covers an eminence with its tile roofs
surmounted by a long, straight-backed cathedral with two stiff towers.
As we got into the town, the tile roofs seemed to tumble up hill one
upon another, in the oddest disorder; but for all their scrambling,
they did not attain above the knees of the cathedral, which stood
upright and solemn, over all. As the streets drew near to this
presiding genius, through the market-place under the Hotel de Ville,
they grew emptier and more composed. Blank walls and shuttered windows
were turned to the great edifice and grass grew on the white causeway.
“Put off thy shoes from off thy feet for the place whereon thou
standest is holy ground.” The Hôtel du Nord, nevertheless, lights its
secular tapers within a stone cast of the church, and we had the superb
east end before our eyes all morning from the window of our bedroom....
The most patient people grow weary at last with being continually
wetted with rain; except of course in the Scotch Highlands, where there
are not enough fine intervals to point the difference. That was like to
be our case the day we left Noyon. I remember nothing of the voyage; it
was nothing but clay banks and willows and rain; incessant, pitiless,
beating rain; until we stopped to lunch at a little inn in Pimprez,
where the canal ran very near the river.... That was our last wetting.
The afternoon faired up: grand clouds still voyaged in the sky, but
now singly and with a depth of blue around their path; and a sunset,
in the daintiest rose and gold, inaugurated a thick night of stars and
a month of unbroken weather. At the same time, the river began to give
us a better outlook into the country. The banks were not so high, the
willows disappeared from along the margin, and pleasant hills stood all
along its course and marked their profile on the sky.
In a little while, the canal, coming to its last lock, began to
discharge its water-houses on the Oise; so that we had no lack of
company to fear. Here were all our old friends; the Deo Gratias of
Condé and the Four Sons of Aymon journeyed cheerily down stream along
with us; we exchanged waterside pleasantries with the steersman perched
among the lumber, or the driver hoarse with bawling to his horses; and
the children came and looked over the side as we paddled by. We had
never known all this while how much we missed them; but it gave us a
fillip to see the smoke from their chimneys.
A little below this junction we made another meeting of yet more
account. For there we were joined by the Aisne, already a far travelled
river and fresh out of Campagne. Here ended the adolescence of the
Oise; this was his marriage day; thenceforward he had a stately,
brimming march, conscious of his own dignity and sundry dams. He became
a tranquil feature in the scene. The trees and towns saw themselves in
him, as in a mirror. He carried the canoes lightly on his broad breast;
there was no need to work hard against an eddy: but idleness became the
order of the day, and mere straightforward dipping of the paddle, now
on this side, now on that, without intelligence or effort. Truly we
were coming into halcyon weather upon all accounts, and were floated
towards the sea like gentlemen.
We made Compiègne as the sun was going down: a fine profile of a town
above the river. Over the bridge, a regiment was parading to the drum.
People loitered on the quay, some fishing, some looking idly at the
stream. And as the two boats shot in along the water, we could see them
pointing them out and speaking one to another. We landed at a floating
lavatory, where the washerwomen were still beating the clothes.
We put up at a big, bustling hotel in Compiègne, where nobody observed
our presence.... It is not possible to rise before a village; but
Compiègne was so grown a town that it took its ease in the morning; and
we were up and away while it was still in dressing-gown and slippers.
The streets were left to people washing door-steps; nobody was in full
dress but the cavaliers upon the town-hall; they were all washed with
dew, spruce in their gilding and full of intelligence and a sense of
professional responsibility. Kling, went they on the bells for the
half-past six, as we went by. I took it kind of them to make me this
parting compliment; they never were in better form, not even at noon
upon a Sunday.
There was no one to see us off but the early washerwomen--early and
late--who were already beating the linen in their floating lavatory on
the river. They were very merry and matutinal in their ways; plunged
their arms boldly in and seemed not to feel the shock. It would be
dispiriting to me, this early beginning and first cold dabble, of a
most dispiriting day’s work. But I believe they would have been as
unwilling to change days with us, as we could be to change with them.
They crowded to the door to watch us paddle away into the thin sunny
mists upon the river; and shouted heartily after us till we were
through the bridge.
There is a sense in which those mists never rose from off our journey;
and from that time forth they lie very densely in my note-book. As
long as the Oise was a small rural river, it took us near by people’s
doors and we could hold a conversation with natives in the riparian
fields. But now that it had gone so wide, the life along shore passed
us by at a distance. It was the same difference as between a great
public highway and a country by-path that wanders in and out of
cottage gardens. We now lay in towns, where nobody troubled us with
questions; we had floated into civilized life, where people pass
without salutation. In sparsely inhabited places, we make all we can of
each encounter; but when it comes to a city, we keep to ourselves, and
never speak unless we have trodden on a man’s toes. In these waters,
we were no longer strange birds, and nobody supposed we had travelled
further than from the last town. I remember when we came into L’ Isle
Adam, for instance, how we met dozens of pleasure-boats, outing it for
the afternoon, and there was nothing to distinguish the true voyager
from the amateur, except, perhaps, the filthy condition of my sail.
The company in one boat actually thought they recognized me for a
neighbour. Was there ever anything more wounding! All the romance had
come down to that. Now, on the upper Oise, where nothing sailed as a
general thing but fish, a pair of canoeists could not be thus vulgarly
explained away; we were strange and picturesque intruders; and out of
people’s wonder sprang a sort of light and passing intimacy all along
our route....
In our earlier adventures there was generally something to do, and
that quickened us. Even the showers of rain had a revivifying effect,
and shook up the brain from torpor. But now, when the river no longer
ran in a proper sense, only glided seaward with an even, outright, but
imperceptible speed, and when the sky smiled upon us day after day
without variety, we began to slip into that golden doze of the wind
which follows upon much exercise in the open air. I have stupefied
myself in this way more than once; indeed, I dearly love the feeling;
but I never had it to the same degree as when paddling down the Oise.
It was the apotheosis of stupidity....
We made our first stage below Compiègne to Pont Sainte Maxence. I was
abroad a little after six the next morning. The air was biting and
smelt of frost. In an open place a score of women wrangled together
over the day’s market; and the noise of their negotiation sounded thin
and querulous like that of sparrows on a winter’s morning. The rare
passengers blew into their hands and shuffled in their wooden shoes to
set the blood agog. The streets were full of icy shadow, although the
chimneys were smoking overhead in golden sunshine. If you wake early
enough at this season of the year, you may get up in December to break
your fast in June.
At Creil, where we stopped to lunch, we left the canoes in another
floating lavatory, which, as it was high noon, was packed with
washerwomen, red-handed and loud-voiced; and they and their broad jokes
are about all I remember of the place.... The church at Creil was a
nondescript place in the inside, splashed with gaudy lights from the
windows and picked out with medallions of the Dolorous Way. But there
was one oddity, in the way of an _ex voto_, which pleased me hugely: a
faithful model of a canal boat, swung from the vault, with a written
aspiration that God should conduct the _Saint Nicholas_ of Creil to a
good haven.
We made Précy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts of poplar.
In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay under the hillside. A faint
mist began to rise and confound the different distances together. There
was not a sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows by
the river and the creaking of a cart down the long road that descends
the hill. The villas in their gardens, the shops along the street, all
seemed to have been deserted the day before; and I felt inclined to
walk discreetly as one feels in a silent forest.
Of the next two days’ sail little remains in my mind, and nothing
whatever in my note-book. The river streamed on steadily through
pleasant riverside landscapes. Washerwomen in blue dresses, fishers in
blue blouses, diversified the green banks; and the relation of the
two colours was like that of the flower and leaf in the forget-me-not.
A symphony in forget-me-not; I think Théophile Gautier might thus
have characterized that two days’ panorama. The sky was blue and
cloudless; and the sliding surface of the river held up, in smooth
places, a mirror to the heaven and the shores. The washerwomen hailed
us laughingly and the noise of trees and water made an accompaniment to
our dozing thoughts, as we fleeted down the stream.
The great volume, the indefatigable purpose of the river held the mind
in chain. It seemed now so sure of its end, so strong and easy in its
gait, like a grown man full of determination. The surf was roaring for
it on the sands of Havre.
THE HUDSON
ESTHER SINGLETON
The Hudson is considered the most beautiful river of the United States.
Its scenery is so enchanting that it has been called the “Rhine of
America.” Its hills and banks are dotted with palatial residences.
To the historian they are eloquent of the brave generals and their
armies who fought for Liberty and they charm the dreamer by the legends
that cluster around them. It is no trouble for him to see the Phantom
Ship scudding across the Tappan Zee, or to people Sleepy Hollow with
vanished forms.
George William Curtis pronounced the Rhine of America even grander than
the Rhine. He says: “The Danube has in part glimpses of such grandeur.
The Elbe has sometimes such delicately pencilled effects. But no
European river is so lordly in its bearing, none flows in such state to
the sea.”
The Hudson’s course of three hundred miles told briefly is as follows:
It rises in the Adirondacks about 4,000 feet above the sea, where
innumerable little streams fed by mountain lakes unite to form the
headwaters of the noble river that begins a tortuous course and
receives the outlet of Schroon Lake and the Sacondaga River. Turning
to the east, it finally reaches Glen’s Falls, where it drops fifty
feet. From thence to Troy, it is much broken by rapids, and it is
not until it reaches Albany, six miles below Troy, that the Hudson
becomes wide and flows through elevated and picturesque banks. Then,
in its journey, it passes by the Catskills, or as the Indians called
them--the Ontioras (Mountains of the Sky) which are but seven miles
from its banks. A short distance below Newburg, sixty-one miles from
New York, it begins its passage through the noble hills called The
Highlands, an area of about sixteen by twenty-five miles. In the midst
of this beautiful scenery on a bold promontory stands the United States
Military Academy at West Point. The river then widens into Haverstraw
Bay, immediately below which is Tappan Zee, extending from Teller’s
Point to Piermont, twelve miles long and from three to four miles wide.
Just below Piermont, a range of trap rock--the Palisades--extends to
Fort Lee, a distance of about fifteen miles. From Fort Lee to its mouth
the Hudson is from one mile to two miles long. The Hudson has been
called Shatemuck, the Mohegan, the Manhattan, the Mauritius (in honour
of Prince Maurice of Nassau) the Noordt Montaigne, the North River
(to distinguish it from the Delaware or South River) the River of the
Mountains, and, finally, the Hudson in honour of its discoverer.
Although Verrazano practically discovered this river in 1524, its first
navigator was Henry Hudson who in the service of the Dutch West India
Company on his voyage in the _Half Moon_ passed through the Narrows in
1609, entered New York Bay and sailed up the Mohegan River as far as
Albany.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY DETROIT PUBLISHING COMPANY THE
HUDSON]
The Hudson was divided by the old navigators into fourteen reaches, one
of which, Claverack (Clover Reach), has survived. First came the Great
Chip-Rock Reach (the Palisades); then the Tappan Reach where dwelt the
Manhattans, the Saulrickans and the Tappans; the next reach ended
at Haverstroo; following came Seylmaker’s Reach, Crescent Reach, Hoges
Reach and Vorsen Reach which extended to Klinkersberg (Storm King).
Fisher’s Reach, Claverack, Backerack, Playsier and Vaste Reach as far
as Hinnenhock; then Hunter’s Reach to Kinderhook; and Fisher’s Hook
near Shad Island, where dwelt the Mohegans.
No river in America presents so animated a scene as the Hudson from the
Battery to the beginning of the Palisades. Ocean steamers, ferry-boats,
excursion boats, private yachts, and craft of all sizes and kinds
sail or steam down the narrow channel or cross between the shores of
Manhattan and New Jersey. The river is always gay and beautiful in
sunshine and fog, winter and summer.
On ascending the river, the first point of interest is Weehawken, on
the west, where, on a narrow ledge of rock, Aaron Burr killed Alexander
Hamilton in a duel, July 11, 1804. Next, and on the eastern shore,
is Spuyten Duyvel Creek, associated with the earliest history of the
river. This is a narrow stream formed by the in-flowing tide-water of
the Hudson and joining at Kingsbridge with the so-called Harlem River,
which is a similar in-flowing of the tide-water of Long Island Sound.
Here a bridge was built in 1693; and here, on the 2d of October, Henry
Hudson had a severe fight with the Indians who attacked the _Half
Moon_. The origin of the name is unknown; but Irving’s legend clings to
the spot as a limpet to a rock. He tells the story that the trumpeter,
Antony van Corlear, was dispatched one evening on a message up the
Hudson. When he arrived at this creek, the wind was high, the elements
were in an uproar, and no boatman was at hand. He declared he would
swim across _en spijt en Duyvel_ (in spite of the Devil), but was
drowned on the way.
Yonkers is the next point of interest on this side of the river,
supposed to have derived its name from _yonk-herr_, the young heir.
After passing Hastings and Dobbs Ferry (named after an old ferryman),
the river widens into a beautiful bay. Across the river, opposite
Spuyten Duyvel, is Fort Lee, from which Washington watched the battle
that resulted in the loss of Fort Washington. From this point the
Palisades begin. This range of rocks is from two hundred and fifty to
six hundred feet high and extends about fifteen miles from Fort Lee to
the hills of Rockland County.
Opposite Dobbs Ferry, the northern boundary line of New Jersey strikes
the Hudson; and from this point north the river runs solely through
the state of New York. At this point is Piermont; and near it Tappan,
where André was hanged. Directly opposite Piermont is Irvington,
twenty-four miles from New York, where close to the water’s edge
stands _Sunnyside_, the charming home of Washington Irving, “made up
of gable-ends and full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat,” to
quote the description of the author, who bought and beautified an old
Dutch dwelling called _Wolfert’s Roost_.
Three miles north is Tarrytown, a name derived from the Dutch
Tarwen-Dorp, or wheat town, and not, as Diedrich Knickerbocker said,
because husbands would tarry at the village tavern. A mile north of
Tarrytown is the romantic Sleepy Hollow, where still stands the old
Dutch Church. Six miles above Tarrytown and Sing Sing, now called by
its original name, _Ossin_ (a stone) and _ing_ (a place) is reached.
The name is derived from the rocky and stony character of the bank.
Here the State Prison is situated.
Rockland and the old “tedious spot”--Verdietege Hook--of the old Dutch
sailors are opposite, and a little above the latter, Diedrich Hook, or
Point No Point. Croton River meets the Hudson about a mile above Sing
Sing and forms Croton Bay. Croton Point, on which the Van Cortlandt
Manor House stands, juts out here and separates Tappan Zee from
Haverstraw Bay, and at the end of which, once called Teller’s Point, a
great Indian battle is said to have taken place. The spot is haunted
by the ghosts of warriors and sachems. Three miles more, and we reach
Stony Point on the west; and, passing Verplanck’s Point on the east,
come to Peekskill, where Nathan Palmer, the spy, was hanged. This was
also the headquarters of General Israel Putnam.
Turning Kidd’s Point, or Caldwell’s landing, with Peekskill opposite,
we pass through the “Southern Gate of the Highlands.” It is at this
spot that Captain Kidd’s ship is supposed to have been scuttled. Here
the Dunderberg, or Thunder Mountain rises abruptly from the river; and,
as the latter turns to the west (now called for a brief time The Horse
Race), another bold mass of rock, Anthony’s Nose (1,228 feet), looms
into view.
On the other side of the river is Fort Montgomery Creek, once called
Poplopen’s Kill, and here stood Fort Montgomery and Fort Clinton on
either side of the mouth. From Fort Montgomery to Anthony’s Nose a
chain of iron and wood was stretched across the river during the
Revolutionary War to prevent the passage of British boats.
Opposite Anthony’s Nose is the Island of Iona; and now we see the Sugar
Loaf, not one hill, as first appears, but a series of hills. At the
foot of Sugar Loaf stood Beverly House, where Arnold lived at the time
of his treason.
Half a mile below West Point, on the west side of the river, a small
stream, rushing down the rocky precipice, forms a snowy cascade, known
as Buttermilk Falls.
West Point, with its academy buildings and parade ground on a plateau
two hundred feet above the river--the “Gibraltar of the Hudson”--near
which may be seen the ruins of old Fort Putnam on Mount Independence,
five hundred feet above the river, takes us into historic ground and
beautiful scenery. We pass a succession of lofty hills on the same side
of the river, the chief of which is Old Cro’ Nest (1,418 feet). Its
name was given to it from a circular lake on the summit suggesting a
nest in the mountains; and it is thus described by Rodman Drake, in the
_Culprit Fay_:
“’Tis the middle watch of a summer night.
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright,
The moon looks down on Old Cro’ Nest--
She mellows the shade on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge grey form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below.”
To the north of Cro’ Nest comes Storm King, the highest peak of the
Highlands (1,800 feet). First it was called Klinkersberg and then
Boterberg (Butter Hill) and renamed Storm King by N. P. Willis. Storm
King with Breakneck (1,187 feet), on the opposite side form the
“Northern Gate of the Highlands.” The river here is deep and narrow as
it cuts its way through what is practically a gorge in the Alleghany
Mountains.
The Highlands now trend off to the north-east and the New Beacon or
Grand Sachem Mountain (1,685 feet) and the Old Beacon (1,471 feet).
The names are explained by the fact that signal fires were kindled on
their summits during the Revolution. The Indians called them Matteawan
and sometimes referred to the whole range of Highlands as Wequehachke
(Hill Country). They also believed that the great Manito confined here
rebellious spirits whose groans could often be heard.
On the west shore are situated the towns of Cornwall and Newburg, where
Washington had his headquarters in the old Hasbrouck House.
Opposite Newburg is Fishkill Landing and above Newburg on the west
side is the Devil’s Danskammer, or Devil’s Dancing Chamber, where the
Indians celebrated their religious rites. Several villages and towns
are passed on both sides of the river.
One spot of romantic interest on the west shore is Blue Point, where
on moonlight nights a phantom ship is often seen at anchor beneath
the bluff. It is supposed to be the _Half Moon_, which one day passed
the Battery and sailed up the river without paying the slightest heed
to signals. The “Storm Ship,” as she is called, is often seen in bad
weather in the Tappan Zee and in Haverstraw Bay; but more frequently
she appears at rest beneath the shadow of Blue Point.
Across the river is Poughkeepsie, so called from the Indian word
Apokeepsing, meaning safe harbour. At this point is the only bridge
that crosses the river between New York and Albany.
Six miles above Poughkeepsie, the river makes a sudden turn. The Dutch
called this point Krom Elleboge (Crooked Elbow), now Crum Elbow. Ten
miles further is Rhinebeck Landing, the approach to the old Dutch
village of Rhinebeck, founded by William Beckman in 1647. On the
opposite side of the river are Rondout and Kingston on Esopus Creek,
which flows north and joins the Hudson at Saugerties.
North of Rhinebeck comes Lower Red Hook Landing or Barrytown, North Bay
where the _Clermont_ was built by Robert Fulton, and then Tivoli.
The next point of interest on the west side is Catskill Landing, just
above the mouth of the Kaaterskill Creek. On the east bank is the city
of Hudson; on the west bank Athens. Nearly opposite Four Mile Point
Lighthouse is Kinderhook River or Creek on whose banks Martin Van Buren
lived. Opposite Kinderhook is Coxsackie and above this New Baltimore
and Coeymans. On the eastern bank are Schodack Landing, Castleton and
Greenbush or East Albany. A bridge leads across to Albany on the west
bank of the river. Six miles above Albany is the city of Troy, on
the east bank. Above Cohoes on the west bank the Hudson receives the
Mohawk, its largest tributary (150 miles long). Above Troy navigation
is interrupted by many rapids and falls.
During the winter the river constantly freezes and it is not uncommon
in the upper reaches to see skaters and sleighs crossing the ice. The
breaking up of the ice is a marvellous spectacle.
In her _Memoirs of an American Lady_, Mrs. Grant of Laggan has vividly
described this “sublime spectacle.” She notes that the whole population
of Albany was down at the riverside in a moment when the first sound
was heard like a “loud and long peal of thunder.” She writes:
“The ice, which had been all winter very thick, instead of
diminishing, as might be expected in spring, still increased, as the
sunshine came, and the days lengthened. Much snow fell in February,
which, melted by the heat of the sun, was stagnant for a day on the
surface of the ice, and then by the night frosts, which were still
severe, was added, as a new accession to the thickness of it, above
the former surface. This was so often repeated, that, in some years,
the ice gained two feet in thickness, after the heat of the sun became
such as one would have expected should have entirely dissolved it.
So conscious were the natives of the safety this accumulation of ice
afforded, that the sledges continued to drive on the ice when the trees
were budding, and everything looked like spring; nay, when there was
so much melted on the surface that the horses were knee-deep in water
while travelling on it, and portentous cracks on every side announced
the approaching rupture. This could scarce have been produced by the
mere influence of the sun till midsummer. It was the swelling of the
waters under the ice, increased by rivulets, enlarged by melted snows,
that produced this catastrophe; for such the awful concussion made it
appear. The prelude to the general bursting of this mighty mass, was
a fracture, lengthways, in the middle of the stream, produced by the
effort of the imprisoned waters, now increased too much to be contained
within their wonted bounds. Conceive a solid mass, from six to eight
feet thick, bursting for many miles in one continued rupture, produced
by a force inconceivably great, and, in a manner, inexpressibly sudden.
Thunder is no adequate image of this awful explosion, which roused all
the sleepers, within reach of the sound, as completely as the final
convulsion of nature, and the solemn peal of the awakening trumpet
might be supposed to do. The stream in summer was confined by a
pebbly strand, overhung with high and steep banks, crowned with lofty
trees, which were considered as a sacred barrier against encroachments
of this annual visitation. Never dryads dwelt in more security than
those of the vine-clad elms, that extended their ample branches over
this mighty stream. Their tangled roots, laid bare by the impetuous
torrents, formed caverns ever fresh and fragrant; where the most
delicate plants flourished, unvisited by scorching suns, or snipping
blasts; and nothing could be more singular than the variety of plants
and birds that were sheltered in these intricate and safe recesses.
But when the bursting of the crystal surface set loose the many waters
that had rushed down, swollen with the annual tribute of dissolving
snow, the islands and lowlands were all flooded in an instant; and the
lofty banks, from which you were wont to overlook the stream, were now
entirely filled by an impetuous torrent, bearing down, with incredible
and tumultuous rage, immense shoals of ice; which, breaking every
instant by the concussion of others, jammed together in some places, in
others erecting themselves in gigantic heights for an instant in the
air, and seeming to combat with their fellow-giants crowding on in all
directions, and falling together with an inconceivable crash, formed a
terrible moving-picture, animated and various beyond conception; for
it was not only the cerulean ice, whose broken edges, combating with
the stream, refracted light into a thousand rainbows, that charmed
your attention; lofty pines, large pieces of the bank torn off by the
ice with all their early green and tender foliage, were driven on like
travelling islands, amid this battle of breakers, for such it seemed.
I am absurdly attempting to paint a scene, under which the powers of
language sink.”
Since the days of the old Dutch settlers the Hudson has witnessed
all the triumphs of modern ship-building and navigation. It was on
the Hudson that Robert Fulton made his first experiments in steam
navigation and into the Hudson have come the new turbine steamships
that have crossed the Atlantic in five days; and beneath its waters
tunnels have lately been opened.
Many changes have taken place on its banks since Washington Irving
wrote: “I thank God that I was born on the banks of the Hudson. I fancy
I can trace much of what is good and pleasant in my own heterogeneous
compound to my early companionship with this glorious river. In
the warmth of youthful enthusiasm, I used to clothe it with moral
attributes, and, as it were, give it a soul. I delighted in its frank,
bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect truth. Here
was no specious, smiling surface, covering the shifting sand-bar and
perfidious rock, but a stream deep as it was broad and bearing with
honourable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I gloried in its
simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow, ever straight forward, or, if
forced aside for once by opposing mountains, struggling bravely through
them, and resuming its onward march. Behold, thought I, an emblem of a
good man’s course through life, ever simple, open and direct, or if,
overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into error, it is
but momentary; he soon resumes his onward and honourable career, and
continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.”
THE TIBER
STROTHER A. SMITH
Though the Tiber is insignificant in size, compared with the great
rivers of the world, it is one of the most famous, and even its
tributaries, down to the smallest brook, have some historical or poetic
association connected with them, or exhibit some singular natural
peculiarity. Its stream is swelled by the superfluous waters of the
historic Thrasymene; its affluents, the Velino and the Anio, form the
celebrated Cascades of Terni and Tivoli; the Clitumnus and the Nar are
invested with poetic interest by the verses of Virgil, Ovid, and Silius
Italicus; while the Chiana presents the singular phenomenon of a river
which, within the historic period, has divided itself into two, and now
forms a connecting link between the Arno and the Tiber, discharging
a portion of its waters into each. The smaller streams, also, the
Cremera, the Allia, and the Almo, have each their legend, historical,
or mythological; while the rivulet of the Aqua Crabra, or Marrana,
recalls the memory of Cicero and his litigation with the company which
supplied his establishment at Tusculum with water from the brook.
[Illustration: THE TIBER]
The Tiber rises nearly due east of Florence, and on the opposite side
of the ridge which gives birth to the Arno. It issues in a copious
spring of limpid water, which at the distance of a mile has force
enough to turn a mill. If we are to believe Bacci, it exhales so
warm a vapour that snow, notwithstanding the elevation of the region,
will not lie along its course within half a mile. For a distance of
fifty-six miles it flows in a south-easterly direction through an
elevated valley, in the upper part of which the cold, according to
Pliny the younger, who had a villa there, was too great for the olive,
and where the snow often accumulates to a considerable depth. Not far
from Perugia it turns to the south, and about fourteen miles lower
down by the windings of the stream, receives its first affluent, the
Chiascia, which brings with it the Topino (anciently Tineas), and
the waters of the classic Clitumnus, known to the readers of Virgil,
Propertius, and Silius Italicus as the river on whose banks were bred,
and in whose stream were washed, “the milk-white oxen which drew the
Roman triumphs to the temples of the gods,” and the same which is
so picturesquely described by the younger Pliny. At a place called
La Vene, one of the sources of the Clitumnus rises at the foot of a
hill. Like the fountain of Vaucluse, it issues a small river from
the earth, and according to Pliny, had sufficient depth of water to
float a boat. It is clear as crystal, delightfully cool in summer,
and of an agreeable warmth in winter. Near it stands a temple once
sacred to the river god, but now surmounted by the triumphant cross.
It seems to have been a favourite place of resort for the Romans, as
far as their limited means of locomotion would permit; since even the
ferocious Caligula, as Suetonius tells us, attended by his body-guard
of Batavians, was among the visitors to these celebrated springs.
The beauty of the scenery appears to have been the attraction; for
there were no mineral sources, and a refined superstition would
have prevented the Romans from availing themselves of the agreeable
temperature of the water to indulge in the luxury of bathing, rivers
near their sources being accounted sacred, and polluted by the contact
of a naked body. Of all the misdeeds of Nero none, perhaps, contributed
more to his unpopularity than his swimming, during one of his drunken
frolics, in the source of the Aqua Marcia, the same which is brought by
the aqueduct to Rome, and which rises in the mountains of the Abruzzi,
where Nero was staying at the time.
When the news of this act of profanation arrived in the city it created
a great sensation; and an illness with which he was shortly afterwards
seized was attributed to the anger of the god.
Seven miles lower down on the right, the Tiber receives the Nestore,
a large and impetuous torrent, or _torrentaccio_, as it is called by
the Italians. The Nestore, where it enters the Tiber flows in a bed
of sand and shingle no less than a third of a Roman mile in width,
and after heavy rains must bring down an enormous body of water. Into
the Cina, one of its tributaries, by means of a tunnel, the overflow
of the lake of Thrasymene is discharged. The emissary originates in
the south-eastern bay of the lake, but when, or by whom, the work was
executed is a matter of dispute. Thirty and a half miles further on,
the Tiber is joined by the Chiana (anciently Clanis), which, after
uniting with the Paglia, flows into it on the same side as the Nestore
and in the neighbourhood of Orvieto.
The Paglia rises in the high volcanic mountain of Monte Amiata, and
in summer is nearly dry; but its broad stony channel at Acquapendente
shows what a contribution it must bring to the main stream in time
of floods. The Chiana, which from the black and muddy colour of
its waters has received the name of the Lethe of Tuscany, but which
might with more propriety be called the Tuscan Cocytus, was once a
single stream originating in the neighbourhood of Arezzo, and flowing
southward into the Tiber. But in the Middle Ages a large portion of the
valley in which it flowed was filled up by the _débris_ which in time
of floods was brought down by the lateral torrents. A sort of plateau
was thus formed, sloping at its edges towards the valleys of the Tiber
and the Arno. The streams which entered this plateau stagnated in the
level which it formed, converting it into an unproductive and unhealthy
marsh, the abode of malaria and the pest-house of Dante’s _Purgatorio_.
They then flowed over the northern and southern edges of the plateau,
and, uniting with others, formed two distinct rivers called the Tuscan
and Roman Chianas.
The torrent of the Tresa, rising not far from the lake of Thrasymene,
and now diverted into the lake of Chiusi, may be considered as the head
waters of the Tuscan Chiana, the torrent of the Astrone, rising in the
direction of Montepulciano, as the main branch of the Roman Chiana. The
two are connected by canals and wet ditches, so that it is conceivable
that a small piece of wood thrown into one of these might, according to
circumstances and the direction of the wind, find its way to Florence
or to Rome.
The district which I have described, the celebrated Val di Chiana, is
now one of the most productive regions of Italy, green with vineyards
and pastures, and golden with waving crops. Nor is it unhealthy, except
in the immediate vicinity of the lakes. The change was effected by
canalizing the streams, and by the process called warping, which is
the method adopted in Lincolnshire for reclaiming land from the sea.
A certain space was enclosed with banks, into which the streams were
diverted when they were swollen and charged with mud. The opening was
then closed with a floodgate, and the water left to deposit the matter
which it held in suspension. In this way an inch or two of soil was
gained every year, until the land became sufficiently dry and firm. It
was then sown with crops, and planted with trees, which served still
further to purify the air by decomposing with their leaves and fixing
in their tissues the vapours which had given the Val di Chiana so
deadly a name.
Turning again to the south-east and at a distance of 136½ miles from
its source, the Tiber is swelled by the united streams of the Neva, the
Velino, and the Salto. The Neva, the “_sulphurea Nar albus aqua_” of
Virgil, and “_Narque albescentibus undis_” of Silius Italicus, rises
at the foot of the lofty peak of Monte Vettore, part of the Sibylline
range, and is the tributary which is most affected by the melting of
the snows.
The Velino also has its source in the great central chain of the
Apennines, and after being joined by the Salto and Turano, forms the
cascade of Terni by dashing over the precipice which terminates the
valley, and hastens to meet the Neva. The Salto, rising in the kingdom
of Naples, flows northward for fifty miles, and after passing beneath
the lofty range of Monte Velino, and receiving a contribution from its
snows, mingles its waters with the Velino. Swelled by these tributaries
the Neva rolls along a full and rapid stream, and sweeping past Terni
and Narni, loses itself in the Tiber.
About sixty-four miles lower down, and four and a half above Rome
by the river, the Tiber is joined by the Anio, or Teverone, the most
important, with the exception of the Neva, of all its tributaries.
No river is better known than the Anio. The scenery of its valley,
the classical associations of its neighbourhood, and the celebrated
cascades of Tivoli, have made it the favourite resort of tourists. The
Anio rises in the mountains of the Hernici, part of the modern Abruzzi,
and after flowing for about thirty-six miles through a narrow valley
whose general course is to the west, precipitates itself into the gorge
which is overlooked by the town of Tivoli; emerging from which it
turns west-south-west and joins the Tiber, after a further course of
twenty miles. Midway between its source and Tivoli, it passes the town
of Subiaco, anciently Sublaqueum, which derives its name from three
picturesque lakes, “_tres lacus amœnitate nobilis_.” Tivoli is well
known to have been the favourite retreat of the wealthy Romans from
the turmoil, and what Horace calls the “fumus,” of Rome. The names and
ruins of these villas yet remain, but no trace is left of those which
once adorned the banks of the Tiber, and perhaps of the Anio in the
lower part of its course.
Pliny the younger calls the Anio “_delicatissimus amnium_,” “softest
and gentlest of rivers”; and adds “that it was for this reason invited,
as it were, and retained by the neighbouring villas” for their own
exclusive use. Yet, this “delicate river” indulged occasionally in the
wildest escapades, and Pliny himself, in this very letter, describes
an inundation in which it swept away woods, undermined hills, and
committed extraordinary havoc among the neighbouring farms. From this
time to the year 1826 it was a source of apprehension to the people
of Tivoli, and an anxiety to the government at Rome, which expended
considerable sums in trying to prevent some great calamity, or in
repairing the damage which had been done. Once since the time of Strabo
the river is thought to have changed its course, discharging itself at
a lower level into the Grotto of Neptune, but still forming a lofty and
picturesque cascade.
At different periods it had destroyed buildings, undermined the
foundation of others, and defied every effort to control its violence.
At length these floods culminated in the great inundation of 1826,
which entirely altered the character of the cascade, and necessitated
the formation of the tunnel through Monte Catillo.
The work was let on contract to two rival firms, and pushed forward
with such vigour that, though it was considered a most arduous
undertaking in those times, it was completed in 1836, during the
Pontificate of Gregory XVI.
From the Anio, or its tributaries, was drawn the water which supplied
the principal aqueducts of Rome, the Anio Vetus, the Marcia, the Anio
Novus, and the Claudia. When the original Aqua Appia and Anio Vetus
were found insufficient for the increasing wants of Rome, it was
resolved to seek for a fresh supply. This was found in a stream of
limpid water rising about thirty-six miles from Rome in the Marsian
Mountains, and flowing into the Anio. As the water of the Vetus was
often turbid after rain, and even the Piscina, or reservoir, through
which it was made to pass, often failed to purify it, Quintus Marcius
Rex, who was appointed to superintend the work, was desirous that the
water of the new aqueduct should be taken from one of the tributaries
of the river, and as near as possible to its source.
As the source was in the country beyond the Anio, the aqueduct was of
course more expensive than any of the preceding ones, and the entire
length of it was no less than sixty-one miles, of which several were on
arches, the rest being subterranean. But, if the expense was greater,
the quality of the water was superior to that of any other with which
Rome was acquainted.
The aqueducts of the Anio Novus, and the Aqua Claudia, of which I have
spoken, were completed in the reign of Claudius. The Aqua Claudia,
which came from springs, was nearly equal in quality to the Marcia,
while the two Anios were often turbid, even in fine weather, from
the falling in of their banks. But Claudius improved the quality of
the Anio Novus, by abandoning the river at the point from which the
water had been drawn, and taking it from a lake, out of which the
stream issues limpid, after having deposited the greater part of its
impurities.
Altogether, according to the calculation of Fea, half the volume of
Anio was abstracted by the four aqueducts which have been mentioned.
Four tributaries remain to be described--the Cremera, the Allia, the
Aqua Crabra, and the Almo--streams insignificant in size, but famous in
the annals of Rome, or possessing an interest for the classical scholar
and the archæologist. The Cremera, a mere brook, over which an active
person might leap, rises in the little lake Baccano, and flowing past
the site of Veii, crosses the Flaminian way about six miles from Rome.
This brook must not be confounded with another a little higher up, and
which is a rivulet unknown to fame. The Cremera is associated, as every
student of Roman history is aware, with the patriotic devotion of the
Fabii.
On the banks of the Allia, the “_flebilis Allia_” of Ovid, a still
smaller stream, though dignified by the historians with the name
of river, was fought a battle with the Gauls, in which the Romans
sustained a signal defeat.
The Allia cannot be identified with certainty, but it is supposed to be
a small stream flowing in a deep ravine, which joins the Tiber on the
side opposite to Veii, and about three miles above Castel Guibileo, the
site of the ancient Fidenæ. This stream agrees with the description of
Livy.
The Aqua Crabra is generally known by the name of the Marrana, but is
also called Aqua Mariana, and Marrana del Maria; Marrana being a name
frequently given to brooks by the modern Romans. Thus we have Marrana
della Caffarella, another name for the Almone, and Marrana di Grotta
perfetta. The rivulet anciently known by the name of the Aqua Crabra
rises in the heart of the Alban hills, and after passing beneath the
heights on which Tusculum and Frascati are situated, turned northwards
in obedience to the configuration of the ground and flowed into the
Anio. But, at some unknown period after the fall of the Roman Empire,
it was diverted by means of a tunnel into the channel in which it at
present runs, for the purpose of turning mills and irrigating the land.
The little stream, also, which flows in the valley between Marino and
the ridge encircling the Alban lake, whose source is considered by some
to be the Aqua Ferentina of Livy, is conveyed through a similar tunnel
to swell the scanty waters of the Aqua Crabra. In ancient times this
rivulet was considered of such importance to the people of Tusculum,
who lived out of the way of the great aqueducts, that Agrippa, as
Frontinus tells us, consented not to turn it into the “caput,” or well
head, of the Aqua Julia, as he had originally proposed. It was looked
upon as a treasure to be doled out in measures to the thirsty people
of Tusculum, and was often contended for by legal proceedings. Cicero,
in his _Oration de lege Agraria, III, 2_, informs us that he paid rates
to the authorities of Tusculum for his share of the precious fluid.
And in his _Oration pro Balbo, ch. 22_, he refers to a litigation with
the municipality which furnished the water, probably on account of the
deficient supply. In this action “he was in the habit,” he tells us,
“of consulting the lawyer, Tugio, on account of his long experience in
similar cases.” Tugio seems to have justified his choice, and to have
frightened the municipality into granting a more abundant supply, for
we find Cicero in his letter to Tiro, observing, “that now there was
more water than enough.” “I should like to know,” he says, “how the
business of the Aqua Crabra is going on, though now indeed there is
more water than enough.”
The Almo is the stream which flows in the valley of Caffarella, close
to the Nymphæum, which does duty for the grotto of Egeria. Its most
remote source is about six miles from Rome, in the direction of Albano,
and this is usually dry; so that the Almo is with great propriety
called “_brevissimus_,” in comparison with the other rivers which Ovid
is enumerating. The perennial source is at Aqua Santa, not more than
three miles from the city. The stream that rises in the valley between
Marino and the Alban lake is represented in most maps as flowing into
the Almo. It is really diverted by a tunnel into the Aqua Crabra. At
the junction of the Almo with the Tiber were washed every year, the
statue of the Goddess Cybele, her chariot and the sacred instruments of
her worship.
Among the remaining tributaries of the Tiber may be enumerated the
Farfarus, which is a torrent joining the Tiber a little above Correse.
Also the little stream, the Aqua Albana, which is discharged by the
emissary of the Alban Lake, a work executed 393 years before Christ.
THE SHANNON
ARTHUR SHADWELL MARTIN
The greatest body of running water in the British Isles has long
claimed and received the love, admiration and praise of natives and
foreigners. Its banks are fringed with ruins of castles, round towers,
abbeys and churches, and its islands and hills reek with historical
associations, pagan folklore and mediæval tradition. Steamers now run
practically from its mouth to its source, and to the tourist all its
beauties are now displayed. The enthusiasm of foreigners over the
beautiful stream equals that of Erin’s own sons. Writing in 1844,
Johann Georg Kohl said:
“Well may the Irish speak of the ‘_Royal_ Shannon,’ for he _is_ the
king of all their rivers. A foreigner, when he thinks of some of our
large continental streams, may at first consider the epithet somewhat
of an exaggeration, but let him go down this glorious river and its
lakes, and he will be at no loss to understand that royal majesty, in
the matter of rivers, may be quite independent of length or extent.
“The British Islands certainly can boast of no second stream, the
beauties of whose banks could for a moment be compared to those of the
Shannon.
“At his very birth he is broad and mighty, for he starts on his course
strong with the tribute of a lake (Lough Allen), and traverses the
middle of Ireland, in a direction from north-east to south-west. Thrice
again he widens out into a lake; first into the little Lough Boffin,
then into the larger Lough Ree, and lastly, when he has got more than
half way to the ocean, into the yet longer Lough Derg. Below Limerick
he opens into a noble estuary, and when at length he falls into the
sea between Loop Head and Kerry Head, the glorious river has completed
a course of two hundred and fourteen English miles. The greater part
of the Shannon runs through the central plain which separates the
mountainous north from the mountainous south.
“It was on a beautiful day that I embarked to descend the Shannon.
Flowing out of a lake, and forming several other lakes in its progress,
the water is extremely clear and beautiful. The movement is in general
equable, excepting a few rapids which are avoided by means of canals.
The banks, too, are pleasing to the eye. Large green meadows stretch
along the sides of the river, and villages alternate with handsome
country seats, surrounded by their parks. Herons abound along the
margin, and many of these beautiful birds were continually wheeling
over us in the air, their plumage glittering again in the rays of the
sun.
“We arrived at Banagher. Then gliding along by Redwood Castle and the
beautiful meadows of Portumna, we left the town of Portumna to our
right, and entered the waters of Lough Derg. The steamer in which we
had hitherto travelled was of small dimensions, with a wheel under the
stern, to allow of its passing through some canals of no great breadth;
but on the broad lake a new and larger vessel prepared to receive
us. The two steamers came close to one another, to exchange their
respective passengers, and their manœuvre, as they swept round on the
wide water, pleased me much.
[Illustration: THE SHANNON]
“Of the lakes that like so many rich pearls are strung upon the
silver thread of the Shannon, Lough Ree and Lough Bodarrig, lying in
a level country, and in a great measure surrounded by bogs, present
little that is pleasing to the eye. Lough Allen is situated almost
wholly within the mountainous districts of the north, and a large
portion of Lough Derg is made picturesque by the mountains of the
south. Like all Irish lakes, Lough Derg contains a number of small
green islands, of which the most renowned is Inniscaltra, an ancient
holy place, containing the ruins of seven venerable churches of
great antiquity, and the remains of one of those remarkable columnal
erections known in Ireland under the name of “round towers.” We passed
the sacred isle at the distance of a mile and a half, but we could very
distinctly make out all its monuments by the aid of a telescope.”
It is not every visitor to Shannon’s shores that has unqualified praise
for the scenery. Thus speaking of the sites selected by the saints of
old for their retreats, Cæsar Otway exclaims: “What a dreary place is
Glendalough! what a lonely isle is Inniscaltra! what a hideous place
is Patrick’s Purgatory! what a desolate spot is Clonmacnoise! From the
hill of Bentullagh on which we now stood, the numerous churches, the
two round towers, the curiously overhanging bastion of O’Melaghlin’s
Castle, all before us to the south, and rising in relief from the
dreary sameness of the surrounding red bogs, presented such a picture
of tottering ruins and encompassing desolation as I am sure few places
in Europe could parallel.”
The traveller who wants to see the most accessible beauties of the
Shannon usually starts at Limerick and leaves the river at Athlone,
though some go as far as Carrick on Shannon. The chief loughs
traversed are Derg and Ree; and the only towns of any importance are
Killaloe, Portumna and Athlone.
About eight miles above Limerick are the Rapids or Falls of Doonass,
where the Shannon pours an immense body of water, which above the
rapids is forty feet deep and 300 yards wide, through and above a
congregation of huge rocks and stones that extend nearly half a mile,
and offers not only an unusual scene, but a spectacle approaching much
nearer to the sublime than any moderate-sized stream can offer even in
the highest cascade.
Castleconnell is beautifully situated on the east bank. It has a
popular Spa, and is a famous centre for salmon fishing. The castle,
from which the town is named, stands on an isolated rock in the middle
of the town. It was anciently the seat of the O’Briens. When Ginkell,
William the Third’s General, took the castle, he caused it to be
dismantled. Castleconnell is famous for its salmon fishing and eel
weirs. The Castleconnell fishing rods are famed all over the world.
Eight miles above Castleconnell near the entrance to Lough Derg is
Killaloe.
The navigation from Limerick to Killaloe is carried on by canal so
as to avoid the rapids of Killaloe and Castleconnell. Killaloe is a
charmingly placed village, but it is probably best known as the place
above all others in Ireland dear to the heart of the angler. The fine
old cathedral, on the site of a much older church, dates from the
Twelfth Century. The Choir is used as the parish church. Commencing at
Killaloe is Lough Derg, an expansion of the Shannon to the proportions
of a lake. The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York made a trip up
Lough Derg to Banagher in the summer of 1897, and the route is now
known as the “Duke of York” route.
As every one knows, the Shannon is much the largest river in the
United Kingdom. Its breadth, where it expands into the long narrow
lakes that mark so much of its course, stretches to as much as
thirteen miles. Lough Derg, the first of these expanded stretches,
is twenty-three miles long, and exceedingly picturesque. Its shining
surface, overshadowed by blue hills, is broken here and there by woody
islands famous in history and song. Killaloe itself takes its name from
the ruined church on the island below the twelve-arched bridge (“the
church on the water”). The salmon fisheries here are very important
and profitable, and--which is probably more interesting to the
traveller--the river is free to every one who possesses a rod and line.
It was here, at the lower end of Lough Derg, that Brian Boru’s palace
of Kincora once stood, in the Ninth Century. The mound on which it was
built is all that remains of a place that displayed, 1,200 years ago,
the utmost glory of the fierce, proud Irish kings. The ruined castle
of Derry crowns another small islet; and Holy Island, thirty acres in
extent, is a spot full of interest. Like Glendalough, it was chosen
out, early in the Christian era, for a retreat of piety and learning.
One cannot but observe the excellent taste in scenery displayed by
the monks of ancient days, in selecting these peaceful refuges from
a stormy world. What can be more lovely than the vale of the seven
churches, or than Innisfallen Island? and Holy Island compares not at
all ill with these still more famous places. St. Caimin, in the early
part of the Seventh Century, settled here, and built a monastery,
which soon became famous for its learning. Seven different churches
afterwards grew up on the island, and one of the most beautiful round
towers in Ireland still raises its head seventy feet above the waters
of the lake, among the ruins of these sacred places. This part of the
lake is crowded with islands, and the ruined castles and monasteries
are very numerous. At the town of Portumna, some miles further on,
another stop is made, as the castle and abbey are particularly well
worth seeing. This was another spot celebrated for its learning. The
monastery of Tirdaglass, whence many manuscripts issued, was founded
by St. Columba in the Sixth Century. At Clonmacnoise, further on,
the traveller may see the cradle of the ancient art and learning
of Ireland, and the most important seat of religion in early days.
St. Cearan (early Sixth Century) is especially associated with the
spot; the great cathedral was built in his honour, and the holy well,
dedicated to the Saint, is still the object of constant pilgrimage.
Round towers, ancient Irish crosses, ruined churches and monasteries,
are here in abundance. The ancient city of Clonmacnoise has disappeared
altogether. This is a place of the greatest possible interest to
antiquarians, and even ordinary travellers will find much pleasure in
the beauty of the picturesque ruins.
At Banagher is the fortified bridge of seven arches, protected by two
towers and a battery. This is all the more interesting, for, not being
an antiquity in any sense, it was finished in 1843, as a matter of fact.
Above Lough Derg, the country is fertile, but not especially striking
until Lough Ree is reached. This second great expansion of the river
fairly rivals the first in beauty. Of its twenty-seven islands, the
most attractive is Inis Clothran, on which the famous Queen Maev of
Connaught spent her declining years. She is said to have built a
splendid stone house for herself here, and lived on the island until
she died, at the age of a hundred and two. Some ruins still remain to
mark the spot, although the date of Queen Maev goes back nearly two
thousand years. Antiquarians consider that Shakespeare’s fairy Queen
Mab was a development of the many legends told about this powerful,
wicked, and fascinating Queen of far-off days.
Portumna, at the head of the lake, commands fine views of Lough Derg,
and the hilly land to the west. After leaving this town the scenery
becomes dull and monotonous till we reach Meelick, where the river is
so devious that a canal rejoins the Shannon at the mouth of the Little
Brosna. Immediately above, the stream begins to divide and becomes very
tortuous till Banagher is reached.
At the upper end of Lough Ree is Lanesborough, a small town with a
fine bridge of six arches and a swivel arch. From this point the sail
to Tarmonbarry presents little beauty or interest. The country is
generally a wide extent of bog, abounding in remains of trees and the
extinct Irish elk. Opposite Tarmonbarry, the Royal Canal, communicating
with Dublin, joins the Shannon. When the river again widens into Lough
Forbes, the Seven Churches of Kilbarry come into view: only three and
part of a round tower are now standing. Lough Forbes is triangular in
shape, and the shores are low boggy land not destitute of a certain
quiet beauty. Lough Boderg shaped like a T is the only remaining sheet
of water before reaching Carrick on Shannon where the tourist’s voyage
generally ends.
THE DANUBE
I. BOWES
Next to the Volga, the Danube is the largest river in Europe, and for
volume of water and commercial importance it far exceeds that river. It
is estimated that the Danube carries more water to the sea than all the
rivers of France.
The river rises at the head of a pleasant little valley high up in
the mountains of the Black Forest; coming tumbling down the rocks a
tiny stream of clear water, and, gathering strength and volume from
numerous springs and rivulets, it cuts a deep channel into the rich
soil and dances gaily along, presently to be joined by the Brigach and
its twin-sister, the Brege, which rise about ten miles further to the
south. These are the highest sources of the mighty River Danube, the
great water highway of Europe, celebrated for ages in legend and song
and in ancient and modern history for important military events, and,
in its flow of nearly 2,000 miles to the Black Sea, unfolding the most
remarkable panoramas of natural beauty known to the geographer; whilst
on its banks may be found groups of the most interesting nationalities
of the world.
[Illustration: THE DANUBE]
Donaueschingen, a tidy little town in the Grand Duchy of Baden, is
sometimes called the source of the Danube. It is situated about a mile
and a half below the point where the Brigach and the Brege join the
river, which from this point is called the Donau or Danube, and it
is the head of the navigation for small boats on the upper river.
Between here and Ulm there are twenty-one weirs and dams, and many
pleasant villages, pretty little towns, ruined castles, and princely
residences; amongst the latter may be named Hohenzollern, near
Sigmaringen, the seat of the Imperial family of Prussia. The scenery in
the locality of the castle is of great beauty, and the town, pleasantly
situated on the banks of the river, has a charming appearance.
The river below Sigmaringen flows through a broad, fertile valley, and
with a quicker current, as the banks have been partially canalized; and
small towns, with names of wondrous length and ponderous sound, such as
Munderkingen, Kiedlingen, Reichenstein, etc., suggest places that are
or have been of great importance. In the distance the great tower of
the Cathedral of Ulm is seen rising up out of the low horizon. Ulm is a
great military stronghold, and the old town a maze of narrow, crooked
streets. The Cathedral is said to be next in size to that at Cologne,
and is a fine specimen of Gothic architecture, with the highest stone
tower in the world.
Below Ulm several smaller towns are passed before reaching Ratisbon,
a city of 40,000 inhabitants, famous for many historical events.
The Cathedral of Saint Peter is one of the architectural glories of
Germany. Freight steamers, barges, tugboats, and passenger steamers
abound on this part of the river. Long flat boats sixty feet long,
such as we see on the Rhine, pass down to the Lower Danube, laden with
grain, timber, etc.
Linz, with its 500,000 inhabitants, is an interesting town; and the
river scenery, between here and Vienna, is said to rival the Rhine
scenery, the hills being more varied in outline and the slopes richer
in verdure.
At Vienna the river is more crowded still, and is crossed by some
fine road and railway bridges; and many show sights are here, such as
cathedrals, historical buildings, etc., and more than a fair share of
_cafés_, theatres and music-halls. In this respect it rivals Paris,
and, some say, exceeds it in wickedness.
After leaving Vienna, Hainburg, Kieben and Presburg (with its 50,000
inhabitants), where the Hungarian kings have for ages been crowned,
are passed; then Komorn, and through the fertile plains of Hungary to
Buda Pesth, a beautiful, prosperous city, with a population of 500,000.
It is said that the extensive quays facing the river and the imposing
buildings are the finest on the whole course of the Danube. Lower down
the river the inhabitants on either bank show distinct traces of Magyar
descent.
And now leaving the Hungarian territory for Servia, Belgrade with its
great fortress comes in sight. Many parts of the city are Turkish in
appearance, and the inhabitants are a mixture of Hungarians, Turks and
Servians.
About sixty miles below Belgrade the river leaves the Hungarian plains,
and at Bazias the chief hindrances to the navigation of the Danube
begin and extend to Sibb, a distance of about eighty-two miles. The
obstructions may be divided into four sections, viz:--No. 1. The Stenka
Rapids; No. 2. The Kozla Dojke; No. 3. The Greben Section; and No. 4.
The Iron Gates. The first named rapids are about 1,100 yards long;
nine miles lower down the second section--about one and a half miles
long--begins, and the river is narrowed from about 1,000 yards in width
to about 300 and in some places 170 yards. These rapids are caused by
rocks in the bed of the river, some of which are almost dry at low
water, extending nearly across it, and causing sudden alterations in
the currents and dangerous whirlpools and eddies.
At Greben, four miles lower down, there were formidable obstacles to
be overcome, and some of the heaviest work in the undertaking had to
be faced; for at this point a spur of the Greben Mountain juts out
into the river, and suddenly reduces its width at low water. When the
snow and ice in the upper reaches of the river melt, or in heavy rain,
the river rapidly rises, and, being blocked by these obstacles, causes
damaging floods in the fertile valleys of Hungary.
Below the Greben rapids the river widens out to about one and a half
miles, and passing the cutting and training walls at the rapids of Jucz
enters the Kazan defile, which is said to be the most picturesque part
of the Lower Danube. The cliffs, of great height, approach nearer and
nearer to each other, until the river is contracted to 120 yards wide.
Passing through this dark and sombre defile into the valley of Dubova,
it widens to 500 metres; the mountains again approach and reduce the
width to about 200 yards. The depth at these straits varies from ten
metres to fifty metres. It was through this defile that Trajan, nearly
2,000 years ago, made riverside roads and towing paths in continuation
of the small canals and waterways to evade the rocks and currents and
to facilitate the transport of his armies and military trains for the
Roman campaigns in Central Europe. The ruins of these works are a
proof of the great labour expended upon them, and also of the skill in
engineering possessed by the Romans in those days. The tablets engraved
on the rocks, still in part visible, commemorate their heroic deeds.
Following our course down the river, at ten kilometres from the Kazan,
we come to Orsova, a rather important place of call for steamers and
trading-vessels; and, now that the river is navigable for larger
vessels, this place is destined, from its railway communications, etc.,
to become a great trading centre.
At a distance of eight kilometres from Orsova, the Iron Gate, situated
between Roumania and Servia begins, and is for a length of about three
kilometres the largest and most dangerous obstacle on the Lower Danube.
The rocks in the channel impede the current, forming dangerous eddies
and cataracts.
The Prigrada Rock rises above low water with a width of 250 metres and
a length of about two kilometres, stretches in a crooked line across
the river to the Roumanian shore, with a narrow channel, through
which vessels of light draught only can be navigated with difficulty.
The river, pouring over this rock, forms dangerous whirlpools and
cataracts, requiring the greatest watchfulness, care, and experience on
the part of the navigator to overcome the dangers of what has well been
called “The Iron Gates.” Hundreds of steamers and vessels have been
wrecked in attempting this dangerous passage.
Like many other great projects many schemes had been proposed and plans
for carrying them out by different authorities had been considered,
but nothing definite was done until in 1888, the Hungarian Government,
under rights conferred upon it by the Berlin Treaty of 1878, and
the London Treaty of 1871, undertook the work of construction and
administration under the conditions of the treaties which gave them the
power to levy tolls on trade ships for covering the expenses of the
works.
The ceremony of the inauguration took place on the 27th of September,
1896, when the Emperor of Austria, King Charles of Roumania, and King
Alexander of Servia, with an immense gathering of bishops, generals
and diplomatic representatives, etc., met at Orsova, and proceeded
through the Iron Gates and the beautiful and romantic Kazan Pass with a
procession of six vessels, which included a monitor and torpedo boat,
and accompanied by a continuous discharge of artillery and the loud
huzzas of the immense gathering of soldiers, visitors and inhabitants.
Below the Iron Gates the river broadens out and the scenery is tame
and uninteresting, for the vast plains of Roumania extend from the
foot of the hills here to the shores of the Black Sea, and the
maritime and commercial aspects of the surroundings begin to manifest
themselves--the river becomes more crowded with craft of all kinds as
we approach the towns on the Lower Danube.
We pass Widin, and, lower down, Sistova where, in the Russo-Turkish
war, the Russians crossed the river to Plevna and the Balkan passes.
Thirty-five miles lower down we reach Rustchuk, the most important
Bulgarian town on the river, and fast becoming a great emporium of
trade, being on the main line of railway to Constantinople, _viâ_ Varna.
We then pass Silistria and approach the longest railroad bridge in the
world. This bridge crosses the Danube below Silistria, and carries the
railway from Kustendji on the Black Sea into Roumania.
Braila, 125 miles from the mouth of the river, is the chief port
for the shipment of produce, etc., from the grain-growing regions
of Roumania and Northern Bulgaria. Here are extensive docks, grain
elevators, and thousands of men of all nationalities engaged in loading
steamers and sailing vessels from all countries. The British flag is
everywhere present. As a commercial port the place is fast outstripping
its neighbour, Galatz, fifteen miles lower down.
From Galatz to the sea, the navigation of the river, the dredging,
removing of obstacles, levying of tolls, etc., is controlled by an
International Commission established by treaty in 1878, since which
date great improvements have been made, chiefly in the lower reaches
and the Sulina mouth of the river, by the construction of groynes,
revetments and cuttings to avoid the bends, and constant dredgings by
powerful dredgers are carried on.
THE NIGER
J. HAMPDEN JACKSON
It will probably be a century hence before men fully realize the extent
of the world’s debt to those English noblemen and gentlemen who in
the last decade of the last century, sent forth Mungo Park as their
emissary to find and trace specifically upon the map all he might
discover as to this mysterious river. Their choice of the man was
exceptionally fortunate.
I pass over all their disappointments, and the persistent courage with
which they bore them, and need only remind you that these Englishmen
of the African Association--soon afterwards to become the Royal
Geographical Society--not only found and equipped Park and Clapperton
and Lander, but it was at _their_ cost, on _their_ business and for
_their_ entertainment alone, that Barth, the German explorer (whose
brilliant and most accurate explorations are in our day constantly
credited to his own nation instead of ours), undertook and finished his
great journeys into Hausaland from North Africa.
We follow Park from his first discovery of the Niger at Sego, look
with him on the breadth at that spot of its stream, realize his
disappointment at having to return to England; his joy at coming for
the second time to Bambarra, and then his voyage in the little craft
bearing his country’s flag down to the devious waters of the unexplored
river; past Kabara, from whose hill-top he might have seen Timbuktu
had he but known and had he not been attacked there by the people on
trying to land. Next we sail with Park past Birni, close to the capital
of the former Songhay Empire, past Say, up the stream to Boussa, the
capital of Borgu, 650 miles from the sea; and here on that memorable
day of 1806 we see poor Park meet his death, and I hope it may not be
long ere some worthy obelisk at the spot shall set forth indelibly the
great record of his mission.
We come now to Richard Lander, and in like manner I take you over the
route of this famous voyager, from Badagry (whence he struck inland)
to Boussa, where he found the relics of Park, and then in his boats
down stream past Mount Jebba--standing midway in the river, with an
elevation above sea level of some 300 feet--past Rabbah--then the
largest city on the Niger--to Egga, where the great ferry of the
Kano-Ilorin traffic makes prosperous the chief port of Nupé, and
now--in the distance--appears the table-topped Mount Patteh, rising
1,300 feet from the right bank, and as we sail with Lander under its
shadow there opens out before us the noble confluence at Lokoja, where
the Benué, the Niger’s mighty tributary, pours its mile-broad current
into this great West African river. Next Lander passes between the
jagged and stunted peaks of the Nigretian Alps, and nearing Idda,
sees its bold precipices of red sandstone rear themselves on the left
bank, and admires the giant baobab trees, the clustered round-roofed
huts, and the busy throngs of Igara people passing to and fro from the
riverside. But our explorer has vowed to follow the great Niger to its
outflow, and we are still some 280 miles from the sea.
So Lander passes on in his boats, and nearing Asaba--now the seat of
English government on the river--he notes that the native houses are
now all of rectangular shape, and the people of Eboe type, and soon he
is at Abo, and the tidal waters are recognized just as the ruffians of
the Brass slaving fleet rush upon him and--capsizing his craft--Lander
barely escapes with his life to find his brother drowning also. Rescued
at last, John Lander is brought prisoner, together with Richard to the
Brass mouth of the Niger, and their sufferings whilst waiting release
and subsequently until landed at Fernando Po may well have made them
dread the name of Brassmen. It may be that some day at Brass, or
Akassa, English hands will raise a fitting and permanent memorial to
this modest, uncultured and sterling character, who solved for all
mankind the greatest geographical problem of his time, and opened the
door for European commerce and civilization into West Central Africa.
It must not be forgotten that MacQueen had all along contended that
the Niger would be found to issue into the Atlantic through the swamps
of the Bights of Benin and Biafra, nor are the reasons now obscure
that account for that long hiding of geographical truth in the Gulf of
Guinea. The Niger Delta is one covering 14,000 square miles; the Delta
rivers creep into the sea almost unperceived through the low-level
mangrove swamp; the whole region reeks with fevers and dysentery, and
at the time of Lander’s discovery the only trade to be done in that
“God-forgotten Guinea” was the slave-trade. Such white men as ventured
to the Delta, therefore, were bent on secrecy rather than on discovery;
and this had been the state of things for centuries. No wonder that the
Niger had been a mystery, but it was a mystery no more.
The next step for its exploration was taken by Liverpool. Macgregor
Laird raised a large fund among his merchant friends on the exchange,
and added thereto a large part of his own fortune, built and equipped
two steamships--the _Quorra_ and _Alburka_--and (with but little aid
from the Government) took charge personally of this bold expedition,
and in 1832 sailed for the Niger. Now, look at these banks forty feet
at least above the river level, and remember that for three to four
months of the year the villages lining them are simply floating in
the vast waste of the Niger inundations. Mr. Laird found by a bitter
experience that it was all very well to steam up the Niger when the
stream was at flood, but when your crew were all down with fever and
the river began to fall at the rate of a foot per day, the least
accident--such as the stranding of the little _Quorra_--locked you
up bag and baggage for a whole twelve months, and brought you face
to face with terrible dangers. The mortality on board the steamers
was awful, but Laird kept the expedition well in hand; he explored
a great part of the upper middle Niger, a considerable distance up
the Benué, and established the first English trading factories, 350
miles from the mouth of the Niger, ere his return to Liverpool. Like
all other travellers who have seen the Benué, Laird was greatly
impressed with the volume and purity of its waters, the beauty of its
landscape on either bank, and the rich promise of development in its
already quickened commerce. Look at the woodland beauty at Ribago, for
instance; or the fine cultivated plain at Yola; and the impressive
rock-fortress at Imaha. And see these fine Hausa peoples who inhabit
the Sokoto and Bornu countries of the inter-riverine plateau. They are
an ancient race, grave and industrious, of fine physique and highly
intellectual phrenological type.
Centuries ago Macrisi--the Egyptian historian--told of their
gourd-ferries, and the world laughed at such a “traveller’s tale”;
but here you see them for yourselves. Centuries ago men wrote of
the vast city of Timbuktu, but what is Timbuktu to Kano, the Hausa
capital? Look at this wall surrounding Sokoto City, and think of the
wall of Kano being as high as that and fifteen miles round! The Fulah
aristocracy live at Sokoto, and their Sultan bears spiritual rule
over the greater part of Hausaland; his temporal power is no myth,
either, for in 1891 he raised an army of 40,000 men--half of whom
were cavalry--under the eyes of Monteil. But the crumbling houses of
Sokoto tell their own tale of a city that has long passed its zenith,
and like Timbuktu, whose population has fallen from 200,000 to 7,000,
like Katsena, whose population has fallen from 100,000 to 6,000, so
Sokoto is daily yielding its temporal sceptre to Kano, the city of
markets and manufactures, the centre of literature as well as of
prosperous agriculture, the starting-point of the Soudan caravans, the
central slave market, cloth market, metal market and the busy focus
of all industries. See the great market square in which 30,000 people
assemble for commercial exchange every week; these fourteen gates,
through which the hosts of organized caravans are ever issuing, most
of them 600 or 800 strong at the very least, and twenty of which go
every year to Salaga for Kola-nut alone! Think of the Mecca pilgrims
who all assembled here to form their great cavalcades yearly; of
the 60,000 artificers and cultivators living in this Kano, with its
enclosed fields of rich crops, its leather factories, shoe and sandal
factories, dyeing works, cotton spinning and weaving, basket making,
brass manufacture and ornamentation, etc. And remember that, thanks
to our English chartered companies, this Kano, and these fine Hausa
people--whose language has long been the key-tongue of all trade in
Central Africa--are brought securely under the flag and influence of
Great Britain. It is, from our point of view, a drawback that Kano
lies at an unhealthy level, and its people defy every sanitary decency
in their abbatoir and cemetery arrangements, but that is their way of
being happy. Katsena is much more salubrious, having 1,500 feet of
elevation.
Ere long, under British tutelage, and freed from dread of the Fulah
slave-raider, the rascal who raids his own people for the mere joy of
it, freed from this curse, the Hausa States will rise to preëminence
through the aptitude and capacity for discipline inherent in that
virile people.
I must pass over Bornu and its great chief city of Kuka, but would like
to dwell for a moment on the deeply interesting fact that here--in the
Chartered State of British Nigretia--we tread upon the dust of empires.
At the time of our Heptarchy this very Bornu was the seat of a Negro
empire covering a million and a half square miles, and extending from
the Niger to the Nile. And Sokoto and Gandu--our Treaty states--formed
but part of the Negro empire of Songhay, having its capital at Gogo on
the Niger, and extending westward and northward as far as the Atlantic
and Morocco.
THE AMAZON
JOSEPH JONES
The main stream of the Amazon is about 4,000 miles long--long enough
that is to go in a circle twice round the British Isles, or 600 miles
longer than the voyage from Liverpool to New York. For the lowest 250
miles of its course it is fifty miles wide, or if the Island of Marajo
in its mouth be regarded as a huge sand bank, which is what it really
is, then it is 200 miles wide at its mouth. In other words, one might
take the whole of Scotland, push it into the mouth of this river and
leave only a small piece projecting. The Amazon has nineteen very large
tributaries, each of which is really a gigantic river in itself, and
through these tributaries it is connected with the Orinoco and the
River Plata. The Amazon rises near the west coast of South America,
about sixty miles from Lima in Peru, and runs into the Atlantic,
traversing nearly the whole width of the widest part of South America
in its course. Its depth in places is twenty fathoms or 120 feet. It
drains an area nearly the size of all Europe, and is the largest body
of fresh water in the world. Its average speed of flow is two and a
half miles per hour. Hence in going up-stream a boat hugs the bank to
avoid the current, whilst in descending it sails in mid-stream in order
to obtain full advantage of the same. As may be guessed, progress is
quicker down-stream than up. The influence of its flow can be felt 150
miles from the shore. On one occasion the mess-room steward filled
the filter direct from the sea when the ship was long out of sight
of land, yet the water was only very slightly brackish. The inland
navigation of the Amazon and its branches extends over 20,000 miles.
The name is supposed to be derived from “Amassona,” the Indian word
for “boat-destroyer,” on account of the tidal wave which rages in the
channel to the north of the Island of Marajo, and on account of which
boats enter by the south channel.
The river is high at the end of the rainy season and low after the
dry season, but even at low river the ship in which I sailed, an
ocean-going steamer, experienced no difficulty in sailing as far as
Manâos. The difference in level is a matter of thirty feet, so that
whereas in August you step out of a small boat on to the landing-stage,
in October, when the river is about at its lowest, you have to walk on
planks, from the boat to the foot of the landing-stage, mount this by a
ladder and go ashore.
Being so near the equator, the Amazon is in a warm district. In the
coolest part of the ship the temperature used to rise to 84° Fahrenheit
in the afternoon, whilst in the sun 120° Fahrenheit was registered,
and some of the pitch in the seams of the deck was melted. This was
when ascending the river. There is a ten knot breeze from the sea which
makes it cooler on returning, but on the inward journey when travelling
with the wind and at practically the same speed, one is of course in a
dead calm and uncomfortably hot. The river water itself at 6 A. M., was
always between 88° Fahrenheit and 89° Fahrenheit.
Besides steamers the Amazon is navigated by battalongs, wooden craft,
about twelve yards in length, covered with an awning of palm branches,
which come from Peru and elsewhere with native produce, are manned by
Indians who live aboard, and which take two months to get back home
from Manâos against the stream. Smaller boats are driven by square
sails of blue and white cotton, which bear traces of Manchester origin,
and there are also native canoes propelled by paddles.
The Indians fish in an interesting manner by means of bow and arrow,
with a line attached to the arrow. If they can get a couple of arrows
firmly shot in they can usually haul in a river turtle or other large
fish. There is a large fish with red flesh which serves the people in
some parts instead of beef (cattle being dear). Thus they don’t fulfil
the old definition of an angler as “a worm at one end and a fool at
the other.” River turtle when caught are laid on their backs, in which
position they are helpless, and one on board the ship laid eighty-six
eggs at one break whilst in this position. The eggs are spherical,
covered with a flexible limy shell, and resemble in appearance a small
tennis-ball. They are a treat out there, where eggs are very scarce.
The flesh of this kind of turtle is rather tough and not unlike pork.
A great variety of animal life is to be found, including mosquitoes,
cockroaches, moths, butterflies, alligators, snakes, tarantulas,
centipedes, and grasshoppers.
The savage people, who live some little distance from the river, are
of about our average height and build, walnut-coloured, with long
straight jet-black hair. In war they fight with bamboo-headed spears
and poisoned arrows, the latter propelled by a powerful bow seven feet
long. The arrow-heads, of bone, are dipped in snake venom and inflict a
mortal wound. The venom is said to be procured by boiling snakes’ heads
to extract it from the glands and evaporating the solution to almost
dryness. Right inland the tribes often have battles, and the victors
kill the women and children of the vanquished. They have a horrible
habit of cutting off the heads of girls, skinning them, and curing the
skin in such a way that it shrinks, but retains its colour and texture,
when they stuff it, producing a head the size of one’s fist, but
perfect in shape. They sell them at from £12 to £30 to Europeans, who
ought to know better than to buy them.
The civilized people speak the Portuguese language and are of
European habits. They are more polite than the British, though this
is noticeable by their habits being different from ours rather than
by being better. For instance, I have seen a first-class passenger
expectorate on the saloon floor when at dinner and never blush, but
he would think himself dreadfully impolite if he wore his hat in a
restaurant. One is impelled to Max O’Rell’s conclusion that “one nation
is not better or worse than another. One nation is different from
another, that is all.”
The money is mostly paper, and there is no paper legal tender less than
the milreis (2s. 3d. nominally, actually about 7d.). In Pará small
change is given in tram tickets.
The vegetable kingdom numbers 17,000 species and is a veritable
fairy-land. Orchids, which with us are so highly prized, are much
cheaper there. Very many varieties grow quite wild and are little
esteemed. I know one man who had an orange tree in his garden and
considered it a nuisance. It crowded out some valuable exotic orchids.
He would willingly have let any one take it away but no one would have
it. The whole country resembles a gigantic greenhouse, and it is not
without a touch of annoyance that a Briton sees beautiful palms and
other trees wasted on people who do not appreciate them when they
would be welcome at home. The hanging roots or tendrils, which grow
downwards from the branches until they take root in the ground, are
quite strange to us, and they offer great resistance to path-making.
The most important tree is the india rubber, _Herveia Brasilensis_,
which is a large tree, and entirely different from the _Ficus
elasticus_, which is commonly called “india rubber” here and grown in
rooms. The raw rubber is obtained by incising the bark and collecting
the “milk” in a can. A paddle is dipped into this and the milk adhering
to it smoked over some burning nuts. This is done with successive
dippings until a piece the size of a ham is on the paddle, when a slit
is made in the side and the paddle withdrawn. It is quite possible that
the wily native may insert a pebble, when he has withdrawn the paddle,
since rubber is sold by weight. The best quality is that obtained
from the Island of Marajo and known as Island Rubber. This is said
to be because a species of nut grows there the smoke of which cures
the rubber better than any other kind of smoke. It is said that every
kind of rubber requires some admixture of the Pará variety to make it
useful in commerce. Many of the rubber cutters live in shanties on
the river’s edge and keep a canoe moored at the door. More inland the
poorer classes live in mud huts built on a framework of light wood.
Some of these when whitewashed make very presentable houses, as seen
in the view of the main street of Parentins, where the post-office
and neighbouring buildings are all of this sort. The cathedrals are
generally handsome buildings, and the post-office at Pará is a pretty
structure.
The shops are open fronted and usually have no windows, so that at a
short distance one cannot tell of what kind they are unless the goods
are displayed outside.
The streets are peculiarly named, for instance “Fifteenth of November
Square” (date of foundation of the Republic), “Dr. Guimarez Lane,” and
so on.
The cities bear very evident traces of newness. You may see a public
square enclosing a tract of virgin soil and except that the palms are
planted in straight rows all the vegetation is natural. There are
handsome walnut counters in whitewashed stores and burglar-proof safes
inside offices which you could demolish with your foot.
Outside the cities the general appearance of the country gives one
an idea of what Britain must have been like at the time of the Roman
invasion, and shows how civilization spread along the course of the
rivers.
THE YANGTSE CHIANG
W. R. CARLES
The great river of China which foreigners call the Yangtse Chiang, has
its sources on the south-east edge of the great steppes which form
Central Asia. Rising almost due north of Calcutta, it flows eastwards
for some 500 miles, draining a very considerable area on its way, and
then turns southwards until it is penned in by the great parallel
ranges which until recent years have hidden it and its great neighbours
from European eyes. Even after entering China its course has remained
obscure, and the deep rift through which it makes its way to the
navigable portion of its waters in Sze Chuen is, save here and there,
still unexplored. In the eastern half of Sze Chuen it receives the
drainage of another large area, before entering the country commonly
known as the Ichang Gorges, and on leaving the Gorges its arms spread
north and south from the Yellow River to the Canton province, affording
easily navigable routes through the heart of China, and by the Grand
Canal to Tientsin.
One of the largest rivers in the world, its importance to China as a
waterway in some of the wealthiest and most thickly populated provinces
of the empire completely overshadows all the other river-systems of the
country.
The actual length of the Yangtse Chiang is at present unknown. The
navigable portion, _i. e._, to Ping-shan Hsien, is 1,550 miles. West of
Ping-shan Hsien the river attains its extreme southern and northern
limits; but from a careful measurement made for me of the best maps
owned by the Royal Geographical Society, its entire length is not much
more than 3,000 miles. The area of drainage is probably between 650,000
and 700,000 square miles.
Between the Tangla Mountains, whose south slopes drain into the
Tsang-po and the Salwin Rivers, and the Kuenlun Mountains, which form
the south buttress of the Tsaidam steppes, the Yangtse Chiang, even at
its source near the 90th meridian, draws on a basin nearly 240 miles
in depth from north to south. Below the confluence of the three main
streams this basin is somewhat contracted by the north-west south-east
trend of the Baian Kara range, and the river is gradually deflected
southwards. From the 99th meridian its course is almost due south,
passing through the country of the Tanguts, or St. Fans, until at last
it enters China.
This part of its course is, roughly speaking, parallel with the Mekong
and Salwin Rivers. Penned in by high mountains, which form an extension
of the great plateau of Central Asia, these rivers continue in close
proximity to each other for nearly two hundred miles.
The immense depth of the gorges through which the Yangtse Chiang has
cut its way in Yun Nan and west Sze Chuen, and the extraordinary
freaks played by its tributaries on the right bank, have prevented the
course of the Yangtse Chiang below the Ya-lung from being thoroughly
ascertained. Its course, as laid down by the Jesuits, appears to have
been mainly mere guesswork, and some corrections have recently been
made. Apparently it here attains its lowest latitude--26° north. The
strength of the stream and the height of the banks above the river
prevent much use being made of it for boat traffic, even in the
few portions where no dangers exist. The grandness of these gorges
culminates in the “Sunbridge,” Tai-yang-chiao, a mountain at least
20,000 feet high, “which falls to the Yangtse Chiang in a series of
terraces, which from below appear like parallel ridges, and abuts on
the river into a precipice or precipices, which must be 8,000 feet
above its waters. The main affluent on the right bank received in this
part of its course is the Niu-lan River, the gorges of which are also
very grand.
Ping-shan is generally regarded as the head of continuous navigation,
but Mr. Hosie descended the river by boat from Man-i-sau, forty _li_
higher up.
The Fu-ling, Chien Chiang, Kung-t’an or Wu-chiang, which joins the
Yangtse Chiang at Fu-Chau on the right bank, is the last considerable
tributary received before reaching the gorges leading to Ichang. This
river is important as the first of the streams which form the great
network of water-communication which binds Peking and Canton with
Central China. By the Fu-ling Canton can be reached with only two short
portages, and a certain amount of trade with Hankau is carried on by
this and the Yuan River in preference to taking goods up the Yangtse
Chiang.
The gorges which have shut in the Yangtse Chiang almost from its source
close in upon it again below Fu-Chau, and continue to within a few
miles of Ichang, contracting the river at one or two points to a width
of 150 yards.
In the autumn of 1896, some forty miles below Wan Hsien, a landslip
occurred, which carried down into the river a portion of the
mountainside, estimated by Mr. Bourne at 700 yards by 400 yards. This
at present forms a complete obstacle to any hope of steam navigation
between Ichang and Chung-King, and is much more formidable than the
Yeh-tan, Hsin-tan, or any of the other rapids which had hitherto been
in question. The Ching-tan, or Hsin-tan, was similarly formed some two
hundred and fifty years ago, and it is probable, therefore, that other
rapids originated in the same way.
Many rivers are received on either bank before Ichang is reached, of
which the most important is the Ching-Chiang, which enters the Yangtse
Chiang on the right bank below Ichang.
At Sha-shih, the port of Chong-Chau Fu, the character of the country
changes, and an extensive embankment thirty feet high, and from seventy
feet to three hundred feet wide at the base, is necessary to protect
the country from inundation. The inland water communication extending
from Ching-chau to Hankau, on the east, and connecting with the higher
parts of the Han River, exposes an immense area to suffering from
floods, and the city itself was almost destroyed on one occasion by
freshets in the inland waters. The facilities of communication afforded
by these routes make Sha-shih a centre of great commercial value, for,
independent of the great highway of the Yangtse Chiang and of the
canals already mentioned, there are also two large canals on the right
bank of the river connecting with the Tung-ting Lake.
Driven onwards by the immense pressure from behind, the waters of the
Yangtse Chiang, though moving in an almost perfect plane, have an
average surface current throughout the year of two knots at Hankau,
where the river is 1,450 yards broad, and has an average depth of
forty-two feet. In their course to the sea, the entrance to the Poyang
Lake is almost the only place below Wuhsueh at which a passenger on
a steamer can detect the influx of any other river. The main river,
its tributaries, and the inland canals all form a part of one great
network, which proclaims the delta of the river. The rivers of East
Hu Peh, North Kiang Si, An Hui, and Kiang Su, which enter the Yangtse
Chiang, are very scarcely recognizable as fresh contributions. Even
the waters of the Yellow River drained into the Yangtse Chiang in 1889
without for some time exciting any comment on the addition to its
volume.
The coal fields of Hu Nan have of late concentrated attention on the
Tung-ting Lake and the valley of the Hsaing as the future trade route
between South and Central China; but until recently the valley of the
Kan, which is navigable by boat from near the Mei-ling Pass on the
frontier of Kwang-Tung to the Poyang Lake, was the great official
waterway from Canton to Peking.
The Shu or Chin Chiang, which passes Nan-Chang-Fu to the north-west
of the lake, and the Chin or Chin-Chia Chiang, which descends from
Kwang-Hsin-Fu on the north-east, are the largest of the other rivers
which drain into the Poyang Lake, but part of the waters of Hui-chu-Fu
in An Hui are also received by it, and it is noteworthy how many routes
exist through the mountains on the east to the Che Kiang and Fu Kein.
The lake, which is reported to be 1,800 square miles in extent, acts,
like the Tung-ting Lake, as a great reservoir to check inundations.
On leaving Kiang Si and entering An Hui, the river at Wuhu reaches
the point where a branch in olden days made its way southwards to the
Chien-tang Gulf, near Hang-Chau Fu. Its course is conjectured to have
been through a series of lagoons, known in ancient times as the five
lakes (the Chen-tse) and its delta is presumed not to have extended
further east than the Lang-shan Hills, but the whole subject has been
a fertile source of controversy. Another branch must have passed by
Sung-kiang Fu, and thence near to Shanghai. The south bank of the
present course of the river seems to give indications that its bed was
in former days on a higher level than now, but at the present day it is
only by embankments that the Yangtse Chiang is prevented from finding a
way for some of its surplus waters by the Tai Hu and Su-chau to the sea.
The area of the Tai-Hu and the other lakes in the southern delta of
the Yangtse Chiang has been estimated at 1,200 square miles (out of a
total area of 5,400 square miles), and the total length of the small
channels used for irrigation and navigation at 36,000 miles. But these
figures are based upon imperfect maps of the country, and therefore not
thoroughly trustworthy.
On the north bank of the river an even more marvellous system of
artificial waterworks exists. The Huai River, which, with its
seventy-two tributaries, is a most important commercial route to north
An Hui and Ho Nan, used to find a natural course to the sea to the
south of Shan Tung, but has been diverted by a double series of lakes
and innumerable canals, and has now no existence as a river east of
the Grand Canal. The enlargement of some lakes and the excavations of
others were carried out with a view to preventing too great a pressure
on any one point of the Grand Canal south of the old course of the
Yellow River. The greater part of the Huai now finds its way to the
Yangtse Chiang through different openings in a large canal, which runs
almost parallel with the river for a distance of 140 miles. North of
this canal lies an immense parallelogram, estimated by Père Gandar at
2,300,000 hectares (8,876 square miles) in extent, which is below the
water-level. This is intersected by a series of waterways kept under
the most careful control, and constitutes one of the most valuable
rice fields in the country. To protect it from inundations by the
sea, immense dykes and a large canal stretch north and south between
the Yangtse Chiang and the old course of the Yellow River. Through
these dykes are eighteen openings for canals to the sea, but the main
drainage is southwards to the Yangtse Chiang. Between the dykes and the
sea lie the flats which form the great salt-fields of Central China.
The Yangtse Chiang in its lower reaches is subject to great and rapid
changes, of which little trace is evident to the eye after the lapse
of a few years, though the depth of the river in many parts is 140
feet and more. One of the most notable instances is at Chin-Kiang.
The earliest European travellers to Peking by the Grand Canal speak
invariably of the city of Kua Chau, and only incidentally refer to the
passage of the Yangtse Chiang. At present the nearest entrances to the
northern and southern portions of the Grand Canal are miles apart;
the passage between them, along the waters of the Yangtse Chiang, is
often tedious and sometimes impracticable. But at the time the southern
entrance to the canal was by a canal which ran between Chin-Kiang and
the river, and debouched opposite Golden Island, which was within
hailing distance of Kua Chau.
When our fleet ascended the Yangtse Chiang in 1842, it was to the south
of this island that it passed. Now to the south of “the island” is
cultivated land, studded with trees and villages, and the only existing
canal south of Golden Island is so shallow as to be in winter not
navigable even to boats. On the north of the so-called island (Golden
Island) the city of Kua Chau has been completely engulfed, and even its
north wall has long since been lost to sight.
The changes which are taking place in the lower reaches of the river,
in the formation of islands and the alteration of channels, are on
an even larger scale. One of the best-known instances is the island
of Tsungming, near Shanghai, the population which rose from 12,700
families at the end of the Thirteenth Century to 89,000 at the
beginning of the Eighteenth, and is now estimated at 1,150,000 souls.
The great river known to Europeans throughout its whole length as the
Yangtse, or Yangtse Chiang, from the name which it bears on Chinese
maps in its tidal portion only, undergoes many a change of name. In its
higher waters in Tibet, the Murus, or Mur-usu, or Murui-osu (“Tortuous
River”) joins the Napchitai-ulan-muren and Tokton-ai-ulan-muren, and
below their confluence the river is known as the Dre-chu, or Di-chu,
variations of which have reached us through different travellers in
Bichu, Bicui, Brichu, and the Brius of Marco Polo. Its Tibetan name is
Link-arab, and the Chinese name Tung-tien-ho. Where the river forms the
boundary between Tibet and China, it is called by Chinese the Chin (or
Kin) Sha Chiang, and by the Tibetans the N’geh-chu; near the confluence
of the Yalung it is called the Pai-Shui-Chiang, or White Water River;
and as far as Sui Fu (or Sii-chu Fu) the Chin Ho. In the gorges of
Ichang it is the Ta-ch’a Ho (river of great débris). At Sha-shih it has
the name of Ching Chiang, from Ching, an ancient Division of China,
through which it passes. Below Hankau it is called the Chiang, Ch’ang
Chiang (Long River) Ta Chiang, or Ta-Kuan-Chiang (Great Official
River), and for the last two hundred miles of its course it appears
as the Yangtse Chiang, a name which it gains from Yang, another of
the ancient divisions of the empire, and which is still retained by
Yang-chau-Fu.
The fall of the river is very rapid. Mr. Rockhill assigns an altitude
of 13,000 feet to the place where he first crossed it, some distance
below the junction of the Mur-usu with the Napchitai and Toktonai
Rivers, and of 12,000 feet to the ferry where he recrossed it
eighty-four miles lower down. From Batang (8,540 feet) to Wa-Wu, in Sze
Chuen (1,900 feet), the fall was estimated by Mr. Baber at not less
than eight feet per mile; thence to Huang-kuo-shu (1,200 feet) at six
feet per mile; below this to Ping-shan (1,025 feet) about three feet;
and from Ping-shan to Chung-Ching (630 feet) approximately nineteen
inches, and in its lower course less than six inches. The fall between
Chung-Ching and Ichang (129 feet) is about thirteen and a half inches;
thence to Hankau (fifty-three feet) only two and a half inches, and
from Hankau to the sea little more than one inch per mile.
THE THAMES
CHARLES DICKENS, JR.
Although scarcely any of the scenery of the Thames above Oxford is
to be mentioned in the same breath with the beauties of Nuneham, of
Henley, of Marlow, or of Cliveden, there is still much to attract the
lover of nature who is content with quiet and pastoral landscapes
and to whom the peaceful solitude through which the greater part of
the journey lies, will have a peculiar charm. It is not advisable to
take boat at Cricklade. For some distance below this little Wiltshire
town the stream is narrow, and in dry seasons uncomfortably shallow.
Travellers, therefore, who come to Cricklade, with the intention of
seeing as much of the river as possible, may be recommended to take
the very pretty walk of about ten miles along the towing-path of the
Thames and Severn Canal to Lechlade. Here the river proper may be
said to begin. Half a mile after leaving Lechlade on the right is St.
John’s Lock with an average fall of three feet; and just below it is
the St. John’s Bridge, with the Trout Inn on the left bank. For some
distance below this stream is very narrow, and generally weedy; and,
after passing Buscot Church, a couple of sharp turns brings us on the
left to Buscot Lock. A couple of miles lower down is the little village
of Eaton Hastings; Faringdon Hill, with its large clump of Scotch firs
being a conspicuous object on the right bank and two miles further
again is Radcot Bridge, distant from Oxford twenty-six miles. The next
point is Old Man’s Bridge, twenty-five miles from Oxford, and after
about two miles of rather monotonous travelling, we come sharp on the
left to Rushy Lock and a mile further to Tadpole Bridge, twenty-two
miles from Oxford, with the Trout Inn, a convenient place for luncheon.
About a couple of miles from Tadpole is Ten Foot Bridge and a mile or
so lower down are the village and ferry of Duxford. A mile or so below
this there is considerable shoaling and half a mile further an island
with Poplars, where the Berks bank should be followed. After making two
or three bends, beyond this point, there is a prettily wooded bank on
the right, and a short mile of capital water for rowing brings us to
New Bridge from Oxford fifteen miles, which, notwithstanding its name,
is of great antiquity. Another mile brings us to the bridge where was
formerly Langley’s or Ridge’s Weir. About four and a half miles from
New Bridge is Bablock Hithe Ferry, ten and a half miles from Oxford,
below which there is a fine stream, the scenery becoming very good,
with fine bold hills and the Earl of Abingdon’s woods at Wytham. After
passing Skinner’s Weir, the river twists and turns about a good deal
until we reach Pinkhill Lock, eight and a half miles from Oxford, with
a fall of about three feet. Round a good many corners and rather more
than a mile off is Eynsham Bridge. Good reaches for about three miles
bring us to King’s Weir, sharp on the right, the stream to the left
going to the Duke’s Lock, the junction with the Oxford Canal. Passing
presently under Godstow Bridge, are seen the ruins of Godstow Nunnery
and Godstow Lock, three and a half miles from Oxford, on leaving which
a pretty view of the city is obtained. Three hundred yards further is
Osney Lock. A little further is Folly Bridge, Oxford.
[Illustration: THE THAMES]
The towing-path after leaving Folly Bridge, Oxford, follows the right
bank. On the left are the boat-rafts and the barges of the various
colleges moored off Christ Church Meadows, where in the winter, after
a flood, there is sometimes capital skating. About three-quarters of
a mile from Folly Bridge are the long bridges across a backwater,
which reënters the Thames--in this part of its course sometimes called
the Isis--half a mile below Iffley. Half a mile below Iffley is the
iron bridge of the Great Western Railway, from beneath which is a
very pretty view of the spires of Oxford, particularly of the tower
of Magdalen College. Along the left bank for some distance is one of
those grand pieces of woodland scenery for which the Thames is so
renowned. The woods extend as far as the iron railway bridge, after
passing which the spire of Abingdon church appears above the trees to
the right. Rather more than a mile below the cottages at Nuneham is
the fall on the left where the old and present channels divide. Half a
mile further and sharp to the left is Abingdon Lock, average fall six
feet, from London 104½ miles, from Oxford seven and one-quarter miles.
The river here runs through flat meadows. The view of Abingdon, with
the spire of St. Helen’s, is very pretty. Culham Lock, a good stone
lock with an average fall of seven feet; Clifton Lock with an average
fall of three feet; and Days Lock with an average fall of four feet six
inches, are passed. A little over a mile on the left bank is Dorchester
with its famous abbey church. The footpath crosses the Roman remains
known as The Dyke Hills. On Sinodun Hill on the right is a fine Roman
camp. Below the ferry on the right is Bensington Lock, with an average
fall of six feet six inches. The country from here to Wallingford is
charmingly wooded.
Wallingford, from London ninety and three-quarter miles, from Oxford
twenty and three-quarter miles is a very convenient place to break the
journey, and the breakfasts and ale at the “Lamb” deserve particular
attention. From Cleeve Lock there is a lovely view of the hills and
woods above Streatley. Goring Lock is a favourite place for campers.
Further on to the right are Basildon church and village and further
still, opposite the beech woods and on the brow of the hill to the
right is Basildon Park. At this point a fine stretch of water runs
almost in a straight line for a considerable distance; the banks on
either side are well wooded, and the view up or down is one of the most
sylvan on the river. Just before making the bend before Pangbourne
Reach is Coombe Lodge with its beautiful park, and at the end of
the chalk ridge on the right is Pangbourne, from London eighty and
three-quarter miles, from Oxford thirty and three-quarter miles.
Below Whitchurch Lock a wooden bridge connects Whitchurch and
Pangbourne, and at its foot is the pretty house known as Thames Bank.
After leaving Mapledurham Lock on the right, there is a charming view.
Caversham Bridge, the nearest point for Reading, and Caversham Lock,
Sonning Lock and Sonning Shiplake Lock and Wargrave and Marsh Lock
bring us distant from London sixty-six miles.
A mile from Marsh Lock we come to Henley. A handsome bridge spans the
river here; the tow-path crosses to the right bank. A short half mile
below greenlands on the right is Hambleden Lock. At the next bend in
the river the red brick house on the right is Culham Court, and here
the view up the river to the poplars and wooded hills above Hambleden
is very charming. Passing Culham keep to the left bank, leaving the
island known as Magpie Island on the right. Half a mile farther, on
the top of the high wooded hill on the left, is a farmhouse on a site
where has been a farm since Domesday Book was compiled. Two miles from
the lock is Medmenham Abbey, with the Abbey Hotel, a well-known and
convenient place for water-parties.
On the right bank at Hurley Lock is the village of Hurley with Lady
Place, so well known in connection with Lord Lovelace in the revolution
of 1688. About half a mile further is Marlow, with its graceful
suspension bridge and ugly church. Three hundred yards below the bridge
is Marlow Lock. Another three-quarters of a mile brings us to Cookham.
Cookham Lock is the most beautifully situated on the river, just under
the woods of Hedsor and Cliveden. The scenery down the next reach and
past the islands is exceedingly beautiful and is generally considered
the finest on the river. Not quite two and a half miles from Cookham
Lock is Boulter’s Lock, from London fifty miles.
Below Maidenhead Bridge is the Great Western Railway bridge, supposed
to be the largest brick bridge in the world. A mile from Maidenhead
is the pleasant village of Bray. Rather more than a quarter of a mile
on the left is Bray Lock. Half a mile further is Monkey Island, and
here for a little distance there is a good stream. Two miles and a
half from Bray Lock, on the right bank, is Surly Hall, an inn well
known to Etonians. About another half mile brings us to Boveney Lock
on the left. On the right is Windsor racecourse, and three-quarters
of a mile down is Athens, the bathing-place of the senior Eton boys.
The Great Western Railway bridge and the Brocas clump on the left are
next passed, and we arrive at Windsor on the right bank and Eton on the
left. The river is here crossed by an iron and stone bridge of three
arches. After passing through Windsor bridge, the right bank on which
is the tow-path should be kept. The rapid and dangerous stream to the
left runs to the weir and the neighbourhood of the Cobbler, as the
long projection from the island is called, is undesirable when there
is much water in the river. Not half a mile below Windsor bridge is
Romney Lock. After passing through Romney Lock, beautiful views of Eton
College, the playing-fields and Poet’s walk are obtained on the left,
and on the right are Windsor Castle and the Home Park. Farther down is
the Victoria Bridge, one of two which cross the river at each extremity
of the park, and about a mile and a half from Romney Lock is Datchet
on the left bank. After the second of the royal bridges, the Albert,
is passed, the right bank must be kept, and a long narrow cut crossed
half way by a wooden bridge leads to Old Windsor Lock. Three-quarters
of a mile from the lock, in pretty scenery, is the well-known “Bells of
Ousely” tavern. Half a mile farther down Magna Charta Island, with its
cottage is on the left. Runnymead is on the right bank, which should be
followed to Bell Weir Lock.
The Colne enters the Thames on the left between Bell Weir Lock and
Staines. Two or three hundred yards farther are Staines Bridge and the
town of Staines. After Penton Hook Lock about one and three-quarter
miles from Staines is Laleham and the ferry. Still keeping to the left
bank, we next come to Chertsey Lock. Hence the river winds very much
between flat banks to Shepperton Lock on the left. Here the Wey enters
the Thames. Three-quarters of a mile below Halliford are Coway or
Causeway Stakes, and immediately afterwards comes Walton Bridge which
consists of four arches. On the right below is Mount Felix and the
village of Walton. Half a mile on the left is a tumbling bay, whose
neighbourhood will best be avoided, and half a mile below this on the
right, is the cut leading to Sunbury Lock. About one and a half miles
below the lock is an island, either side of which may be taken. On the
right are Molesey Hurst and racecourse and on the left, Hampton. Here
is a ferry, and on the left bank below the church Garrick’s Villa.
Below Molesey Lock is Hampton Court Bridge, an ugly iron erection,
Hampton Court being on the left and East Molesey, with the railway
station, on the right. Nearly a mile below the bridge, on the right,
is Thames Ditton. Passing Messenger’s Island we come to Surbiton,
and nearly a mile lower down to Kingston Bridge. The next point is
Teddington Lock. On the left Teddington and an almost uninterrupted
line of villas extends along the bank as far as Twickenham. There is
an iron foot bridge from Teddington to the lock. About a mile from the
lock is Eel Pie Island, opposite which are Petersham, and Ham House,
the seat of the Earl of Dysart, almost hidden among the trees. On the
left is Orleans House, and down the river rises Richmond Hill, crowned
with the famous “Star and Garter.” Making the bend just below the
next island is, on the right bank, the ivy-clad residence of the Duke
of Buccleuch. Not quite three miles from Teddington Lock is Richmond
Bridge. A short distance below the Bridge is Richmond Lock, ninety-six
and a half miles from Oxford and fifteen and a half miles from London.
The trip is generally concluded here, the banks of the river below this
point presenting little or nothing to attract the visitor.
Passing Isleworth, Sion House, the seat of the Duke of Northumberland,
Brentford, Kew with its Palace, Church and Observatory, the famous Kew
Gardens, Chiswick and Chiswick Eyot (famous for its swans), we arrive
at Hammersmith with its long bridge, opened in June, 1887, and are
practically in London. From here we note Fulham Episcopal Palace, the
summer home of the Bishops of London who have been lords of the manor
from an early date, Putney, Hurlingham House, Wandesworth, Battersea
Park, Chelsea and its iron bridge, Vauxhall, Lambeth Palace, the
London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Westminster Bridge,
the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, Charing Cross Railway
Bridge, the Victoria Embankment with Cleopatra’s Needle, Waterloo
Bridge, Somerset House, The Temple Gardens, Blackfriar’s Bridge, St.
Paul’s Cathedral, Southwark Bridge, St. Saviour’s and come to London
Bridge, opened by King William IV. and Queen Adelaide in 1831. Here
old London Bridge stood for more than six hundred years, a quaint
structure adorned “with sumptuous buildings and statelie and beautiful
houses on either syde”; and at the gatehouse of the bridge the heads
of traitors were exposed. On leaving London Bridge we enter the Pool,
which extends to Limehouse and is divided into the Upper and Lower Pool
by an imaginary line drawn across the Thames at Wapping. The Pool is
always crowded with steamers, sailing-vessels and barges. On the left
bank stands The Monument, commemorating the Great Fire of 1666, which
began in the house of the King’s baker in Pudding Lane. Not far from
it is Billingsgate Fish Market, then follows the Custom House and the
massive, solemn and impressive Tower. Tower Bridge, the foundation
stone for which was laid in 1886, is passed, below which begin the
great docks. Wapping Old Stairs, made classic by Dibdin’s song, and
Shadwell are passed before we leave the Pool and enter Limehouse Reach.
The Thames now bends to the south and we pass the great West India
docks, the wall of which includes an area of nearly three hundred
acres. We pass Greenwich, famous for its Hospital (the old Palace),
Observatory and Park, after which the river takes a northerly course.
Woolwich with its Arsenal and Barracks, Shooter’s Hill, from which a
fine view of London is obtained and now the river turns south, for the
Thames is a river of many windings. At length we reach Tilbury and its
Docks and Gravesend, and here we are at the mouth of the river. The
Midway enters the Thames between the Isle of Grain and the Isle of
Sheppey and is now a muddy river with nothing beautiful on either bank.
Half way across the estuary, and fifty miles from London Bridge, is the
Nore Lightship, established in 1730.
THE CONNECTICUT
TIMOTHY DWIGHT
Connecticut River rises in New Hampshire. Its fountains are between
44°, 50′ and 45° north latitude, and nearly in 71° west longitude from
London; about twenty-five miles eastward from its channel, where in
the same latitude it divides Stuart[1] and Colebrook from Canaan in
Vermont. These fountains, which are at the distance of two or three
miles from each other, flow in two small converging rivulets; one of
which empties its waters into a pond, covering about six acres, whence
it proceeds to a lake, which from its resemblance to the numerical
figure 8, I shall name Double Lake. The other rivulet, also, unites
with the same lake; which is two miles long and half a mile wide;
and covers between five and six hundred acres. Hence the waters flow
in a single channel, about seven miles, into another lake, which
from its figure I shall call Heart Lake;[2] about six miles long and
three broad, and covering between nine and ten thousand acres. From
Heart Lake with a material addition to its current, the river runs
north-westward for four miles and a half; and is a continual rapid
through the whole distance. In one part of this reach it descends
fifty feet in a course of three hundred. Below the rapid, it receives
from the northward a stream called Perry’s Brook; and a little further
down, another, called Cedar Brook. About two miles further on it
receives another from the south, called Dear Water Brook; and, about
a mile further, a fourth from the north called Back Brook, conveying
into it the waters of a small lake, called Back Lake. That portion
of the Connecticut, which is between Perry’s Brook and Back Brook,
four miles in length, is named the _Dead Water_: the ground on either
side being low and level; and the stream winding, sluggish and deep.
After receiving the waters of Back Brook, it runs for one mile over a
succession of rocks, termed the Great Falls; in one part of which it
descends, perpendicularly, over a ledge twelve feet.
[Footnote 1: Now Stewartstown.]
[Footnote 2: Now Connecticut Lake.]
Before its junction with Indian River, the Connecticut runs about the
same distance with that stream, and discharges more than twice its
quantity of water into the common channel. Hall’s River is sensibly
less than Indian River.
The course of the Connecticut to Perry’s brook, between twenty-five
and thirty miles is north-westward; thence to the forty-fifth degree
of north latitude west-south-west; thence to the city of Hartford
south-south-west, and thence to the Sound about south-east.
The length of this river is about four hundred and ten miles. From
Griswold’s point, in Lyme, to the forty-fifth degree of north latitude,
the distance measured by its waters, is about three hundred and
seventy-four; and thence to the head-waters from thirty-five to forty.
Its meanders throughout a great part of its course are almost perpetual.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE
CONNECTICUT]
The number of its tributary streams is very great. The waters which
form the Connecticut are remarkably pure and light, such as we commonly
term the best water for washing. The tributary streams, almost without
an exception, issue from hills formed of stone, covered with a
gravelly soil; and roll over a gravelly and stony bed through their
whole progress. The waters of the parent stream are, therefore,
everywhere pure, potable, perfectly salubrious, and inferior to none in
the world for the use of seamen in long voyages.
As a navigable water, this river is inferior to many others of a
smaller size. This is owing to two causes; falls and shallows.
The falls are the following: Little Falls, Great, Indian, Judd’s,
Fifteen-mile, Lebanon, Waterqueechy, Bellow’s, Miller’s, South Hadley,
Enfield.
The Fifteen-mile falls, Waterqueechy, and Enfield, and the greatest
part of the distance attributed to the others, are mere rapids; and
there are also other small rapids, which are of no consequence.
The Valley of the Connecticut is a tract of land, extending from the
Sound to Hereford Mountain; five miles beyond the forty-fifth degree of
latitude. In the largest sense it includes the tract which is bounded
by the Lyme range on the east, and by a confused cluster of hills,
commencing at the Sound, and terminating below Middletown, then by the
Middletown range, then by that of Mount Tom, and then by that of the
Green Mountains, on the west. In this sense it is of very different
breadths, from five miles perhaps to forty-five; and its surface is
composed of an indefinite succession of hills, valleys and plains. But
there is another sense in which the phrase is used with more obvious
propriety and in which it denotes that portion of this vast extent,
which appears as a valley to the eye, moving in the road along its
course from its mouth to the great bend in the northern part of the
township of Stuart.
The Valley of the Connecticut extends through almost four degrees
of latitude, and is bounded on the north by Hereford Mountain; a
magnificent eminence, ascending five miles beyond the line. The
superior limit of this mountain is an arch more gracefully formed than
that of any other within my remembrance. Its elevation is about 2,000
feet above the neighbouring country.
The Intervals on this Valley begin at Hall’s River, about twelve or
fourteen miles from its mouth. The word, Interval is used by me in
a sense altogether different from that which it has in an English
Dictionary. Doctor Belknap spells it Intervale, and confesses his
want of authority for the use of the word. There is in truth no such
word; unless we are to look for its existence in vulgar and mistaken
pronunciation. Originally, when applied to this very subject, it seems
to have meant nothing more than that extent of ground which lay between
the original bank of the river and the river itself.
This extent was composed of land, peculiar in its form and qualities.
The English, so far as I know, have no appropriate name for grounds
of this class. Whether such lands exist on the rivers of Great
Britain, I am ignorant, having never seen any definite account of
them, or allusion to them in any book descriptive of the surface of
that country. From the accounts of Sir John Sinclair’s _Statistical
History of Scotland_ of the lands on some rivers in that country, I
should suppose that a part of them might be Intervals, yet they are
distinguished by no appropriate name. On some rivers in this country
there are none; and on others very few. Wherever they exist, they are
objects of peculiar attention to farmers and subjects of much customary
conversation. That a name should be given to them, therefore, is a
thing of course. Interval is the name which they have accidentally
obtained in this country; and a New Englander relishes it more than
_flats_ or _bottoms_.
This word, in its appropriate meaning denotes lands formed by a long
continued and gradual alluvion of a river.
Beauty of landscape is an eminent characteristic of this Valley. From
Hereford Mountain to Saybrook, it is almost a continued succession
of delightful scenery. No other tract within my knowledge, and from
the extensive information which I have received, I am persuaded that
no other tract within the United States of the same extent can be
compared to it, with respect to those objects which arrest the eye of
the painter and the poet. There are indeed dull, uninteresting spots in
considerable numbers. These, however, are little more than the discords
which are generally regarded as necessary to perfect the harmony. The
beauty and the grandeur are here more varied than elsewhere. They
return oftener; they are longer continued; they are finished by a hand
operating in a superior manner. A gentleman[3] of great respectability,
who had travelled in England, France and Spain, informed me, that the
prospects along the Connecticut excelled those on the beautiful rivers
in these three countries in two great particulars--the Forests and the
Mountains (he might, I believe, have added the Intervals also); and
fell short of them in nothing but population and the productions of
art. It is hardly necessary to observe that both these are advancing
with a rapid step (perhaps sufficiently rapid), towards a strong
resemblance to European improvement.
[Footnote 3: The late Chief Justice Ellsworth.]
Nor are these grounds less distinguished by their beauty. The form
of most of them is elegant. A river, passing through them, becomes
almost of course winding. As the earth, of which they are composed,
is of uniform texture, the impressions made by the stream upon
the border, are also nearly uniform. Hence this border is almost
universally a handsome arch with a margin entirely neat, and very
commonly ornamented with a fine fringe of shrubs and trees. Nor is
the surface of these grounds less pleasing. The terraced form and
the undulations are both eminently handsome. In a country abounding
in hills, plains moderate in their extent, like these, are always
agreeable. Their universal fertility makes a cheerful impression on
every eye. A great part of them is formed into meadows. Meadows are
here more profitable, and everywhere more beautiful, than lands devoted
to any other culture. Here they are extended from five to five hundred
acres, and are everywhere covered with a verdure peculiarly rich and
varied. The vast fields, also, which are not in meadow, exhibit all the
productions of the climate, interspersed in parallelograms, divided
only by mathematical lines, and mingled in a charming confusion. In
many places, large and thrifty orchards, and everywhere forest trees
standing singly, of great height and graceful figures, diversify the
landscape.
The first object, however, in the whole landscape is undoubtedly the
Connecticut itself. This stream may, perhaps, with as much propriety
as any in the world be named the Beautiful River. From Stuart to the
Sound, it uniformly sustains this character. The purity, salubrity and
sweetness of its waters; the frequency and elegance of its meanders;
its absolute freedom from all aquatic vegetables; the uncommon and
universal beauty of its banks; here a smooth and winding beach; there
covered with rich verdure; now fringed with bushes; now crowned with
lofty trees; and now formed by the intruding hill, the rude bluff and
the shaggy mountain; are objects which no traveller can thoroughly
describe and no reader adequately imagine. When to these are added the
numerous towns, villages and hamlets, almost everywhere exhibiting
marks of prosperity and improvement; the rare appearance of decline;
the numerous churches lifting their spires in frequent succession; the
neat schoolhouses, everywhere occupied; and the mills busied on such
a multitude of streams; it may be safely asserted that a pleasanter
journey will rarely be found than that which is made in the Connecticut
Valley.
MOSEL
F. WARRE CORNISH
So we embarked under a bright evening sky, and the smooth stream took
us swiftly down. It was a beautiful moment; the evening deepened over
the green water and the red rocks, till dusk fell, and we ran the
boat aground, hiding the oars in a willow-bed, and tramped with our
luggage into Ruwer, the neighbouring village, having been assured that
wherever we stopped we should find good lodging. And so it proved; not
a village which failed to supply good food, decently cooked, excellent
wine and golden beer, clean beds, moderate charges, and, best of all,
willing and cheerful hospitality, such as one finds in Tyrol and the
Bavarian highlands. There was not a dull reach from Trier to Coblenz.
The scenery is not so impressive as that of the Danube or the famous
windings of the Rhine.
But the hills of the Mosel Valley are beautiful in form and varied with
rocks red as those of Devonshire, or grey slate in slabs and spires, or
dark volcanic, like the Eifel. Everywhere there are beautiful woods,
valleys guarded by ancient castles, and smiling upland meadows far away
among the hills.
As we embarked on the Mosel, let us praise the water itself, to be
in company with which was joy enough; in colour green, neither like
emerald nor chrysoprase, nor like the crystal of the rushing Traun, or
of the deep basin, the home of the soaring grayling, where the river
leaps over the Traun fall. Nor like the water that comes down at
Locarno or Verallo; but a deeper, statelier colour, lighter than the
Kyle between Mull and Argyll, darker than the Thames at Cookham when
at its best after a dry July. In all the shallows wave long tresses of
Undine’s hair, and the surface of the water is broken by little ruffing
eddies into the loveliest water-pattern. Perhaps other rivers are like
this; I do not know them. It seemed to me a peculiar and native charm
of this river, never sullen, never boisterous, the lady of German
rivers. _Smooth-sliding_ is the proper epithet. I wish my reed were
vocal to praise her aright. She has her own poet--Ausonius; but his
poem is rather a catalogue than a hymn of praise, and he takes her for
a river, not a goddess, as she revealed herself to us.
Ruwer, the village where we were to spend the night, was shimmering
between sunset and starlight, and had its own light besides, for the
military were here, and all the windows ablaze, and Faust and Wagner
and their loves had come out of Trier to take the air and drink, noisy
but respectable.
The next morning was the 1st of September, a dawn of golden haze
telling of hot tramps over stubbles and turnip-fields. We were cool
and contented, and did not lust after partridges. We find our boat
in the dewy willow-bed and give ourselves to the stream. We have got
used to the rustic oars, and it is no exertion to row with the swift
current, which here and there breaks into a little rapid and makes the
boat dance--on one occasion we shipped nearly half a pint of water. It
is no good to describe what was enjoyed and is remembered; but here
are the facts, though mere facts tell little. Red sandstone cliffs,
alternating with grey slate; broad meadows of Alpine grass freckled
with pink crocus; walnut and apple orchards; sober villages with dark
roofs and spires; here and there a ruined castle; high “faraways” of
pasture and forest; cavalry and artillery flashing and rumbling as they
march to the manœuvres along the riverside roads; slow wagons drawn by
fox-coloured cows; on and on we slide, stopping where we like, bathing
when we like, till at evening we see a lofty rock at a bend of the
river; and a party of ladies in a punt. Boldly we call out to ask if
there is a good lodging here, and gaily “_Ja freilich!_” comes back the
answer across the river, and we land and put up at a clean and friendly
inn. The parents and two hard-featured and hospitable daughters welcome
us; the whole family turn out of their rooms and turn us in, and we
sup under the stars and the velvet sky in front of the wooded rock,
which plunges straight into the river and gives its name, “Echo,” to
the inn. The stars were very grand that night, and the invocation of
Echo unearthly as always; it was impossible not to believe here in
_Kuhlebjorn_ and wood-spirits.
The next morning (Sedan-day) we were taken down to the bank by father,
mother and the two daughters, and find the little brother clearing out
the boat. How much willingness and courtesy for so small a payment.
We said good-bye to the friendly family, wishing them many guests
and good weather for their wine, and dropped down to Mühtheim and
Berncastle, famous for its “Doctor,” the best wine on the Mosel, though
much “Doctor” is sold which did not grow at Berncastle, as there are
not vines enough at Zeltinger to furnish half the Zeltinger drunk in
England. But the name matters little if the wine is good. At Berncastle
or rather at Cues, on the opposite bank, there is a large modern
hotel near an iron bridge; but there is also an ancient castle, and
a conventual building founded by Cardinal Cusanus in 1465, no longer
occupied by Monks.
I wish I could convey something of the pleasure which the rare beauty
of the green water and the continual variety of the landscape gave
us; the strong rippling of the stream when the rowers, out of mere
idleness, put on a spurt and the steerer enjoys his ease; the still
backwaters among the rushes, where the current is guided by groynes
into the mid-stream; the sun-smitten cliffs; the soft, green slopes and
valleys, where cloud-shadows sleep. The new landscapes came gliding
into view with a change at every bend; but all is harmony. We pass
pious processions of country people with banners and “Aves,” the priest
leading them. They seem tired but happy--country people of the humblest
kind, unreached by tourists. The trains tinkle to warn people of the
crossings, the slow cow-wains creak along the roads, little boys shout
injurious remarks to the “_Engeländer_,” women kneel by the stream and
wash linen, the fish leap in the shallows, the sun shines, and the day
goes by. How good the remembrance of the walk over the hills, cutting
off a long loop, while two of us took the boat round; for the Mosel
bends round more than once almost in a circle, as at Durham and Château
Gaillard, and you walk across through grasshopper pastures and steep
vineyard paths, through cool dark woods and heathy summits looking far
away, through quivering haze, towards Coblenz and Mainz. How good, too,
the blazing sun in little Kinsheim, the _Mittagsessen_ and reposeful
hour under the tulip-tree in the hot shady garden at the back of the
inn.
Another great loop to Alf, a little boy and his sister bringing the
boat from picturesque Pünderich, their dwelling place. Alf will be
remembered, not for itself--for it is a tiresome little watering place,
crowded and hot, and noisy with voices of German trippers,--but for
our excursion to Elz. We climbed out of the trench in which the river
runs, and drove across a happy tableland of orchards; roads bordered
with fruit-trees, wide-spreading meadows, cornland and wood--peaceful
German country sleeping in afternoon sunshine, mowing and reaping,
planting and building, unchanged for a thousand years; then the road
descended through shady woods, and, lo! at a turning, “pricked with
incredible pinnacles into heaven,” with gables, roofs and turrets
innumerable, a castle, but, oh, what a castle! Here lived the Sleeping
Beauty; hither King Thrushbeard brought his bride; such a building
Hop-o-my-Thumb descried from his tree-top. Up in that turret was the
spinning-wheel; under that window twanged Blondel’s zither; from that
gateway Sintram and the trusty Rolf spurred forward, and St. Hubert
set out to chase the holy stag; and knights and ladies, with falcon
on wrist or with cross bow and spear, went out a-hunting, or rode “a
stately train in pomp of gold and jewels, velvet and vair” to joust at
Worms-upon-the-Rhine. Henceforward I have seen the German Zauberland;
henceforward nothing can add to or take from this impression. My dream
is come true.
The castle stands on an isolated rock with deep wooded ravines on all
sides, to which no stranger may go. The saucy castle defied all its
neighbours and vexed the lands of my lord archbishop the Elector of
Trier, who, to curb its pride, built another castle over against it and
called it “Trutz-Elz” (Who care for Elz?). I don’t know the rest of the
story, but there stands Elz as good as ever, possessed by the lords of
that ilk, and Trutz-Elz is a ruin.
Our time is running out. We left Alf in a dawning of golden mist,
and rowed merrily down to Ediger, with its picturesque church, all
flying buttresses, pinnacles and crockets, like a church in a Dürer
background, to Cochem, with its restored castle and a sense of modern
prosperity which is better for the town than for the contemplative
traveller. Another clean little hostelry at Treis, with good wine and a
cheery landlord. There is a river at Treis and a possibility of small
trout if we take great trouble; but we don’t; it is too hot to take
trouble; there is no water in the stream, and the fish are asleep. The
river now makes up its devious mind to go straight for Coblenz in long
reaches, with groynes on either bank. It comes on to rain; we bump
a rock and dance along a rapid. Then come commercial buildings with
chimneys, reminding us that we live in the iron age. The stream widens,
the rain pours down, the Roman bridge comes in sight. Coblenz _finis
chartæque viæque_.
May we go there again.
THE IRRAWADDY
EMILY A. RICHINGS
The mighty Irrawaddy, which traverses the entire length of Burma,
impresses itself on popular imagination as the living soul of the land,
moulded and coloured through countless ages by the influence of the
majestic river. If Egypt be the gift of the Nile, Burma is scarcely
less the gift of the Irrawaddy, deepened by myriad tributary streams,
and flowing in ever-widening volume from forest cradle to fan-shaped
Delta. The source of the historic stream is still veiled in mystery,
as it winds through impenetrable jungle and untrodden mountains until
it becomes navigable for the last thousand miles to the sea. Manifold
traditions encompass the great river with that atmosphere of glamour
which invests Burma with romantic charm.
The song of the river breathes of nomadic hordes and contending races,
of old-world kings, mythical warriors, and legendary saints, until
the dominant Burmese united in the Irrawaddy Valley, and the tribes
wandering down the lateral tributaries were absorbed or subjected by
the ruling power.
[Illustration: THE IRRAWADDY]
The modern voyager generally takes the downward course of the river,
journeying by train to Katha, through the palm-studded plains and
dense forests skirting the blue hills which divide Burma from the
Shan States on the borders of Siam. Under the hovering mists of dawn
giant teak and feathery bamboo, looped together with coils of
all-embracing creeper, make a rich tangle of matted foliage. Bhamo,
the head of navigation as regards the great steamers of the Irrawaddy
Flotilla, and the frontier town on the borders of China, lies along
the yellow sand-bank of the foreshore. The Siamese name, signifying
“City of Pans,” is derived from the local manufacture of iron and
earthenware jars, cauldrons, and pitchers, dating from primitive times.
Bhamo, formerly a walled Shan town, fiercely contested both by China
and Burma, was captured four times by the Chinese, easily reinforced
from their own frontier only thirty miles away. The town of 12,000
inhabitants, protected by an English battery and a police force of
Indians and Kachins, is still the meeting-place of converging races.
Chinese, Moslems, and Hindus possess their own quarters in the squalid
city, where the astute Celestials retain the largest share of local
trade, importing cotton and salt, or exporting honey, hides, ochre and
chestnuts, with thousands of cooking pans. Blue robes, sun-hats and
pigtails, grey roofs with upcurved eaves, and tinselled banners waving
round the tarnished red of a Joss-house bristling with weird figures,
transport our thoughts to the Middle Kingdom, reached by the sandy
track beyond the ruined walls. Tom-toms beat in the Hindu quarter, and
dark figures glide past with jingling anklets and filigree nose-rings,
or lie supine on rickety _charpoys_ in the open street. A muezzin
chants from the minaret of a tiny mosque, and the bearded sons of
Islam spread their prayer-carpets in the dust, prostrating themselves
in obedience to the voice which summons them to prayer on these alien
shores. Beneath the banyan trees of an arcaded court a marble Buddha
dreams amid the shadows, and kneeling Shan women offer their morning
orisons at the crumbling altar. Tall black head-dresses and dark-blue
skirts, embroidered with many-coloured wools, mark a distinct racial
type. Silver cylinders weigh down dusky ears, silver hoops encircle
sunburned necks, and the glittering chain of a silver needle-case
hung from the waist-belt of an almond-eyed girl denotes her rank as a
Shan lady. The intelligent faces are bright and animated, but every
smile discloses teeth blackened with betelnut. The men of the party
sip tea and smoke their silver pipes under the green boughs, leaving
the devotional exercises to their womankind. A Burman in rose-coloured
turban and plaid kilt lolls upon a stone parapet, and Kachin women,
with mops of rough hair and furtive faces washed in grease, pass
the gateway with loads of elephant-grass on their backs, bringing a
barbaric element into the scene.
Pagoda, Joss-house, and Buddhist temple stand in friendly proximity,
and no war of sect or creed disturbs the harmony of life under
the tolerant British rule; but the Buddhism of the Shan and the
Nature-worship of the Kachin show many points of contact.
The arrival of the Irrawaddy steamer, towing cargo “flats” in its wake,
is the event of the week, and rustic barges thread the narrow defile
above Bhamo, bringing their contingent of produce and passengers from
distant villages on the confines of civilization. One of the great
“flats” is a floating market, where Burman and Kachin, Shan and Chin,
display their varied merchandise to the motley throng of customers.
Gaudy silks and cottons, rude pottery and quaint lacquer-work, barbaric
toys and trinkets, fruit, vegetables, and sweetmeats, with household
utensils of every kind, fill the dusky space of the covered deck with
brilliant colour. Indolent Burmese doze and smoke on gaily-striped
quilts, while their wives chaffer and barter with business-like aplomb;
for the Burmese woman is the breadwinner of the family, and retains
most of the commercial transactions of the country in her capable
hands. A pretty girl in white jacket and apple-green skirt, with a pink
_pawa_ floating on her shoulders, sits on a pile of yellow cushions
and smokes her big cheroot of chopped wood and tobacco in meditative
calm. Diamonds glitter in her ears, and ruby studs fasten her muslin
bodice, for she goes as a bride to some distant riverside town, and
carries her “dot” on her back. Strings of onions and scarlet chillies
hang from the rafters above bales of fur from China. Children flit up
and down, like many-coloured butterflies, in quaint costumes brightened
with pink scarfs and tiny turban, miniature replicas of their elders,
for no special garb of childhood exists in Burma, and the general
effect suggests an assemblage of gaily-dressed dolls. Shan women in
tall black turbans stand round a harper as he twangs the silken strings
of a black and gold lyre with sounding-board of varnished deerskin.
The weird fractional tones of native music, discordant to European
ears, harmonize with the semi-barbaric environment as the musician
chants some heroic legend of the mythical past. Presently he approaches
a mattress of white and scarlet, occupied by a woman whose brown
Mongolian face is blanched to the pallor of age-worn marble by chronic
pain, and sings a wild incantation over the sufferer, who by the advice
of a fortune-teller undertakes the weary journey to pray for healing
at the Golden Pagoda of Rangoon. The charm apparently succeeds, for
the tired eyes close, and as the song dies off in a whispering cadence
a peaceful slumber smoothes the lines of pain in the troubled face.
Family parties sit round iron tea-kettles, and girls bring bowls of
steaming rice from the rude galley where native passengers cook their
food.
Past green islets in sandy reaches, hemmed in by bold cliffs conveying
vague suggestions of Nile scenery, the great steamer pursues her way.
Above dark clumps of banyan and tamarind, the golden spires of Buddhist
monasteries, or the shining _tee_ of village pagodas, invest the
changing landscape with the unique individuality of Burma, distinct in
character from the Indian Empire, though politically comprised within
it. A magical peace and purity, suggesting a world fresh from the
Creator’s hand, transfigures hill and dale with ineffable lucidity of
atmosphere and delicacy of colour. The solemnity of the deep gorges
piercing the profound gloom of virgin forest supplies a contrasting
note of haunting mystery, the loneliness of these upper reaches merely
accentuated by occasional signs of human life and activity in the vast
solitudes through which the river flows. As the steamer swings round
a projecting rock, the grotesque forms of two colossal leographs--the
hybrid lion and gryphon of Burmese mythology--rear their white bulk
against a green tuft of towering palms at the gate of a Buddhist temple
flanking the grey cone of a tall pagoda. Yellow-robed monks lean on
the balustrade of an island monastery hidden like a bird’s nest amid
the thick foliage, and beautiful even in decay. The broad-eaved roofs,
with their carved and gilded pinnacles, are miracles of art, for the
historic foundation was formerly renowned throughout Upper Burma,
and on festivals even the dog-fish, for which this reach of water is
famous, were decorated with strips of gold-leaf, and tamed to come at
the call of the monks. Farther on a yellow procession descends a long
flight of rocky steps cut in the face of a steep cliff crowned by a
monastic pile bristling with gilt finials and vermilion spires. At
the foot of the mountain stairway a huge funeral pyre of forest trees
attracts groups of villagers, who land from a fleet of carved and
decorated boats in festal array, for a monk is to be cremated after the
invariable custom of Buddhist orders, and the ceremony is observed as a
general holiday. The light-hearted Burmese only extract pleasure from
the gruesome spectacle, for what matters this little incident in the
manifold cycles of progressive existence reserved for the reincarnating
soul?
Stockaded villages line the foreshore, and hilltops glitter with the
golden _tee_ of clustering shrines. The sublime defiles of the glorious
river, with their frowning cliffs and toppling crags, widen into the
dreamy calm of land-locked reaches, where pagodas multiply on every
point of vantage, in monumental testimony to the zeal and devotion of
the Burmese past. The nomadic races of Burma impressed their character
on the multitude of ruined cities and deserted capitals buried under
the veil of verdure in the tropical jungle, or covering hill and plain
with decaying splendour. In a shadowy channel beneath overhanging rocks
the wrecked yacht of the luckless King Theebaw lies overturned, the
lapsing water rippling against red funnel and gilded poop. No effort
is made to raise the melancholy derelict, a fitting emblem of past
sovereignty. At the sacred heights of Sagaing, transformed by the
white and golden spires of graceful pagodas into ideal loveliness, a
_pothoodaw_, or “man of both worlds,” in semi-monastic garb with yellow
parasol, awaits the arrival of the steamer.
The gentle humility of this old _pothoodaw_ contrasts favourably
with the aggressive importance of a village “head-man,” or local
magistrate, who pushes him aside, and struts along the narrow wharf
in tartan silk and spotless muslin, an obsequious attendant carrying
his master’s red umbrella and silver betel-box. Yellow-robed brethren
dismount from creaking bullock-wagons lined with hay, and await the
coming steamer to bear them to the cremation ceremony up-stream.
Palm-leaf fans are raised to the brown faces, but two youthful novices
satisfy their curiosity concerning European womankind by peeping
through the interstices of the sun-dried fronds. Other waiting
passengers set out the huge pieces of a clumsy chessboard on a pile
of flour bags; for time is no account on these dreamy shores, and two
hours must elapse before the Bhamo boat swings in sight.
Evening turns the noble river into a sheet of flaming gold; pink clouds
lie like scattered rose-leaves in the path of the sinking sun, and
through the deepening veil of twilight the red fires twinkling outside
reed-thatched huts of tiny villages supply local colour to riverside
life. Jungle-grown Ava and ruined Amapura lie on the water’s brink;
the Pagan, grandest of ancient capitals, covers a wide plain with the
imposing architecture of a thousand pagodas, the colossal Ananda Dagon
soaring like a huge cathedral above multitudinous domes and spires,
gold and crimson, white and grey, of the deserted metropolis; for the
tide of life swept away from royal Pagan seven hundred years ago. The
white tents of the Government elephant camp cover a stretch of sand
above the bathing place of the herd, and the officer in charge gives
a fascinating account of his adventurous life; though many perils
attend the capture of the three hundred elephants annually required by
authority, and in the past year fifteen hunters have fallen victims to
the dangers which beset horse and rider from sharp tusks, trampling
feet, falling trees, and tangling creepers in the dark recesses of
primeval forest. The typical denizen of Burmese woods possesses a
sacred character in popular estimation, and carven elephants loom
through the tropical greenery of the shores, supporting tapering pagoda
or pillared portico.
The steamer stops before the unfinished temple and colossal Bell of
Mingoon, cracked by earthquake, but the second largest in the world,
the grandeur of the uncompleted design memorializing the frustrated
ambition of a Burmese king who desired to be immortalized as a
_Phaya-Taga_, or “Pagoda-Builder,” rather than by memories of war and
conquest. The spiritual idealism which colours Burmese idiosyncrasy
tinges the story of the past, and a modern writer aptly epitomizes one
aspect of British rule as “an attempt to turn poetic philosophers into
efficient policemen.” The charm of this freshwater cruise is enhanced
by frequent opportunities of landing at riverside villages, visits to
Burmese farms, and strolls through picturesque markets or beneath the
palms and tamarinds of country roads leading to mouldering pagodas
and forgotten shrines. The inhabitants of these verdant shores are
true “children of the river”--the mystic flood which supplies their
wants and moulds their character, affording them an “education of
contact” with the outside world to soften the crude asperity of mental
isolation. The mother plunges her little ones into the eddying waters
so early that even in helpless infancy they become amphibious as the
croaking frogs in the iris beds at the river’s edge. Merry bathing
parties display their skill in diving, swimming, or fishing by hand in
the crystal depths; and graceful girls, like brown Naïads, disport
themselves beneath the drooping boughs which kiss the ripples of some
sheltered creek fit for a fairy’s haunt. Parrots call from the trees,
and kingfishers flit across the shallows in flashes of emerald light.
Luxuriance of vegetation and depth of colour increase with every hour
of the downward voyage. Gold mohur and scarlet cotton-tree dazzle the
eye as they tower up into the burning blue of the tropical sky, and
when the crescent moon sinks beneath the horizon myriads of glittering
fireflies suggest, in the beautiful words of an Oriental poet, that
“the night is adrift with her stream of stars.”
Thabetkein, the busy port of the ruby mines sixty miles away; Yandoon,
the malodorous fish-curing town _à la mode de Burma_, which buries the
native _hors d’œuvre_ to eat it in decay; and beautiful Prome, asleep
in the moonlight, are visited in turn, the character of the scenery
changing as the wide Delta opens up before the advancing steamer in
branching channels, like numerous rivers springing from the parent
Irrawaddy. Above us rises the sacred cliff of Guadama, an ancient
resort of religious pilgrimage, with countless statues of Buddha carved
to inaccessible heights in the living rock. The romance of this watery
world turns over a new page on entering the great Bassein Creek, the
last stage of the thousand mile course. Elephants feeding in the
Jungle, and requiring a whole day for a full meal, crash through the
canes regardless of the passing steamer. Peacocks drag their gorgeous
trains over pink river-grass and golden sands. Grey egrets preen
their soft plumage at the water’s edge, and purple hornbills rest on
swaying palms. The Delta is alive with craft--rice boats and launches,
cargo-boats and steamers. The barbaric _fenaw_, with swelling sails
and twenty oars; the curving native barge, and the graceful Sampans,
flitting like brown-winged moths across the stream. Boys, tattooed from
head to foot in elaborate patterns, descend side-creek and canal in a
rude _dug-out_--the hollow tree which forms the primitive boat--and the
green tunnels of foliage show houses of plaited mats, raised on piles
and reached by ladders.
Miles of malarious marsh have been reclaimed by Government from the
new land ever silting up above the level of the water, and forming the
rich rice-fields of this alluvial soil. Riverside towns and villages
become more frequent in the lower reaches, and miniature markets of
country produce make patches of brilliant colour on the sandy shore.
Silken-clad girls, with flower-decked heads, sit beneath pink and green
umbrellas, shading piles of golden plantains and pineapples. Bamboo
stalls of curious lacquer-ware and trays of clay Buddhas, packets
of gold-leaf, and sheaves of incense-sticks appeal to the religious
instincts of pilgrims bound for the Golden Pagoda of distant Rangoon.
The trade here, as elsewhere, is monopolized by the Burmese women,
though many pink-turbaned admirers lie on the sand, smoking, flirting,
and singing with the characteristic _dolce far niente_ of masculine
life. The long fresh-water cruise floats us from wilderness to the sea,
from dreamland to reality. Rice-mills line the shores, ocean-going
ships rush towards the forest of masts encircling busy Rangoon, and
huge teak-rafts, floated down from distant woods, and sometimes two
years on the way, reach their moorings at the Ahlone timber-yards.
Elephants, working with military precision, drag the giant trunks
by chains from the river’s brink and pile them up with mathematical
exactness, pushing them with their heads until perfectly level. Even
commercial Burma can never be commonplace, for beyond the motley
throngs of the cosmopolitan port, the golden spire of the Shway Dagon,
queen of pagodas and goal of the Irrawaddy voyager, idealizes the city
clustering round the sacred hill, and created by the central sanctuary
of Burma’s ancient faith.
THE CLYDE
ROBERT WALKER
Glasgow and its river have acted and reacted the one upon the other;
and the conditions of the city’s prosperity and well-being are
indissolubly linked with the stream that wanders down from the upland
moors of Lanarkshire, tumbling over precipices, meandering through
rich orchard grounds, flowing through the busy haunts of men, until it
widens into the noble estuary whose waves reflect the peaks of Arran
and wash round the rugged steeps of Ailsa Craig. In its course the
Clyde runs amid all variety of scenery: moorland, pastoral, woodland.
It is, at one time, a shallow stream, humming over a pebbly bed and
glittering in the clear sunshine; at another, a foul and sullen mass
of water, which the energy of man has turned to good account in
his commercial enterprises; and then again, a restless sea, whose
white-crested waves break upon the base of Highland hills. Through all
its changes, it is dear to the heart of every true Glasgovian. It has
been a source of untold wealth to the place of his birth, and most of
his happiest memories are connected with the sunny days of leisure he
has spent among its lochs and by its sand-edged bays. Glasgow looks
upon the Clyde as its own special glory and possession; it is proud of
the manner in which the resources of the river have been developed; it
is prouder still of its many natural beauties familiar to its citizens
from their earliest youth, and an all-powerful attraction for the
strangers who are led to our shores by the fame of its charms.
Glasgow, although it has many picturesque vistas within its bounds
which the ordinary business man, engrossed with the cares of the
Exchange, recks nothing of, is not, in itself, a magnet to draw
tourists who are simply in search of the picturesque. Edinburgh,
among Scottish cities, is, from its own natural beauty, the cynosure
of neighbouring and far-away eyes. But Glasgow has the Clyde; and
the Clyde, notwithstanding the advantages of the Callander and Oban
Railway, is still the pleasantest and most picturesque gateway and
avenue to the West Highlands, where tourists rightly love to congregate.
The practical energy and shrewdness of the Glasgow people early turned
to the best advantage the inducements the Frith of Clyde offered to the
thousands who were anxious for “change of air,” and on the outlook for
summer resorts. In no district of our island are travelling facilities
greater and travelling cheaper than on the Clyde. A wonderful change
has taken place since 1812, when the _Comet_, the pioneer boat of a
vast fleet of steamers, began to sail between Glasgow, Greenock and
Helensburgh. Out of the _Comet_, with its forty-two feet of length,
has been evolved what is generally regarded as the premier boat on the
river, Mr. MacBrayne’s _Columba_, which carries the tourist-flocks from
Glasgow to Ardrishaig, whence Mr. MacBrayne’s West Highland service is
continued through the Crinan Canal.
[Illustration: THE CLYDE]
The _Columba_ starts on her journey at seven o’clock in the morning,
and as she threads her way down the busy river-channel, the passengers
can note the stir and bustle of the wharves, and the evidences in
ever-extending docks and quayage, the dredgers and divers, of the
indefatigable energy and well-directed skill of the Clyde Trustees,
that have turned a shallow meandering stream into a highway for the
largest ships that float. Down past the building yards with their
clanging hammers and great ships “of iron framed,” past what were once
the cheerful rural villages of Govan and Partick, now the grimy hives
of busy human bees, we steam, leaving behind us the ancient royal burgh
of Renfrew and the mouth of the Cart, and come in view of Bowling and
the Kilpatrick Hills, among which the patron saint of Ireland is said
to have first seen the light. The river here broadens into something
like an inland lake and the landscape grows decidedly picturesque.
This has been a favourite subject for many Scottish landscape
painters--Nasmyth, McCulloch and Bough among the rest. There is a wide
stretch of view and the hills near and distant--the first glimpse we
have yet had of the beginning of the Highlands--give to it dignity
and variety. To the water, studded with craft of all rigs, Dalnottar
Hill, Dunglass (where stands the monument to Bell, who introduced
steam navigation to the Clyde), Dumbuck Hill and the mass of Dumbarton
Castle, are effective background and setting.
At the Tail of the Bank, as the anchorage off Greenock is called, lie
a motley crowd of craft: bluff-bowed timber ships, smart Australian
clippers, handsome steam vessels of the various lines to America,
gaily-painted foreign ships, and in the midst of them, an embodiment of
power and authority, rides the guardship, a formidable ironclad.
The steamer at Greenock gathers passengers who have come down from
Glasgow by rail, and she takes in more at Gourock, to which the
Caledonian Company now run trains. The old Gourock pier, dear from
its fishing associations to the hearts of many generations of Glasgow
boys, is now completely altered; a fine quay front has been put up
and a handsome station erected. Gourock is one of the oldest of the
Clyde watering-places; in its day it was fashionable and thought to be
pretty far removed from the giddy world; now it is the resort of the
cheap-tripper, and has about its houses something of a second-rate look.
The view of the Frith from both Greenock and Gourock piers is one of
great extent and beauty. Opposite, rise in the background range after
range of hills, the fantastic ridges of “Argyle’s Bowling-green,” the
Cobbler, the Black Hill of Kilmun, the steeps around Glen Messan, and
stealing between these mountain masses are the lochs that are among
the chief charms of the district. We have fronting us the entrances to
the Gareloch, Loch Long and the Holy Loch, with wooded Roseneath and
a white stretch along the shore of cottages and little towns. If we
can only secure a day when the waves glitter in the sun and the fleecy
clouds fleck the hillsides with alternate lights and shadows, then we
need scarcely wish for a fairer scene.
Glasgow men are enthusiastic yachtsmen, and the regattas, the opening
cruises and closing cruises of the various clubs are among the chief
galas of the westcoast season. Our yachts and their builders--such as
Watson and Fife--our skippers and our crews, are famous all the world
over. The “white wings” spot the Frith at every turn, and there are few
prettier sights than one of these Clyde greyhounds, bursting through
the water under a cloud of canvas, with her lee-rail well buried in the
sea.
Down the Cowal shore the steamer slips and the long belt of houses and
villas that extends from Hunter’s Quay to Innellan--once all a lonely
shore--is left behind, and we round Toward Point and its lighthouse
into Rothsay Bay. This bay, with its environment of hills, is one of
the choice bits on the Clyde; the natives all declare it to be finer
than the Bay of Naples. Few Rothsay men have been at Naples. When a
yacht club holds a regatta here, and the boats cluster at anchor off
Rothsay and there are fireworks and illuminations, there is no livelier
place than this same bay.
The town itself is beautifully situated, but looks best at a distance.
From Barone Hill, at the back, a fine view can be obtained of the
panorama of the bay. Rothsay has a long history: it is a royal burgh,
and like Renfrew, gives a title to the Prince of Wales. Its chief
glory is its ruined castle, over which Norsemen and Scots, Bruces
and Baliols, have fought and murdered one another. Old memories and
traditions cluster as thick round it as the ivy on its walls.
Leaving Rothsay, we sail into the Kyles of Bute, a narrow passage
between the island and the mainland. The wonder is how the steamer can
thread its way through the twisting, twining channel, that appears
hardly broad enough for the _Columba’s_ paddle-wheels. Now and again
it almost seems as if we should run ashore from the sharpness of the
turns. The Kyles are full of quiet beauty. As we look at the little
hamlets sheltered under the wooded hills, they seem so out of the
world and so remote from the common cares that burden humanity, that
we wonder can ordinary sins and sorrows ever disturb there the calm
routine of life. The evening hour is the hour of enchantment, when
your boat gently drifts on the slow heaving water. The voices on the
shore seem to reach you through a muffled and mysterious air; the
opalescent light in the sky is reflected from the waves that lap
against the boat; sweet scents are wafted from the hillsides that loom
solemn in the gathering darkness; earth’s uneasy passions are at rest;
for the young, it is a pleasant pause in the hurly-burly; for those who
are growing old, it is the time of memories and regrets.
It is the garish light of day now, and with a long gaze at the rugged
mist-wreathed peaks of Arran, we round Ardlamont Point and, away to the
left, meet the sparkling waters and fresh breezes of Loch Fyne.
Tarbert, our first stoppage after the ferry at Ardlamont, is one of
the most noted fishing-villages in the west of Scotland. The entrance
to East Loch Tarbert, at which the steamer calls, is exceedingly
picturesque, and the district, with its brown sails and its brawny
fishermen, is one much beloved of artists. Henry Moore, Colin Hunter,
David Murray, among the rest, have turned its beauties to great use.
Tarbert is the great centre of the trawl (or seine) net fishing,
which in Loch Fyne, after much discussion and many bickerings, has
practically superseded in the Loch the old drift-net method. Trawl
boats work in pairs with four men and a boy in each boat. Tarbert
sends out between eighty and ninety boats, and an exceptionally good
night’s catch for a pair of trawls is about four or five hundred
boxes--each box containing, depending on the size of the herring,
from three to five hundred fish. The men are sturdy, fine-looking
fellows--and are fishermen proper, as distinguished from the half
crofter, half-fishermen of the farther North-west Highlands. The
fishing-fleet going out before sundown is, on a good evening, the
sight of Tarbert, the brown sails and the yellow-brown boats glancing
in the golden light, as they rush and hum through the clear blue-grey
water. Tarbert itself, which lies principally round the inner harbour,
is not a particularly inviting place--it smells generally strongly of
herrings--but the hills around it are very pleasant to ramble over,
and the walk to West Loch Tarbert leads through delightful highland
country. There is a ruined castle here, which dominates the harbour and
is redolent of memories of Robert the Bruce, the builder of the castle
in 1325. The narrow isthmus that separates the East from the West Loch
has been more than once surmounted by invading Norsemen and other bold
buccaneers, who dragged their boats overland. Sir Walter Scott makes
use of this fact in _The Lord of the Isles_.
At Ardrishaig, six miles beyond Tarbert and on the west side of Loch
Gilp, the outward run of the _Columba_ ends, and passengers for the
West Highlands tranship to the _Linnet_, in order to be conveyed
through the Crinan Canal.
THE VOLGA
ELISÉE RECLUS
The rivulet which, at its farthest source, takes the name of Volga,
rises not in a highland region, but in the midst of lakes, marshes and
low wooded hills, little elevated above the Volkosniky Les (“Volkon
Forest”) and Valdaï plateau, which may be taken as the true source of
the stream. The highest ridges of the Valdaï scarcely rise 220 feet
above the plateau, although the chief crest, the Popova Gora, attains
an altitude of 1,170 feet. The mean elevation of the land is also
sufficient to give it a far more severe aspect than that of the Lovat
and Lake Ilmen plains on the north-west. Its peat beds, lakes and fir
forests are more suggestive of the neighbourhood of Lake Onega, some
300 miles farther north, and the climate is, in fact, about two degrees
colder than in the surrounding districts. Yet the Valdaï flora differs
on the whole but little, if at all, from that of the plains stretching
towards the great lakes, whence it has been concluded that these
heights are of comparatively recent origin. They have no indigenous
vegetation, all their species coming from the region released from its
icy fetters at the close of the long glacial epoch. The plateau, now
furrowed by rain and frost, formed at that time a continuation of the
uniform slope of the land, and like it, was covered by the ice-fields
from Finland. The fish of its lakes, and even of the Upper Volga
itself, do not belong to the Volga basin proper, which the Valdaï
streams seem to have only recently joined. To judge from their fauna,
the true origin of the Volga should be sought, not in the Valdaï, but
in Lake Belo Ozero (“White Lake”), east of Lagoda. The sturgeon and
sterlet inhabit the Shesksna, the outlet of this lake, as they do in
the middle Volga itself. The region giving birth to the Volga is one of
the swampiest in West Russia, resembling a lowland tract rather than
a true water-parting. Separated by a simple peat bed from a tributary
of the Volkhov, the streamlet rising in the Volgino Verkhovye, and
sometimes called the Jordan from its sacred character, flows from a
spot now marked by the ruins of a chapel, thence oozing rather than
flowing from bog to bog for a distance of about twenty-two miles, when
it successively traverses three terraced lakes, whose levels differ
only a few inches from the other. The Jukopa, one of the southern
affluents, often causes a back flow to Lake Peno near its course, the
natural fall being so slight that the impulse of a lateral current
suffices to reverse it. After leaving Lake Peno, which is close to
Lake Dvinetz, source of the Dvina, the Volga turns eastward to Lake
Volgo, where it is already a considerable stream, with a volume of
from 3,500 to 3,600 cubic feet per second, according to the seasons.
Three miles farther down occurs its first rapid, where a dam has now
been constructed, which during the rains converts the upper valley,
with its lakes, into one vast reservoir forty-eight miles long, over
one mile wide, and containing 6,300,000 cubic feet of water. Boats
and rafts are then able to descend from the lake region, and higher
up the river becomes regularly navigable. Near this point the Volga
is nearly doubled by the Selijarovka from the winding Lake Seligen,
whose insular monastery of St. Nilus is still visited yearly by about
20,000 pilgrims. Here may be said to begin the commercial stream, the
Ra, Rhas, or Rhos of the ancients and of the Mordvinians, the Yûl of
the Cheremissiams, the Atel or Etil of the Tatars, the Tamar of the
Armenians--that is in these languages, the “River”--and in Finnish the
Volga, or the “Holy River.”
[Illustration: THE VOLGA]
Below the Selijarovka it descends the slopes of the plateau through a
series of thirty-five _porogi, or rapids_, which, however, do not stop
the navigation, and beyond the last of the series it winds unimpeded
through the great Russian lowlands, receiving numerous navigable
tributaries, and communicating by canal with the Baltic basin. After
passing the populous towns of Tver, Ribinsk, Yaroslav, and Kostroma,
it is joined at Niji-Novgorod by the Oka, of nearly equal volume, and
historically even more important than the main stream. The Oka, which
long served as the frontier between Tartar and Muscovite, rises in
the region of the “black lands” and throughout a course of 900 miles
waters the most fertile plains of Great Russia, bringing to the Nijni
fair the produce of Orol, Kaluga, Tula, Riazan, Tambov, Vladimir, and
Moscow. Over 1,440 yards broad, it seems like an arm of the sea at
its confluence with the Volga. East of this point the main artery is
swollen by other tributaries, which, though as large as the Seine,
seem insignificant compared with the mighty Kama, joining it below
Kazan from the Urals, and draining an area at least equal in extent
to the whole of France. Judging from the direction of its course, the
Kama seems to be the main stream, for below the junction the united
rivers continue the southerly and south-westerly course of the Kama,
whose clear waters flow for some distance before intermingling with
the grey stream of the Volga. Below Simbirsk the tributaries are few
and unimportant, and as the rainfall is here also slight, and the
evaporation considerable, the mean discharge is probably as great at
this place as at the delta.
Below the Kama junction there formerly existed a vast lacustrine basin,
which has been gradually filled in by the alluvia of both streams. Here
is the natural limit of the peat region, and here begins, on the right
bank, that of the steppes. As we proceed southwards the atmosphere
becomes less humid, the ground firmer, and below Simbirsk we no longer
meet those mossy and wooded quagmires bound together by the tangled
roots of trees, resembling matted cordage. But even in the boggy
districts those floating forests are slowly disappearing as the land is
brought more and more under cultivation.
Below the dried-up Simbirsk Lake the stream is deflected by an
impassable limestone barrier eastwards to Samara, where it escapes
through a breach and reverses its course along the southern escarpment
of the hills, thus forming a long narrow peninsula projecting from
the western plateau. Here is the most picturesque scenery on the
Volga, which is now skirted by steep wooded cliffs, terminating in
pyramids and sharp rocky peaks. Some of the more inaccessible summits
are surmounted by the so-called “Stenka” Kurgans, raised in memory
of Razin, Chief of the Cossacks and revolted peasantry, who had
established themselves in this natural stronghold of the Volga. The
hills often rise more than 300 feet above the stream, the Beliy Kluch,
south-west of Sizran, attaining an absolute elevation of 1,155 feet or
1,120 feet above the mean level of the Volga.
The region of the delta really begins at the Tzaritzin bend, some 300
miles from the Caspian, for the stream here branches into countless
channels between the beds of the Volga and the Akhtuba, known near the
coast as the Bereket. Still the delta, properly so called, is formed
only about thirty miles above Astrakhan, by the forking of the Buzan
branch from the main bed. Near Astrakhan the Belda and Kûtûm, and,
lower down, the Tzarova, Tzagan, Birûl, and other arms, break away, and
in the vast alluvial peninsula projecting into the Caspian, and which
is at least 110 miles round, there are altogether about two hundred
mouths, most of them, however, shifting streams choked with mud. During
the spring floods all the delta and lower courses below Tzaritzin form
one vast body of moving waters, broken only by a few islands here and
there, and after each of these floods new beds are formed, old ones
filled up, so that the chart of the delta has to be constantly planned
afresh. Two hundred years ago the navigable channel flowed due east
from Astrakhan: since then it has shifted continually more to the right
and now runs south-south-west.
Without including the shorter windings, the Volga has a total length
of 2,230 miles, presenting with its tributaries, about 7,200 miles of
navigable waters. From the sources of the Kama to the delta, these
waters cross sixteen parallels of latitude, and nine isothermal
degrees, so that while the mean annual temperature of the region is
at freezing point, it oscillates about 9° in the delta. At Astrakhan
the Volga is frozen for about ninety-eight days, and at Kazan for one
hundred and fifty-two, while the Kama is ice-bound for six months at
the junction of the Chusovaya above Perm. The rainfall of the basin is
about sixteen inches, which would give 700,000 cubic feet per second,
were all the moisture to be carried off by the bed of the Volga. But
much is absorbed by vegetation in the forests and steppes and in the
latter region direct evaporation may dissipate about forty inches
during the year in tracts fully exposed to the winds.
Altogether about three-fourths of the rainfall are thus lost _en
route_, and preliminary estimates have determined the mean discharge at
about 203,000 cubic feet, which is less than two-thirds of that of the
Danube, draining an area scarcely half as large as that of the Russian
River.
The volume of water discharged by the Volga, which is at least equal to
that of all the other influents of the Caspian together, is sufficient
to exercise a considerable influence on the level of the sea. Thus
the floods of 1867, the heaviest that had occurred for forty years,
raised it by more than two feet, the abnormal excess representing 9,600
billions of cubic feet, or about three times the volume of the Lake
of Geneva. On the other hand, the delta steadily encroaches on the
sea, though at a rate which it is almost impossible to determine. The
sedimentary matter held in solution, estimated by Mrczkovski at about
the two-thousandth part of the fluid, continues to form islands and
sand-banks, while generally raising the bed of the sea round the face
of the delta.
The Volga abounds in fish, and the fishing industry supports a large
number of hands. Its lower reaches especially form for the whole of
Russia a vast reservoir of food, varying with the seasons, and yielding
large quantities even in winter by means of holes broken in the ice at
certain intervals.
On the islands of the delta are numerous stations where the fish is cut
up, and the roe prepared to be converted into fresh and salt caviar.
The _bieluga_ and the sterlet, both of the sturgeon family, attain
the greatest size, and are the most highly esteemed, but their number
seems to have diminished since the appearance of the steamboat in these
waters.
THE CONGO
J. HOWARD REED
The Congo is not only the largest river of the “Dark Continent,” but is
second only in point of size and volume to the majestic Amazon of South
America. It may, therefore, truly be called the largest river of the
Old World.
On referring to the latest maps of Africa we find that the most distant
source of the Congo is to be found in the River Chambeze, which rises
about midway between the south end of Lake Tanganyika and the north end
of Lake Nyasa, at a height of 4,750 feet above the level of the sea.
Taking a south-westerly course, this stream flows for some 250 miles,
until it reaches a huge depression, where it forms a lake, known to
the natives by the name Bangweolo. This lake is about 115 miles long
by from forty to sixty miles wide, with an area of from 6,000 to 7,000
square miles. At the south-west corner of Bangweolo the river emerges,
having a width equal to that of the Thames at London Bridge, and flows
northward under the name of Luapula. About 200 miles further to the
north Lake Moero, with an area of about 3,500 square miles, is reached.
From the north end of this lake the river again issues, flowing away
generally in a northward direction.
At a point about 200 miles from Lake Moero the river, known from the
lake to this point as the Luwa, is joined by another stream of much
larger size, which rises some 500 miles to the south-west, and is known
as the Lualaba. Both these branches of the main river, from their
sources to this point, have, of course, had their volumes greatly
increased by the innumerable tributary streams flowing into them from
the hills and highlands on either side. The two great rivers are now
united into one majestic stream, which, bearing the name of Lualaba,
continues its flow in a north-north-westerly direction. A little above
the point of junction the river receives, on its eastern side, the
Lukuga River, which drains the surplus waters of Lake Tanganyika and
its tributaries, and augments the mighty volume of the main river.
When we remember that Lake Tanganyika is 400 miles long, from twenty to
forty miles broad, has an area of 12,650 square miles, and is fed by
tributaries which drain about 70,000 square miles of country, we can
form some idea of the enormous body of water which is added to the main
stream by the Lukuga River.
About 100 miles to the north of where the Lukuga joins the Lualaba,
namely, at the Arab settlement of Nyangwe, the main river is more
than a mile wide, with a volume and velocity, according to Stanley,
of 230,000 cubit feet of water per second. About 300 miles to the
north of Nyangwe are to be found the Stanley Falls, where the river,
augmented by the discharged waters of a number of important tributary
streams, dashes itself madly down a series of wild rapids and
terrible cataracts. These falls extend for a distance of from sixty
to seventy miles. From this point the majestic river begins to turn
slightly to the westward, and, continuing its course first north-west,
then west, and finally south-west--in the form of a gigantic
horseshoe--reaches, after a thousand miles’ uninterrupted flow,
the open expanse of Stanley Pool. Between Stanley Falls and Stanley
Pool the volume of the great river is still further increased by the
addition of the waters of a great number of large tributary streams,
many of which are themselves extensive rivers, draining many thousands
of square miles of territory, and navigable for several hundred miles.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD, N. Y. THE CONGO]
Among the great tributaries should be mentioned specially the
following; the Aruwimi, noted as the scene of the terrible
sufferings of the famous Emin Pasha relief expedition; the Ubangi,
or Welle-Makua, which is itself a mighty river, rising away in the
“Heart of Africa,” and flowing some 1,200 miles before it joins the
main stream. On the south bank may be named the Lubilash or Boloko,
navigable for 200 miles; the Lulongo, with its branches--the Lopori
and Maringa--navigated for 500 miles by the Rev. George Grenfell; the
Chuapa, with its branch, the Busera, up which Mr. Grenfell has also
steamed some 500 miles. To these may be added the Kwa, which with its
tributaries--the Lukenye, the Kasai, the Sankurn, the Kwango, and a
number of others--adds enormously to the volume of the Congo, and
affords some 1,500 miles of navigable water.
The great river from Stanley Falls to Stanley Pool has an average
width of some five miles, but in places it reaches as much as sixteen
miles wide, and is split up into separate channels by large islands,
with which its bosom is studded. After passing through Stanley Pool
the river ceases to be navigable for about 235 miles--except for one
comparatively short break of eighty miles--owing to the angry cataracts
known as the Livingstone Falls. Below the falls the river again
becomes navigable to the Atlantic Ocean, some 110 miles distant.
The majestic river rushes with such an enormous volume into the open
ocean that, for many miles out at sea, its stream can be distinctly
traced, and its waters remain fresh, refusing for a long time to become
contaminated by the salt of the mighty waste of waters.
The main river and its tributaries have already been explored for at
least 11,000 miles. This, of course, gives a length of river banks of
no less than 22,000 miles. It can be better grasped what this means
when we remember that the whole coast-line of Europe, following every
indentation of the shore--from the most northern point of Norway to
the spot in the Black Sea where the Caucasus Mountains separate Europe
from Asia--is only 17,000 miles, or 5,000 miles less than the total
length of river banks past which the mighty Congo continually sweeps.
To give another illustration, I may remind you that the circumference
of the globe on which we live is 24,000 miles. So that the length of
the banks of the Congo--so far as they are at present known--only falls
some 2,000 miles short of the total girth of our planet. When the great
river becomes more completely known the extent of the river’s banks may
probably be found to equal, and very possibly to exceed, the earth’s
circumference.
The total length of the main river--omitting the branches--from source
to mouth is close upon three thousand miles, equal to the distance from
Liverpool to New York.
The area of territory drained is something over 1,500,000 square miles,
or equal, roughly speaking, to about one-eight of the whole continent
of Africa. It exceeds the total area of India by 200,000 square miles,
and would only be equalled by thirty-two Englands. It is needless to
quote further figures in order to impress upon us the enormous extent
and importance of Africa’s greatest waterway.
The wide-spreading arms of the Congo reach themselves out on all sides
to such a distance and extent that the remote headwaters, or fountains,
overlap and almost intermingle with the streams which contribute their
waters to the other great rivers of the continent. On the north-west
we find some of the early streams flowing almost from the same sources
which supply tributaries of the Niger and the Shari. In the north-east
we find the remote tributaries of the Welle-Makua almost touching those
of the Bahr-el-Ghazal, which helps to swell the Nile. The headwaters
of the Aruwimi, again, flow from within a few minutes’ walk of where
a view can be obtained of the Albert Lake, also belonging to the Nile
system. The Malagarazi River, which flows into Lake Tanganyika, and so
finds its way to the Congo, rises in the same hills which gave birth to
the Alexandra Nile, a western affluent to Lake Victoria. We find, also,
many of the great tributaries on the southern bank of the Congo flow
from highlands which also pay tribute to streams flowing to the Zambezi.
In comparison with the historic tales the Nile and Niger have to tell
us, the story of the Congo is only very modern. The early history
of the great river is very meagre indeed, and we search the ancient
classics in vain for any mention of even its existence.
The river was, and is to this day, known to the Portuguese as the
Zaire, but the actual meaning of the word is doubtful. Some consider
it to simply mean river. The country through which the great river
flows was known to the Portuguese as the kingdom of the Congo. The
Zaire, therefore, appeared upon the early Portuguese maps as Rio de
Congo, which, when translated, became, of course, on English maps,
River of Congo, and finally simply Congo, as we now know it.
Although the mouth of the Congo was discovered by the Portuguese over
four hundred years ago, very little was known of the geography of the
river itself until our own century. Jesuit missionaries certainly
settled in the kingdom of the Congo, and they doubtless collected much
information from the native travellers regarding the geography of the
interior.
The English geographer, Peter Heylyn, writing in 1657, speaks of
the Zaire, or River of Congo, rising in Lake Zembre. After naming
the rivers of the Country of Congo, he goes on to say: “This last
(the Zaire), the greatest of them all, if not of all Africk also: Of
which, though we have spoke already, we shall add this here, that it
falleth into the Æthiopic Sea with so great violence, that for ten
miles commonly, for fifteen sometimes, the waters of it do retain
their natural sweetness: not intermingled nor corrupted with the Salt
Sea-water: Nor can the people sail above five miles against the stream
of the cataracts, or huge falls which it hath from the Mountains; more
terrible and turbulent than those of the Nile.”
The great discoveries connected with the Congo have been in almost all
cases the result of inquiries set on foot for other purposes, and not
the outcome of direct research. This is especially the case with regard
to the long and tedious wanderings of Dr. Livingstone, between the
years 1866 and 1873, which terminated only in his death in the latter
year. When Livingstone started upon his last and greatest expedition
in 1866, it was with the idea of clearing up certain doubtful points
connected with Lakes Tanganyika and Nyasa, and of establishing, if
possible, the southern limit of the Nile watershed. He had no intention
of working at the Congo at all, and, in fact, remarks in his journal,
in a half jocular manner, that he had no desire to become “blackman’s
meat” for anything less than the Nile.
Stanley’s great journey from Nyangwe to Boma made known, of course,
only the main stream of the river, but it opened the way, and from that
day down to the present a whole legion of travellers, both British and
European, have devoted themselves to the filling in of the details. The
great traveller himself shortly after discovered lakes Leopold II. and
Mantumba; and so recently as 1887 explored the great Aruwimi territory,
following it to its source in the neighbourhood of the Albert Lake,
when engaged in his last great journey through “Darkest Africa.”
The Nineteenth Century has been what we may call the age of discovery,
so far as the Congo is concerned. The geography of the river is now
fairly well known, the discoveries of the past twenty years having
undoubtedly transcended all possible expectations or even conceptions.
The next century will in all probability be one of Congo commerce
and Congo engineering. Already we find a railway some 250 miles in
length, in course of construction, which, when completed, will overcome
the natural difficulties of transport in the neighbourhood of the
Livingstone Falls, and throw open to the world the mighty natural
highway to the heart of the Continent. Already we find, in spite of
the difficulties of the cataract region, that some thirty odd steamers
are daily ploughing their way up and down the Congo’s giant stream.
Thus has the great river begun the work of bearing the naturally rich
products of the Congo basin to the coast, and of carrying the return
commodities into the interior.
The work of the explorer, the trader, and the missionary is already
beginning to bear fruit. In their wake will follow civilization,
commerce and Christianity. Cities--centres of industry and light--will
be founded, and in due time the peoples of the “Heart of Africa” will
take their place in the progress of the world.
THE MACKENZIE RIVER
WILLIAM OGILVIE
Fort McPherson stands on a high bank of gravel and slate, on the east
side of the Peel River, about fourteen miles above the point where it
divides and joins the Mackenzie delta, which is common to both rivers.
The height of this bank rapidly decreases towards the mouth of the
river, where it almost entirely disappears. The country surrounding
has evidently at one time been a part of the Arctic Ocean which has
been gradually filled up with alluvial deposits brought down by the two
rivers.
On this rich soil, the timber, mostly spruce, with some tamarack, birch
and poplar, is, for the latitude, very large. When I arrived at Fort
McPherson, on the 20th of June, the new buds on the trees were just
perceptible, and on the evening of the 22d, when I left, the trees were
almost fully in leaf.
Between Peel River and the Mackenzie about two-thirds of the channel in
the delta averages more than a quarter of a mile wide; the remainder
about one hundred yards. All of it was deep when I passed through,
and the Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer, _Wrigley_, drawing five feet
of water, finds no difficulty in navigating it. The banks do not rise
more than ten or fifteen feet above the water, and the current is
continually wearing away the soft deposit and carrying it down to the
lower part of the delta and to the Arctic Ocean.
Where we enter the Mackenzie proper, the channel is three-fourths of a
mile wide, but it is only one of four, there being three large islands
at this point. The whole width of the river cannot be less than three
or four miles. Looking northward, down the westerly channel, the view
is bounded by the sky, and widens in the distance so that one can fancy
he is looking out to sea.
A north wind raises quite a swell here, and the salty odour of the sea
air is plainly perceptible above the delta. The banks continue low, and
the country flat on both sides of the river, for some nine or ten miles
above the islands. The shore on the east side is sloping, while that on
the west is generally perpendicular, showing the action of the current,
which is wearing into and carrying away portions of it. This form of
bank changes into steep shale rock on both sides, gradually increasing
in height as far as the Narrows, where they are probably one hundred
and fifty feet above the water.
On the Mackenzie I did not stay long enough to learn much about the
Indians in the district, nor did I see many of them. While we were in
the delta, nine large boats loaded with Esquimaux from the coast passed
us on the way up to Fort McPherson to do their trading for the season,
in one of which I noticed a young woman devouring a raw musk-rat with
evident relish. These people come up from the coast in “skin” boats,
called _oumiaks_, made, it is said, of whale skin put round a wood
frame. These boats present a very neat appearance, and are capable
of carrying about two tons each. Whale oil is one of the principal
articles which they bring in for sale.
A few miles above the Narrows the banks change from rock to clay and
gravel, and continue generally steep and high as far as Fort Good
Hope. In a few places the bank recedes from the river for a short
distance, forming a low flat, on which generally grows some fair spruce
timber. No rivers of importance flow into the Mackenzie between Red and
Hare Indian Rivers. One hundred and thirty miles further on, Loon River
enters from the east, and, twenty miles above this Hare Indian River
also enters from the same side. The Indians report that Hare Indian
River rises in a range of hills on the north-west side of Great Bear
Lake, but about its navigability I could learn nothing.
We reached Fort Good Hope on Saturday, the 24th of July, and remained
over Sunday. The Fort is built on the east side of the Mackenzie, about
two miles above Hare Indian River, and two below the “Ramparts.” The
Hudson’s Bay Company has quite a large establishment at this point,
consisting of half a dozen houses and some stables. The Roman Catholic
Church has a flourishing mission here, and the church is said to
possess one of the best finished interiors in the country.
Two miles above the Fort we enter what is known in the vicinity as
the “Ramparts,” though in the more south-westerly it would be called
a “Cañon.” Here, for a distance of seven miles, the river runs
perpendicular and occasionally over hanging walls of rock. At the lower
end they rise one hundred and fifty feet above the water. But their
height decreases as we near the upper end, at which point they are
not more than fifty or sixty feet. The river, at the lower end of the
“Ramparts,” is nearly a mile wide, but its walls gradually converge
until, about three miles up, the width is not more than half a mile,
and this continues to the end. Sir Alexander Mackenzie, when passing
through, sounded at its upper end, and found three hundred feet of
water, which accounts for the fact that although the Cañon is so narrow
the current is not perceptibly increased.
When Mackenzie discovered and explored this river in 1789, he met some
Indians a short distance above this place. After confidence had been
established by means of presents, he prepared to start onward; and,
although his newly-made friends told him there was great danger ahead
in the form of a rapid or cataract which would swallow him and his
party without fail, he continued, the Indians following and warning
him of his danger. He advanced cautiously into the “Ramparts,” but
could hear or see nothing to verify their statements. At last, when
through, they admitted that the only bad weather to be encountered was
now passed, but that behind the island just below was a bad spirit or
monster which would devour the whole party: failing there, the next
island below would surely reveal him.
From this incident the two islands have received the names of Upper and
Lower Manitou, respectively.
Forty-eight miles from Fort Good Hope, Sans Sault Rapid is reached. It
is caused by a ledge of rocks extending partially across the river.
A ridge of hills here extend beyond the river from the Rocky Mountains,
occasional glimpses of which can be caught from the water.
Just above this the Mackenzie turns sharply to the east from its
southerly course, and skirts the base of the mountains for six miles.
Its course then curves a little to the south, when, what might be
termed a cañon, is entered, which extends for nine or ten miles. The
river here averages a mile in width, and is walled on both sides by
perpendicular limestone cliffs, rising from one to two hundred feet
above the water. On the south side, this wall terminates in what is
known as “Wolverine Rock,” which rises perpendicularly from the water
to a height of three hundred feet. The formation is limestone, the
strata of which stand almost on edge, and the water has worn through
them in several places, so that one can sail underneath. Above this
point the mountains again approach the river for a few miles, when they
suddenly drop almost to the level of the plain. The banks here are clay
and gravel, with an average height of from one hundred to one hundred
and fifty feet.
Six and one-half miles above Sans Sault Rapids, Carcajou River empties
its waters into the Mackenzie from the west. This river I believe to be
the largest tributary of the Mackenzie below the Laird.
Four hundred and forty-four miles from Fort McPherson brought us to
Fort Norman, which is situated on the east bank of the Mackenzie just
above the entrance of Great Bear River. I arrived here on Saturday, the
28th of July.
About three and a half miles above Fort Norman on the east bank of
the river, two extensive exposures of lignite occur. The upper one
is overlaid by about fifty feet of clay and a few feet of friable
sandstone, and is about fifteen feet thick. The other seam is of about
the same thickness, and probably forty feet lower. When I was there, it
was nearly all under water.
The upper seam _has been on fire for over a hundred years_, as it was
burning when Sir Alexander Mackenzie passed in 1789, and according to
Indian tradition, it must have been burning much longer. The place is
locally known as “Le Boucan,” from the fact that the Indians hereabout
smoke and cook large quantities of meat or fish in these convenient
fire pits. The fire extends at present about two miles along the river,
not continuously, but at intervals; when I passed, it was burning in
three or four places. After it has burned a certain distance into
the seam, the overlaying mass of clay falls in, and, to some extent,
suppresses the fire. This clay is, in time, baked into a red coloured
rock, in which are found innumerable impressions of leaves and plants.
About a hundred miles above Fort Norman, on the west side, a river
discharges a large volume of clear, black water, which rushes bodily
half-way across the Mackenzie, and preserves its distinctive character
for several miles before it mingles with the main stream. The name
applied to this river by the people at Fort Wrigley was “_La rivière
du vieux grand lac_.” It is said to flow out of a lake of considerable
extent, lying not far from the Mackenzie. Many peaks can be seen up its
valley.
Six hundred and twenty-four miles from Fort McPherson brings us to
Fort Wrigley. This post was formerly known as “Little Rapid,” but has
received the name it now bears in honour of Chief Commissioner Wrigley,
of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Just above the Fort there is a swift rush
of water over some limestone rock which appears to extend across the
river. On the west side two small islands confine a part of the stream
in a funnel-like channel, which, being shallow, causes a slight rapid,
and gives rise to the former name of the post.
At Fort Wrigley, some slight attempts had been made at cultivation,
but I do not consider them a fair test of the capabilities of the
place. When I was there, the people were gathering blueberries, then
fully ripe, and as large and well-flavoured as they are in Ontario.
Ripe strawberries were found on the 9th of August ninety miles below
this, and a few raspberries soon afterwards. Above Fort Wrigley, wild
gooseberries, and both red and black currants were found in abundance;
some of the islands being literally covered with the bushes.
For about sixty miles below Fort Wrigley a range of mountains runs
parallel to the river on its east side. Above Fort Wrigley the east
bank is generally low and swampy, but the west (although low near the
river) gradually rises to a height of seven or eight hundred feet.
Fifty-eight miles above Fort Wrigley this hill terminates in a bold,
high point, and the ridge turns off to the south-west, enclosing a
deep, wide valley between it and the mountains, which here approach the
river. This range continues south-eastward out of sight. The positions
and heights of some of the peaks were determined by triangulation. One
of them was found to rise 4,675 feet above the river.
We arrived at Fort Simpson on Friday, the 24th of August, and remained
until the following Tuesday.
We arrived at Fort Providence on Saturday, the 8th of September. Wild
gooseberries and currants were plentiful along the banks, but at this
season somewhat over-ripe. At the fort, where we remained over Sunday,
the usual collection of buildings at a Hudson Bay Company’s post is to
be found. The Roman Catholic Church has also a mission here.
Forty-six miles from Fort Providence we enter Great Slave Lake. The
south shore of the lake, between the Mackenzie and Great Slave Rivers,
is so low and flat that most of it was submerged when I passed. Fish
are numerous in the Mackenzie. The principal species is that known as
the “Inconnu.” Those caught in the lower river are very good eating,
much resembling salmon in taste, being also firm and juicy.
THE LOIRE
VICTOR HUGO
I have some recollection of having already said so elsewhere: the Loire
and Touraine have been far too much praised. It is time to render
justice. The Seine is much more beautiful than the Loire; Normandy is a
much more charming “garden” than Touraine.
A broad, yellow strip of water, flat banks, and poplars
everywhere--that is the Loire. The poplar is the only tree that is
stupid. It masks all the horizons of the Loire. Along the river and
on the islands, on the edge of the dyke and far away in the distance,
one sees only poplars. In my mind there is a strangely intimate
relationship, a strangely indefinable resemblance, between a landscape
made up of poplars and a tragedy written in Alexandrines. The poplar,
like the Alexandrine, is one of the classic forms of boredom.
It rained; I had passed a sleepless night. I do not know whether that
put me out of temper, but everything on the Loire seemed to me cold,
dull, methodical, monotonous, formal, and lugubrious.
From time to time one meets convoys of five or six small craft
ascending or descending the river. Each vessel has but one mast with
a square sail. The one that has the biggest sail precedes the others
and tows them. The convoy is arranged in such a fashion that the sails
grow smaller in size from one boat to the other, from the first to the
last, with a sort of symmetric decrease unbroken by any unevenness,
undisturbed by any vagary. One involuntarily recalls the caricature
of the English family; one might imagine one saw a chromatic scale
sweeping along under full sail. I have seen this only on the Loire; and
I confess that I prefer the Norman sloops and luggers, of all shapes
and sizes, flying like birds of prey, and mingling their yellow and red
sails with the squall, the rain, and the sun, between Quillebœuf and
Tancarville.
The Spaniards call the Manzanares “the viscount of waterways”; I
suggest that the Loire be called “the dowager of rivers.”
The Loire has not, like the Seine and the Rhine, a host of pretty towns
and lovely villages built on the very edge of the river and mirroring
their gables, church-spires, and house-fronts in the water. The Loire
flows through a great alluvion caused by the floods and called La
Sologne. It carries back from it the sand which its waters bear down
and which often encumber and obstruct its bed. Hence the frequent
risings and inundations in these low plains which thrust back the
villages. On the right bank they hide themselves behind the dyke. But
there they are almost lost to sight. The wayfarer does not see them.
Nevertheless, the Loire has its beauties. Madame de Staël, banished
by Napoleon to fifty leagues’ distance from Paris, learned that on
the banks of the Loire, exactly fifty leagues from Paris, there was
a _château_ called, I believe, Chaumont. It was thither that she
repaired, not wishing to aggravate her exile by a quarter of a league.
I do not commiserate her. Chaumont is a dignified and lordly dwelling.
The _château_ which must date from the Sixteenth Century, is fine in
style; the towers are massive. The village at the foot of the wooded
hill presents an aspect perhaps unique on the Loire, the precise aspect
of a Rhine village--of a long frontage stretching along the edge of the
water.
[Illustration: THE LOIRE]
Amboise is a pleasant, pretty town, half a league from Tours, crowned
with a magnificent edifice, facing those three precious arches of the
ancient bridge, which will disappear one of these days in some scheme
of municipal improvement.
The ruin of the Abbey of Marmontiers is both great and beautiful. In
particular there is, a few paces from the road, a structure of the
Fifteenth Century--the most original I have seen: by its dimensions
a house, by its machicoulis a fortress, by its belfry an _hôtel de
ville_, by its pointed doorway a church. This structure sums up,
and, as it were, renders visible to the eye, the species of hybrid
and complex authority which in feudal times appertained to abbeys in
general, and, in particular, to the Abbey of Marmontiers.
But the most picturesque and imposing feature of the Loire is an
immense calcareous wall, mixed with sandstone, millstone, and potter’s
clay, which skirts and banks up its right shore, and stretches itself
out before the eye from Blois to Tours, with inexpressible variety and
charm, now wild rock, now an English garden, covered with trees and
flowers, crowned with ripening vines and smoking chimneys, perforated
like a sponge, as full of life as an ant-hill.
Then there are deep caves which long ago hid the coiners who
counterfeited the E. of the Tours mint, and flooded the province with
spurious _sous_ of Tours. To-day the rude embrasures of these dens are
filled with pretty window-frames coquettishly fitted into the rock,
and from time to time one perceives through the glass the fantastic
head-dress of some young girl occupied in packing aniseed, angelica,
and coriander in boxes. The confectioners have replaced the coiners.
THE LOIRE
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
The banks of the Loire, from Blois to Angers, have been high in favour
with the two last branches of the royal race that occupied the throne
before the House of Bourbon. This beautiful basin so richly deserves
the honours paid to it by royalty that this is what one of our most
elegant writers has said of it:
“There exists in France a province that has never been sufficiently
admired. Perfumed like Italy, flowered like the banks of the
Guadalquiver, and beautiful in addition with its individual
physiognomy, and entirely French, having always been French, in
contrast to our northern provinces, corrupted by German contact, and
our southern provinces that have lived in concubinage with the Moors,
Spaniards and all races that desired to;--this province pure, chaste,
brave and loyal is Touraine! Historic France is there! Auvergne is
Auvergne; Languedoc is only Languedoc, but Touraine is France; and for
us the most national river of all is the Loire that waters Touraine.
Hence, we should not be so astonished at the quantity of monuments
found in the Departments that have taken the name and derivatives
of the name of the Loire. At every step we take in this land of
enchantment, we discover a picture the frame of which is a river or a
tranquil oval sheet that reflects in its liquid depths a castle with
its turrets, woods and springing waters. It was only natural that
where royalty abode by preference and established its court for such
a long period the great fortunes and distinctions of race and merit
should group themselves and raise palaces there grand as themselves.”
Is it not incomprehensible that Royalty did not follow the advice given
by Louis XI. indirectly to make Tours the capital of the kingdom?
There, without much expenditure, the Loire could have been made
accessible to trading vessels and to ships of war of light draught.
There, the seat of government would have been secure from the surprise
of an invasion. The northern strongholds would not then have demanded
so much money for their fortifications, as costly to themselves as
the sumptuousness of Versailles. If Louis XIV. had listened to the
advice of Vauban, who wanted to build a residence for him at Mont
Louis, between the Loire and the Cher, perhaps the Revolution of 1789
would not have occurred. Still, here and there, those lovely banks
bear the marks of the royal affection. The castles of Chambord, Blois,
Amboise, Chenonceaux, Chaumont, Plessis-lez-Tours, all those which
the mistresses of our kings, and the financiers and great lords built
for themselves at Véretz, Azay-le-Rideau, Ussi, Villandri, Valençay,
Chanteloup, Duretal (some of which have disappeared but the majority
still exist) are admirable monuments that are redolent with the marvels
of that epoch that is so ill comprehended by the literary sect of
Mediævalists. Among all these castles, that of Blois is the one on
which the magnificence of the Orleans and the Valois has set its most
brilliant seal; and is the most interesting of all for the historian,
the archæologist, and the Roman Catholic.
THE POTOMAC
ESTHER SINGLETON
The Potomac was an important river from the earliest period of the
country’s history. Explorers followed its route to the interior of the
country, and as early as 1784 The Potomac Company was chartered with
Washington as its president for the purpose of connecting the Potomac
Valley with the west by means of a canal for general land improvement.
This was succeeded by the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Company, whose
canal runs parallel with and near to the river all the way from
Georgetown to Cumberland.
The first attempt to explore the Chesapeake Bay and its tributary
rivers was made in 1608 by Captain John Smith, who speaks of the
Patawomeke as six or seven miles broad and navigable for 140 miles.
Another Indian name was Cohonguroton (River of Swans). No less than
forty tribes of the warlike Algonquins lived upon its banks and held
their councils at the point of land now occupied by the Arsenal.
In 1634, Henry Fleet with some of Calvert’s people visited the Falls
of the Potomac; and early in the Seventeenth Century several tracts
of land on the river banks were granted to settlers. Among these was
one Francis Pope, gentleman, who in 1663 had four hundred acres laid
out which he called Rome, on the east side of the Anacostian River and
to the mouth of the Tiber, for so this little arm of the Potomac was
called more than a century before Washington was founded, there being
a tradition that on its banks would rise a capital greater than Rome.
The Tiber has now disappeared beneath the streets of Washington, but
it once flowed below the hill on which the Capitol now stands between
forest-lined banks and was noted for its shad and herring.
The Potomac is formed by the junction of two rivers on the boundary
between Maryland and West Virginia. The North Branch rises in the
Western Alleghanies and the South Branch in the Central; and, flowing
north-east, they unite about fifteen miles south-east of Cumberland.
The Potomac thus forms an irregular boundary between Maryland and
West Virginia and Maryland and Virginia throughout its entire course
of four hundred miles. Its chief tributaries are the Shenandoah from
Virginia and the Monocacy from Maryland. At Harper’s Ferry the Potomac
breaks through the Blue Ridge meeting the Shenandoah--“Daughter of the
Stars”--which has cut its way through the mist-wreathed mountains,
laved the Luray Caverns and watered a lovely valley. These rivers
winding around Loudon Heights, Bolivar Heights and Maryland Heights are
picturesque in the highest degree, and the scenery is rendered more
interesting by the associations with John Brown’s raid and capture and
other thrilling incidents of the Civil War.
Twelve miles below is Point of Rocks and below this the Monocacy joins
the main stream.
[Illustration: THE POTOMAC]
A number of falls mark its course through the mountains; and about
fifteen miles above Washington it descends rapidly until it reaches
Great Falls, at which point it breaks through the mountain in a
channel narrowing to a hundred yards in width and bounded on the
Virginia side by perpendicular rocks seventy feet high. Cedars, oaks,
willows and other forest trees contribute beauty to this wild spot,
where cherries and strawberries abound, and which is the haunt of the
rattlesnake and other venomous reptiles. The water falls in a series
of cascades. Not far from this point Cabin-John Bridge is reached, a
bridge formed of large blocks of granite 420 feet long and twenty feet
wide, which springs the chasm of Cabin-John Creek at a height of 101
feet in a single arch of 220 feet. This is the largest stone arch in
the world, the second being the Grosvenor Bridge (with a span of 200
feet), over the Dee.
At a distance of four miles below Great Falls, the stream widens and
flows quietly for ten miles; and then descends thirty-seven feet in
a second series of cascades known as Little Falls, about three miles
above Georgetown. The Potomac, thus released from the hills above
Georgetown, expands into a broad lake-like river, and receives the
Anacostia at Washington, where it meets the tide. About twenty-five
miles below Washington, it becomes an estuary from two to eight miles
wide, and enters the Chesapeake Bay, after having made a journey of
four hundred miles.
The chief places of interest on the banks of the Potomac are, of
course, Washington, _Arlington House_, _Mount Vernon_, and the sleepy
old town of Alexandria founded in 1748 and once a rival of Annapolis
and Baltimore. It is full of associations with Washington, whose
estate, _Mount Vernon_, is but a few miles below. _Mount Vernon_, in
Washington’s time, an estate of two thousand acres, belonged originally
to his half-brother, Lawrence, who named it for Admiral Vernon under
whom he had served.
_Arlington House_, the residence of the adopted son of General
Washington, George Washington Parke Custis, came into possession of
Gen. Robert E. Lee through his wife who was the daughter of Mr. Custis.
The house, built from drawings of the temple at Pæstum, near Naples,
stands on a bluff two hundred feet above the river about four miles
from Washington. The building with its two wings has a frontage of
140 feet and the portico sixty feet long is surmounted by a pediment
resting on eight Doric columns twenty-six feet high and five feet in
diameter. On the south were the gardens and greenhouses, and in the
rear the kitchens, slave quarters and stables. In 1863 _Arlington
House_ and the estate of 1,000 acres was sold under the Confiscation
Act and taken possession of by the National Government; and in 1867 the
grounds were appropriated for a National Cemetery.
The Potomac was the scene of skirmishes in 1814, when Alexandria
surrendered to the British; and in this connection it is interesting
to learn what Admiral Napier, who commanded the fleet, has to say
regarding the ascent of the river:
“The river Potomac is navigable for frigates as high up as Washington,
but the navigation is extremely intricate and nature has done much for
the protection of the country by placing one-third of the way up, very
extensive and intricate shoals, called the ‘Kettle Bottoms.’ They are
composed of oyster banks of various dimensions, some not larger than a
boat, with passages between them.
“The best channel is on the Virginia shore; but the charts gave us
mostly very bad directions and no pilots could be procured. A frigate
had attempted some time before to effect a passage, and, after being
frequently aground, gave it up as impossible. The American frigates
themselves never attempted it with their guns in, and were several
weeks in the passage from the naval yard at Washington to the mouth of
the Potomac.
“When the tide was favourable and the wind light, we warped by hand;
with the ebb and the wind strong, the hawsers were brought to the
capstan. This operation began at daylight and was carried on without
interruption till dark and lasted five days, during which the squadron
warped upwards of fifty miles, and on the evening of the fifth day
anchored off Maryland Point. The same day the public buildings of
Washington were burnt. The reflection of the fire on the heavens
was plainly seen from the ships, much to our mortification and
disappointment, as we concluded that that act was committed at the
moment of evacuating the town....
“The following morning, to our great joy, the wind became fair, and
we made all sail up the river, which now assumed a more pleasing
aspect. At five o’clock in the afternoon _Mount Vernon_--the retreat
of the illustrious Washington--opened to our view and showed us, for
the first time since we entered the Potomac, a gentleman’s residence.
Higher up the river, on the opposite side, Fort Washington appeared to
our anxious eyes; and, to our great satisfaction, it was considered
assailable.
“A little before sunset the squadron anchored just out of gun-shot;
the bomb vessels at once took up their positions to cover the frigates
in the projected attack at daylight next morning and began throwing
shells. The garrison, to our great surprise, retreated from the Fort;
and, a short time after, Fort Washington was blown up--which left the
capital of America, and the populous town of Alexandria, open to the
squadron, without the loss of a man.
“A deputation from the town arrived to treat; but Captain Gordon
declined entering into any arrangement till the squadron arrived before
Alexandria. The channel was buoyed, and next morning the 27th, we
anchored abreast of the town and dictated terms.
“Alexandria is a large well-built town and a place of great trade.
It is eight miles below Washington, where few merchant ships go, and
is, in fact, the mercantile capital, and, before the war, was a most
flourishing town, but at the time of its capture had been going rapidly
to decay. Agricultural produce was of little value; the storehouses
were full of it. We learnt that the army after destroying Barney’s
flotilla, had made a forced march on Washington, beat the Americans
at Bladensburg, destroyed the public buildings and navy yard, and
retreated to their ships. Had our little squadron been favoured by
wind, the retreat would have been made along the right bank of the
Potomac, under our protection, and the whole country in the course of
that river would have been laid under contribution.”
THE EUPHRATES
GEORGE RAWLINSON
Euphrates is probably a word of Arian origin. It is not improbable that
in common parlance the name was soon shortened to its modern form of
_Frát_, which is almost exactly what the Hebrew literation expresses.
The Euphrates is the largest, the longest, and by far the most
important of the rivers of Western Asia. It rises from two chief
sources in the Armenian Mountains, one of them at Domli, twenty-five
miles north-east of Ezeroum, and little more than a degree from the
Black Sea; the other on the northern slope of the mountain range called
_Ala-Tagh_, near the village of _Diyadin_, and not far from Mount
Ararat. Both branches flow at first towards the west or south-west,
passing through the wildest mountain-districts of Armenia; they meet
at _Kebban-Maden_, nearly in longitude 39° east from Greenwich, having
run respectively 400 and 270 miles. Here the stream formed by their
combined waters is 120 yards wide, rapid and very deep. The last part
of its course, from _Hit_ downwards, is through a low, flat, and
alluvial plain, over which it has a tendency to spread and stagnate;
above _Hit_, and from thence to Samosata, the country along its banks
is for the most part open but hilly; north of Samosata, the stream runs
in a narrow valley among high mountains, and is interrupted by numerous
rapids. The entire course is calculated at 1,780 miles, nearly 650 more
than that of the Tigris, and only 200 short of that of the Indus;
and of this distance more than two-thirds (1,200 miles) is navigable
for boats, and even, as the expedition of Col. Chesney proved, for
small steamers. The width of the river is greatest at the distance of
700 or 800 miles from its mouth. The river has also in this part of
its course the tendency already noted, to run off and waste itself in
vast marshes, which every year more and more cover the alluvial tract
west and south of the stream. From this cause its lower course is
continually varying, and it is doubted whether at present, except in
the season of the inundation, any portion of the Euphrates water is
poured into the _Shat-el-Arab_.
The annual inundation of the Euphrates is caused by the melting of
the snows in the Armenian highlands. It occurs in the month of May.
The rise of the Tigris is earlier, since it drains the southern flank
of the great Armenian chain. The Tigris scarcely overflows, but the
Euphrates inundates large tracts on both sides of its course from Hit
downwards.
The Euphrates has at all times been of some importance as furnishing
a line of traffic between the east and the west. Herodotus speaks
of persons, probably merchants, using it regularly on their passage
from the Mediterranean to Babylon. Alexander appears to have brought
to Babylon by the Euphrates route vessels of some considerable size,
which he had had made in Cyprus and Phœnicia. They were so constructed
that they could be taken to pieces, and were thus carried piecemeal to
Thapsacus, where they were put together and launched. The disadvantage
of the route was the difficulty of conveying return cargoes against the
current. According to Herodotus, the boats which descended the river
were broken to pieces and sold at Babylon, and the owners returned
on foot to Armenia, taking with them only the skins. The spices and
other products of Arabia formed their principal merchandise. On the
whole there are sufficient grounds for believing that throughout
the Babylonian and Persian periods this route was made use of by
the merchants of various nations, and that by it the east and west
continually interchanged their most important products.
The Euphrates is first mentioned in Scripture as one of the four rivers
of Eden. We next hear of it in the covenant made with Abraham where
the whole country from “the great river Euphrates” to the river of
Egypt is promised to the chosen race. In Deuteronomy and Joshua we
find this promise was borne in mind at the time of the settlement in
Canaan; and from an important passage in the first Book of Chronicles
it appears that the tribe of Reuben did actually extend itself to the
Euphrates in the times anterior to Saul. Here they came in contact with
the Hagarites, who appear upon the middle Euphrates in the Assyrian
inscription of the later empire. It is David, however, who seems for
the first time to have entered on the full enjoyment of the promise,
by the victories which he gained over Hadadezer, king of Zobah, and
his allies, the Syrians of Damascus. The object of his expedition was
“to recover his border,” and “to establish his dominion by the river
Euphrates”; and in this object he appears to have been altogether
successful; in so much that Solomon, his son, who was not a man of war,
but only inherited his father’s dominions, is said to have “reigned
over all kingdoms from the river (the Euphrates) unto the land of the
Philistines and unto the border of Egypt.” Thus during the reigns of
David and Solomon the dominion of Israel actually attained to the
full extent both ways of the original promise, the Euphrates forming
the boundary of their empire to the north-east, and the river of Egypt
to the south-west. The “Great River” had meanwhile served for some
time as a boundary between Assyria and the country of the Hittites,
but had repeatedly been crossed by the armies of the Ninevite kings,
who gradually established their sway over the countries upon its right
bank. The crossing of the river was always difficult; and at the point
where certain natural facilities fixed the ordinary passage, the strong
fort of Carchemish had been built, probably in very early times, to
command the position. Hence, when Necho determined to attempt the
permanent conquest of Syria, his march was directed upon “Carchemish by
Euphrates,” which he captured and held, thus extending the dominion of
Egypt to the Euphrates, and renewing the old glories of the Rameside
kings.
These are the chief events which Scripture distinctly connects with the
“Great River.” It is probably included among the “rivers of Babylon,”
by the side of which the Jewish captives “remembered Zion,” and wept,
and no doubt is glanced at in the threats of Jeremiah against the
Chaldean “waters” and “springs,” upon which there is to be a “drought,”
that shall “dry them up.” The fulfilment of these prophecies has been
noticed under the head of Chaldæa. The river still brings down as much
water as of old, but the precious element is wasted by neglect of man;
the various water-courses along which it was in former times conveyed,
are dry; the main channel has shrunk; and the water stagnates in
unwholesome marshes.
THE WYE
A. R. QUINTON
Among the many beautiful streams of Britain there is perhaps not one
of which has so many and so varied charms as the River Wye. Issuing
from the southern slopes of the great Welsh mountain, Plinlimmon, it
begins its life as a mountain torrent, but gradually sobers down into
a placid stream, flowing in a sinuous course of one hundred and thirty
odd miles, and receiving many tributary streamlets before it mingles
its waters with those of its big sister, the Severn, a few miles
below Chepstow. Thickly dotted along its banks are picturesque ruined
castles, abbeys, and manor-houses--each with its own story to tell of
bygone days; quaint old towns, and at least one stately cathedral, each
bearing names which often recur in the pages of history, and still
retaining signs of the age when kings, barons, and Commoners, priests
and laymen, struggled for supremacy.
Although there is much that is interesting and pleasing in the earlier
part of its course, it is at Ross that the romantic scenery of the
Wye may be said to commence. Above that town the river flows for many
miles through a fairly open valley, bordered indeed with wooded hills,
but with a broad expanse of meadow land between their feet and its
margin. But on approaching Ross the slopes draw nearer to the brink
of the stream, and for twenty miles or more the Wye flows through an
almost continuous glen, carved deeply out of a lofty and undulating
table-land.
The ancient town of Ross, our starting place, is chiefly built upon the
slope of a hill terminating on a plateau, descending steeply to the
river. Upon this plateau stands the church, with its adjoining garden,
the Prospect, which commands a lovely view over the valley of the Wye;
whence the graceful spire of the church forms a landmark for all the
country round.
The district traversed by the Wye in the first stage of its seaward
journey, from Ross to Monmouth, is an elevated upland, a region of
rolling hills shelving down towards winding valleys, whose declivities
become abrupt towards the margin of the main river. Near to this
the hills are often scarped into cliffs and carved into ridges, but
further back we have slopes and undulations, cornfields and scattered
woodlands, in marked contrast with the crags and forest-clad glades
near the edge of the swift and strong stream. The valley narrows
after leaving Ross, but the scenery improves as we come in view of
Goodrich Castle, crowning a wooded steep above the river, and Goodrich
Court, also seated on an eminence. The latter is a modern imitation
of a mediæval dwelling, and formerly contained the remarkably fine
collection of ancient armour which has since found a home in the South
Kensington Museum, and is known as the Meyrick Collection. The Castle,
which is some distance beyond the Court, was in its day a fortress of
formidable strength. There is little doubt that the keep was built
about the period 1135-1154, in the time of King Stephen.
In the time of the civil wars it was held for the King Charles I. by
Sir Henry Lingen, but was taken from him by the Parliamentarians in
1646.
[Illustration: THE WYE]
At Goodrich the river commences one of its most remarkable bends.
From Goodrich Ferry to Huntsholme Ferry is little more than a mile
overland, but by the river it is eight miles. The Wye sweeps round in
an easterly direction after Kern Bridge is passed, then turns abruptly
and flows for a mile in an opposite course, enclosing in the loop thus
formed the house and grounds of Courtfield, where, in a more ancient
mansion, “Wild Prince Hal” is reported to have passed the days of early
childhood, under the care of the Countess of Salisbury. The pretty
village of Welsh Bicknor is also passed, and then we presently come in
view of the lofty Coldwell Rocks, where the river, which for a time
has pursued a southerly direction, now doubles back almost upon its
former course, and makes the most remarkable curve in the whole of its
windings from Plinlimmon to the sea. It is far-famed Symonds’ Yat, a
limestone plateau some 600 feet above the river, which here describes
a huge elongated loop, so that after a course of between four and five
miles it returns again to within less than half a mile of its former
channel.
More extensive prospects may, doubtless, be obtained from other view
points, but for a grand combination of rocks and woodlands, this spot
may well take the palm. After leaving the Yat, the Wye bends round the
stone hills on its right bank. On both are remarkable encampments,
whilst fossil remains of hyena, elephant, stag, and other animals have
been found in a cave known as King Arthur’s Cave, on the former hill.
Very lovely is the course of the river as it flows onward through steep
and densely wooded slopes and presently brings us in view of a detached
cluster of rocks called the “Seven Sisters.” This part of the Wye is
reported to have a greater depth than any other length in its course.
At the end of the reach is the beautiful level height called King
Arthur’s Plain, which in the distance assumes the appearance of towers
belonging to an ancient castle. The high road turns away from the river
at the apex of Symonds’ Yat, but a foot-path follows the banks on
either side as far as Monmouth. Shortly before reaching that town the
wilder and more romantic part of the Wye ends and the river pursues a
straighter and less ruffled course.
The situation of the town of Monmouth is remarkably picturesque.
Beautiful hills surround it on all sides, but the valley has expanded
to allow the Monnow and the Trothy to form a junction with the Wye.
A curious old bridge spans the Monnow, bearing on its first pier an
ancient gatehouse, one of the few survivors of a defensive work once
common in England, which, though somewhat altered by being pierced
with postern arches for foot-passengers, still retains the place for
its portcullis and much of its ancient aspect. Formerly the town was
surrounded by a wall and moat, and was entered by four gates, of which
the Monnow Gate alone remains.
A short distance below Monmouth the Wye again enters a narrow glen,
hardly less beautiful if less romantic, than the gorge which it has
traversed on its course from Ross to Monmouth. The hills once more
close in upon the river, leaving but seldom even a strip of level
meadow between its margin and their slopes. The steeply wooded banks
are so wild and so continuous that at times we seem to be passing
through an undisturbed remnant of primeval forest. At Red Brook,
however, there are signs of human activity. A pretty glen here descends
from among the hills to the left bank of the Wye. By the riverside are
little quays with barges alongside, and, alas, it must also be added,
tall chimneys pouring forth smoke to mar the beauty of a lovely spot.
At Bigswier the river is spanned by an iron bridge, thrown lightly
from bank to bank, and is of sufficiently pleasing design to harmonize
with the surroundings. From this point the Wye is affected by the
tide, but not to any appreciable extent, until a few miles below, in
the neighbourhood of Tintern. On a hill overlooking Bigswier stand the
church and castle of St. Briavels. The castle was erected soon after
the Norman conquest as one of the border defenses; it stands on the
edge of the ancient Forest of Dean, and saw much rough work in its
early days. The old keep is in ruins, but the other portions are used
as a residence.
The next village encountered, on our way down the stream, is Llandago,
which nestles among gardens and orchards, and rises tier above tier
on the thickly wooded hill which rises steeply from the road beside
the river. Near by is Offa’s Chair--a point in the great earthwork
known as Offa’s Dyke, which once extended from Tidenham, across
Herefordshire and Radnorshire, to the Flintshire hills beyond Mold,
and perhaps to the coast of North Wales. As the valley again slightly
expands, shelving bands of sward, dotted with houses, announce that we
are approaching the precincts of the far-famed Tintern Abbey. First
we must pass the long and scattered village of Tintern Parva, whose
pretty white cottages and pleasant gardens extend for a mile along the
river’s bank, which here makes another of its sharp bends. Cunningly
indeed did the monks of old choose their dwelling places. There is no
spot for many a mile which so completely fulfils the requirements of
quiet and seclusion with certain mundane comforts, as that which they
have selected. As one gazes at this noble relic, and the winding Wye
stealing past it through the hills, one must accord the first place
among the classic ruins of this island, in so far as regards the beauty
of its situation. Forests were near at hand to supply them with fuel
without stint, and game for their table on days of feasting. The tidal
river would bring the barks of merchandise to their very door, and
its leaping salmon would alleviate the severity of their fast days.
Chepstow, with its castle, guarded them from marauders by the sea, and
they were far enough within the line of border fortresses to fear no
ill from incursions from the mountains of Wales.
The plan of the foundation of the Abbey is cruciform, and what remains
of the grey skeleton of the edifice affords a fine example of early
Twelfth-Century work. It was founded in the year 1131 by one Walter de
Clare “for the good of his soul, and the soul of his kinsmen,” and was
confined to the use of monks of the Cistercian order. Two inscribed
tombs in the cloisters give the names of two of the abbots, but, apart
from such fragmentary scraps of information, the history of Tintern
may be said to have perished with the Abbey. The scene on entering the
interior, is most impressive. Vaulted roof and central tower are gone,
but the arches which supported the latter are intact. The glass, of
course, has long since perished with the windows, even the mullions and
tracery are gone; ivy, ferns, and herbage, form a coping for the wall;
the greensward has replaced the pavement of stone or tiles; but still
it is hardly possible to imagine a more imposing and lovely scene than
these ruins.
Between Tintern and Chepstow the scenery of the Wye assumes an entirely
fresh character. As we approach the Wynd cliff, the grassy bed of the
river opens out into a sort of amphitheatre, and we can trace the
huge horseshoe curve swept out upon its floors by the stream, between
the base of the Wynd cliff which it washes, and the mural escarpment
of Bannagor and Tidenham Crags, which form the opposite boundary of
this great river-trench. It is a steep climb to the top of the Wynd
cliff, but the glorious prospect obtained from the summit well repays
the effort. Below is the beautiful horseshoe fold of the Wye, bounded
by richly-wooded slopes that sweep from the right with a curve in the
form of a sickle. Where the curve ends there stands an imposing wall
of rock with a reddish base, its brow of dazzling white lined with
green woodland, while far away towards the coast the point where the
river enters the Severn estuary, which is here broadening out on its
way towards the distant sea, is faintly visible. The beautiful grounds
of Piercefield lie between the Wynd cliff and Chepstow. Art has here
assisted Nature, in this domain, by carrying paths through a belt of
woodland, with outlooks cunningly contrived to command the best views.
These grounds are thrown open to the public on certain days.
The town of Chepstow occupies the right bank of the Wye, and is built
upon a slope, which descends in places rather abruptly from the general
level of the surrounding country to the river’s brink. Formerly it
was enclosed by walls, like Monmouth, considerable portions of which
are here and there preserved, especially in the neighbourhood of the
castle. One of the gates still remains in High Street. It is called the
Town Gate, and was for a long time used as a prison. Chepstow Castle is
approached by a gentle acclivity clothed with greensward.
THE INDIAN RIVER
L. C. BRYAN
This river, or sound, spans a region of a hundred and forty miles from
north to south, is salt, and yet almost without tide, neither rising
nor falling more than a few inches by the winds; lies upon the very
shore of the Atlantic, and from one to seven miles wide--a most placid,
safe and beautiful inland sea in the very teeth of a wild tempestuous
ocean.
Unlike the St. John’s or any other possible river, having no
considerable rise or fall, its bordering lands are not overflowed, and
unlike other seacoast waterways, it is not cumbered with interminable
salt marshes. Its waters beat upon a bold, often abrupt shore,
diversified into high and low lands of every grade and covered with the
luxuriant vegetation common to warm climates.
Wonderfully beautiful is Indian River. There is no other such sheet
of water in the world. Nature, with lavish hand, spread its waters
and adorned its shores. The design of the Great Master Artist is seen
in the narrow strip of land as a levee separating the river from the
Atlantic, and in the forest on the levee as a great wind-break to curb
the fierce winds of the ocean. Properly speaking, it is not a river,
but a sound, or arm of the sea. Its centre is on an air line north and
south 140 miles long, while its banks curve in and out in beautiful
bays and grottoes. A few small creeks empty into it from the west,
while the water empties into it from the Atlantic through Indian
River Inlet and Jupiter Inlet.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE
INDIAN]
It is a sea without its dangers, a river without a current, seldom
calm, but always in motion from the winds. From this constant
motion its water is kept pure. The winds of winter, coming from the
north-west, are softened and warmed by the waters of the upper St.
John’s River, and the pine forests on the west of the hammocks of this
river, and the winds of summer coming from the east, are tempered and
cooled by the Gulf Stream, making the climate most delightful in winter
and summer, and, perhaps, most to be desired of any in America.
Of the Indian River we find the following from the able pen of
ex-Governor Gleason:
“Indian River, as it is called, is a sound, and lies parallel to the
Atlantic, separated from it by a narrow strip of land varying from a
few rods to three miles in width; it is a sheet of pure tide water,
salt, clear and transparent. It has two inlets from the ocean--Indian
River Inlet, about 100 miles from its north head, and Jupiter Inlet at
its extreme southern end. From its north head to within twenty-five
miles of Jupiter Inlet, it is from one to six miles wide; from Jupiter
Inlet to the mouth of the St. Lucie River, a distance of about
twenty-five miles, it is from one-fourth of a mile to a mile in width,
and is known as Jupiter Narrows. It is affected very little by the tide
and the current moves by the wind. Being in the region of the trade
winds, with almost a constant breeze from the east during the daytime,
it affords peculiar facilities for sailing up and down the river, and
the people take advantage of it. Every house is either on the river
bank or a short distance up some navigable stream flowing into it, and
has a boat landing. It is the Venice of America, and one can seldom
look out upon the water without seeing boats sailing both ways. The
river is well supplied with the finest oysters, sea-turtles, and a
great variety of fish, among which are mullet, cavalli, snapper, blue
fish, sheepshead and sea-trout. The manatee is caught at the mouth of
the St. Lucie and Jupiter Inlet. Some of them weigh from 1,500 to 2,000
pounds and are very grand eating. They are found nowhere else in the
United States, their principal habitat being near the mouths of the
streams flowing into the Caribbean Sea, where they feed upon a peculiar
grass called manatee, which grows at the bottom of most tide-water
streams in the tropics.”
Merritt’s Island, which is about forty miles long and contains about
thirty thousand acres is situated in the northern part of the river.
The water on its east side is from one-fourth of a mile to six miles
wide, and is known as Banana River. The shores of Indian River, both on
the west side of Merritt’s Island and on the main land, are free from
swamps and marshes, and rise at an angle of from twenty to twenty-five
degrees to an elevation of from twenty-five to fifty feet. In many
places the banks are high bluffs. The country on Merritt’s Island,
and the west shore has the appearance of an endless park, the timber
being principally scattered pines, with an undergrowth of palmettos and
grass, interspersed with an occasional forest of palm, live oak and
other hard wood timbers.
The orange belt is from one to three miles in width, and is principally
on the west side near the river. West of the orange belt are the St.
John’s prairies, which are unfit for orange culture, but afford fine
pasturage, and are good for vegetables and the culture of sugar-cane
and hay.
The river south of Indian River Inlet, on the eastern shore, is
skirted with a narrow belt of mangrove timber of only a few rods in
width, which is very dense and almost impenetrable. It is a deep
green the entire year, and presents a beautiful appearance. The strip
of land adjacent to the ocean between Jupiter Inlet and the mouth
of St. Lucie River, is known as Jupiter Island, and is about half a
mile wide and twenty miles long. It has some excellent land and is
elevated from fifteen to thirty feet above the sea. The river here, at
Jupiter Narrows, is less than half a mile wide. The western bank is
from forty to fifty feet high and covered with a dense low scrub of
live oak bushes, not more than two or three feet high, and when viewed
from the Island, these heights remind one of the green pastures of the
north--they are always the same colour, a beautiful green. This portion
of the river is full of oysters and the inlet is the finest fishing
on the coast. On the bank of the river, at various places, are large
mounds of clam and oyster shells; the largest of them near Jupiter
Inlet, is nearly a quarter of a mile long and about forty feet high.
At the north end of the river are some fine live oak and palm hummock
lands, very rich and suitable for orange groves, sugar-cane and garden
vegetables. The climate from October to May is a perpetual Indian
summer, commingled with the balmiest days of spring, seldom interrupted
by storms and only with occasional showers, while most of the time
there is a gentle breeze coming inland from the even-tempered waters
of the Gulf Stream. The prevailing winds are easterly, being the trade
winds, which extend as far north as Cape Canaveral and are perceptible
as far north as New Smyrna and St. Augustine. The nights are cool even
in summer--the atmosphere invigourating and health restoring.
Mineral and other springs are frequent, many of them possessing
medicinal properties. Game is abundant--bear, deer, quail and wild
turkeys on the land, ducks on the lakes and rivers, and green turtle
and fish in the waters. All of these, with its beautiful building
sites, its superior surf bathing and boat sailing, the absence of
swamps and marshes, will eventually cause the banks of this magnificent
sheet of water to become one vast villa of winter residences.
THE NILE
J. HOWARD REED
The holy river--“the Jove-descended Nile”--formerly bore the name of
Ægyptus. Professor Rawlinson in his _History of the Ancient Egyptians_,
says: “The term Egypt was not known to the ancient Egyptians
themselves, but appears to have been first used by the Greeks as a name
for the Nile, and thence extended to the country. It is stated by some
authorities that the river received its present title from Nilus, an
ancient king of Thebes, who named the stream after himself.”
“Father Nile” was an object of great veneration to the ancients, and a
gift of its waters was considered by them as a present fit for kings
and queens. The veneration in which the river was held, of course,
arose from the blessings of its annual overflow spread broadcast over
its banks by fertilizing the seed of the sower, producing abundant
crops for the sickle of the reaper, and thus making glad the heart
of man. It is stated that the Arabs in the present day consider it
a delicious privilege to slake their thirst with the salubrious and
agreeable waters of the river, and I have read that they will even
artificially excite thirst to indulge in the pleasure of imbibing
refreshing and satisfying draughts from the “holy stream.” The general
Pescennius Niger is said to have cried to his soldiers: “What! crave
you for wine, when you have the water of the Nile to drink?” Homer is
stated to have said, no doubt referring poetically to its regular and
fertilizing overflow: “The Nile flows down from heaven.” The Egyptians
say that “If Mahomet had tasted the waters of the Nile, he would have
prayed God to make him immortal, that he might have enjoyed them for
ever.”
The river has a total length of considerably over 3,000 miles, and
is remarkable among the rivers of the world from the fact that for
about the last 1,500 miles of its flow it receives no tributary--none,
in fact, after the Albara or Tacazze. The consequence is that, by
the time it reaches the sea, its volume is considerably reduced by
evaporation, and from the large quantity of water used along its banks
for irrigation and other purposes. The river is formed of two principal
branches, the Bahr-el-Azrek, or Blue Nile, and the Bahr-el-Abiad,
or White Nile, the latter of which is the main branch or true
Nile. It receives also, as tributary rivers, the Atbara or Tacazze
before mentioned, with the Sobat and Asua on the east side; and the
Bahr-el-Gazelle on the west; besides other smaller and less important
streams. Its waters are discharged into the Mediterranean through
several mouths, the two principal of which are known as the Rosetta and
Damietta mouths--the first-named being to the west and the other to the
east. The principal island formed by the divisions of the river being
shaped like the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, takes the name of
Delta; and the Nile is doubtless the river which first suggested what
is now a technical name for all similar formations at the mouths of
rivers.
[Illustration: THE NILE]
The rise and overflow of the Nile caused by the seasonal rains of
the interior, has been for ages noted for its regularity. The rise
commences about midsummer, reaches its greatest height at the autumnal
equinox, and has again subsided by Christmas; leaving the land
highly enriched by the fertilizing sediment of red earth brought down
by the Abyssinian tributaries and deposited by the river. The land can
then be worked and the crops planted. The rise and fall of the river is
watched with great anxiety by the inhabitants of the Nile valley. At
intervals along its banks river gauges, or nilometers, are fixed, upon
which the variations of the river are duly recorded.
Nearly five centuries before the Christian era, the first great African
traveller, Herodotus, writing about the Nile, said: “Respecting the
nature of this river, I was unable to gain any information, either from
the priests or any one else. I was very desirous, however, of learning
from them why the Nile, beginning at the summer solstice, fills and
overflows for a hundred days; and when it has nearly completed this
number of days, falls short in its stream and retires; so that it
continues low all the winter, until the return of the summer solstice.”
Seneca writes that the Emperor Nero sent an exploring expedition under
two centurions with military force to explore the countries along the
banks of the Astapus or White River, and to search for the Nile’s
sources. They passed down the river a considerable distance until
immense marshes were met with. They forced their way through, and
continued their journey southward, until the river was seen “tumbling
down or issuing out between the rocks.” They were then obliged to turn
back and declare their mission a failure. The centurions are stated
to have brought back with them a map of the districts they had passed
through, for the information of the Imperial Nero.
This early expedition succeeded in penetrating about 800 Roman miles
south of Meroe--that is to say, reaching three or four degrees north
latitude. The place where water was seen “tumbling down from between
the rocks” was probably the Fola or Mekade cataract, again discovered
in our own day by the late General Gordon. The river here rushes
through a narrow ravine, over and between rocks of from thirty to
forty feet high. These falls are stated to be the only insurmountable
obstacle to the navigation of the Nile, for vessels of considerable
size, from the Mediterranean to the Albert Lake.
About seventy years later, during the Second Century, we find Claudius
Ptolemy, a celebrated geographer and astrologer of Alexandria, writing
about the Nile and its sources. He tells us that the “holy stream”
rises some twelve degrees south of the equator, in a number of streams
that flow into two lakes, situated east and west of each other; from
which, in turn, issue two rivers; these afterwards unite and form
the Nile. Ptolemy also mentions that in the interior of Africa were
some mountains which he called “_Selenes Oros_”--generally translated
“Mountains of the Moon.”
Following in the steps of Ptolemy, come the Arab geographers, and
they are stated to have practically adopted all his theories and
geographical notions.
Later on we find that the Portuguese travellers obtained a considerable
amount of information regarding the geography of the interior of
Africa. They appear to have had some knowledge of the existence of
several large lakes in the centre of the continent, and in some of
their early maps these lakes find a place.
It appears to have been known to the ancients that the Nile proper is
formed of two principal branches, which join and form one river close
to where the town of Khartoum (or its ruin) now stands; but beyond
this, as we have seen, little authentic information has been handed
down.
In the year 1770, Bruce gave his attention to the Blue Nile. He was
enabled to locate the sources of that branch of the river among the
mountains and highlands of Abyssinia, near Lake Dembea. In 1788, the
African Association was founded, and in furtherance of its objects much
information was obtained of the geography of the “Dark Continent.” In
1827, M. Linant, a French traveller, passed up the White Nile to a
considerable distance above its junction with the Blue Nile branch.
About the year 1840 two Egyptian naval officers headed an expedition,
fitted out by Mahommed Ali, the then ruler of Egypt; they forced their
way through the terrible marshes to within 3° 4″ of the equator; but
were, like the expedition of the Emperor Nero, at last obliged to turn
back.
In 1831, the old African Association was merged into the Royal
Geographical Society, and from then, right down to the present time,
our knowledge of the Nile and its sources has been perfecting itself.
While resting on the plateau land above the south-west corner of the
Albert Lake, on the 25th of May, 1888, Stanley’s attention was called
to a towering mountain height capped with snow, which, from where he
stood, lay about fifty miles away to the south-east. Twelve months
later on his homeward journey, after crossing the Semliki River, which
he found flowing into the south end of the Albert Lake, Stanley found
himself following a range of hills, the tops of which towering up some
19,000 feet high, were covered with perpetual snow. This melting under
the action of a tropical sun, poured its volumes of water into the
Semliki River at his feet, which in turn conveyed it thence to the
Albert Lake and onwards to swell the torrent of Father Nile.
Stanley writes: “Little did we imagine it, but the results of our
journey from the Albert Nyanza to ---- where I turned away from the
newly-discovered lake in 1876, established beyond a doubt that the
snowy mountain, which bears the native name of Ruwenzori or Ruwenjura,
is identical with what the ancients called ‘Mountains of the Moon.’
“Note what Scheadeddin, an Arabian geographer of the Fifteenth Century
writes: ‘From the Mountains of the Moon the Egyptian Nile takes its
rise. It cuts horizontally the equator in its course north. Many rivers
come from this mountain and unite in a great lake. From this lake comes
the Nile, the most beautiful and greatest of the rivers of all the
earth.’”
THE NILE
ISAAC TAYLOR
After a few days at Cairo--one of the most amusing and picturesque
cities in the world--the Express Nile Service of Messrs. Cook brings
the traveller in three days to Luxor, where he will find enough to
occupy him for as many weeks. The first view from the river shows the
appositeness of the epithet Hecatompylos, applied to Thebes by Homer.
Huge cubical masses of masonry--not the gateways of the city, which was
never walled, but the pylons and propylons of the numerous temples--are
seen towering above the palms, and, separated from each other by miles
of verdant plain, roughly indicate the limits of the ancient city.
At Luxor the Nile valley is about ten miles across. The escarpment
of the desert plateau, which elsewhere forms a fringing cliff of
nearly uniform elevation, here breaks into cone-shaped peaks rising
to a height of seventeen hundred feet above the level plain, which
in January is already waving with luxuriant crops--the barley coming
into ear, the lentils and vetches in flower and the tall sugar-canes
beginning to turn yellow. The plain is dotted with Arab villages, each
raised above the level of the inundation on its _tell_, or mound of
ancient _débris_, and embosomed in a grove of date-palms mingled with
the quaint dom-palms characteristic of the Thebiad. Animal life is far
more abundant than in Italy or France. We note the camels and buffaloes
feeding everywhere, tethered in the fields; the great soaring kites
floating in the air; the graceful hoopoos, which take the place of
our English thrushes; the white paddy-birds fishing on the sand-banks
of the river; gay king-fishers, among them the fish-tiger pied in
black and white; the sun-bird, a bee-eater clad in a brilliant coat of
green and gold; the crested lark, the greater and lesser owl, as well
as water-wagtails, pipits, chats and warblers, numerous swifts and
swallows, with an occasional vulture, eagle, cormorant, pelican, or
crane. The jackal is common; and the wolf, the hyena, and the fox are
not unfrequently heard, but seldom seen.
The sunsets on the Nile, if not the finest in the world, are unique
in character. This is probably due to the excessive dryness of the
atmosphere, and to the haze of impalpable dust arising from the fine
mud deposited by the inundation. As the sun descends, he leaves a
pathway or glowing gold reflected from the smooth surface of the Nile.
Any faint streaks of cloud in the west shine out as the tenderest and
most translucent bars of rose; a lurid reflection of the sunset lights
up the eastern sky; then half an hour after sunset a great dome of glow
arises in the west, lemon, changing into the deepest orange, and slowly
dying away into a crimson fringe on the horizon--the glassy mirror of
the Nile gleaming like molten metal; and then, as the last hues of
sunset fade, the zodiacal light, a huge milky cone, shoots up into the
sky.
On moonless nights the stars shine out with a brilliancy unknown in
our misty northern latitudes. About three in the morning the strange
marvel of the Southern Cross rises for an hour or two, the lowest star
of the four appearing through a fortunate depression in the chain of
hills. When the moon is nearly full, the visitors sally out into the
temples to enjoy in the clear, calm and balmy air the mystery of their
dark recesses, enhanced by the brilliant illumination of the thickly
clustered columns. It is a sight, once seen, never to be forgotten.
But the charm of Luxor does not consist mainly in its natural
beauties, though these are not to be despised, but in its unrivalled
historical interest. There is no other site of a great ancient city
which takes you so far and so clearly back into the past. All the
greater monuments of Thebes, all the chief tombs and temples, are older
than the time of Moses; they bear in clearly readable cartouches on
their sculptured walls the names of the great conquering kings of the
eighteenth and nineteenth dynasties--Thotmes III., Amenhotep III.,
Seti I., and Rameses II.--who carried the victorious arms of Egypt to
Ethiopia, Lybia, the Euphrates and the Orontes; the great wall-faces
forming a picture-gallery of their exploits. More modern names on the
temple-walls of Thebes are those of Shishak, who vanquished Rehoboam,
and Tirhakah, the contemporary of Hezekiah. The earliest name yet
found at Thebes is that of Usertasen, a king of the twelfth dynasty,
who lived some forty-three centuries ago; the latest considerable
additions were made by the Ptolemies, and the record finally closes
with a cartouche in which we spell out the hieroglyphic name of the
Emperor Tiberius. But practically the monumental history of Thebes
has ended before that of ancient Rome begins. The arches of Titus and
Constantine, the mausoleum of Hadrian, Trajan’s Column, the Colosseum
and the Catacombs--in short, all the great structures of pre-Christian
Rome--date from a time when Thebes had begun to be forsaken, and the
ruin of her temples had commenced. Even the oldest Roman monuments,
the Cloaca Maxima, the Agger, and the substructures of the Palatine
belong to a period when the greater edifices of Thebes were hoary with
the dust of centuries. When Herodotus, the father of European history,
voyaged up the Nile to Thebes, at a time when the Greeks had not even
heard of an obscure Italian town which bore the name of Rome, the
great temples which he saw, the vocal Memnon which is the statue of
Amenhotep III., and the buildings which he ascribed to a king he called
Sesostris, already belonged to an antiquity as venerable as that which
separates the Heptarchy and the Anglo-Saxon Kings from the reign of
Queen Victoria.
Difficult as it is to realize the antiquity of these monuments, in many
of which the chiselling is as sharp and the colouring as brilliant as
if they had been executed only yesterday, it is still more difficult by
any description to convey an impression of their vastness. The temples
and tombs are scattered over a space of many square miles; single ruins
cover an area of several acres; thousands of square yards of wall
contain only the pictured story of a single campaign. For splendour and
magnitude the group of temples at Karnak, about two miles from Luxor,
forms the most magnificent ruin in the world.
THE DON
ÉLISÉE RÉCLUS
The lands draining to the Sea of Azov, form no sharply defined region,
with bold natural frontiers and distinct populations. The sources of
the Don and its head-streams intermingle with those of the Volga and
Dnieper--some--like the Medveditza, flowing even for some distance
parallel with the Volga. As in the Dnieper and Dniester valleys, the
“black lands” and bare steppes here also follow each other successively
as we proceed southwards, while the population naturally diminishes in
density in the same direction. The land is occupied in the north and
east by the Great Russians, westwards by the Little Russians, in the
south and in New Russia by colonies of every race and tongue, rendering
this region a sort of common territory, where all the peoples of the
empire except the Finns are represented. Owing to the great extent of
the steppes, the population is somewhat less dense than in the Dnieper
basin and Central Russia, but it is yearly and rapidly increasing.
The Don, the root of which is probably contained in its Greek name
Tanaïs, is one of the great European rivers, if not in the volume of
its waters, at least in the length of its course, with its windings
some 1,335 miles altogether. Rising in a lakelet in the government
of Tula, it flows first southwards to its junction with the nearly
parallel Veronej, beyond which point it trends to the south-east,
and even eastwards, as if extending to reach the Volga. After being
enlarged by the Khopor and Medveditza, it arrives within forty-five
miles of that river, above which it has a mean elevation of 138 feet.
Its banks, like those of the Volga, present the normal appearance, the
right being raised and steep, while the left has already been levelled
by the action of the water. Thus the Don flows, as it were, on a
sort of terrace resembling a stair step, the right or western cliffs
seemingly diverting it to the lower Volga bed. Nevertheless, before
reaching that river, it makes a sharp bend first southwards, then
south-westwards to the Sea of Azov.
From a commercial stand-point, it really continues the course of the
Volga. Flowing to a sea which, through the Straits of Yeni-Kaleh, the
Bosphorus, Dardanelles, and Gibraltar, communicates with the ocean,
it has the immense advantage over the Volga of not losing itself in
a land-locked basin. Hence most of the goods brought down the Volga
are landed at the bend nearest the Don, and forwarded to that river.
When besieging Astrakhan the Sultan Selim II. had already endeavoured
to cut a canal between the two rivers, in order to transport his
supplies to the Caspian. Peter the Great resumed the works, but the
undertaking was abandoned, and until the middle of the present century
the portage was crossed only by beasts of burden and wagons. But
since 1861 the rivers have been connected by rail. Free from ice for
about two hundred and forty days at its easternmost bend, the Don
is sometimes so low and blocked with shoals that navigation becomes
difficult even for flat-bottomed boats. During the two floods, at the
melting of the ice in spring, and in the summer rains, its lower course
rises eighteen to twenty feet above its normal level, overflowing its
banks in several places for a distance of eighteen miles. The most
important, although not the most extensive, coal-fields of Russia
cover an area of about 10,000 square miles, chiefly in the southern
part of the Donetz basin. Since 1865, nearly 650 beds have been found,
mostly near the surface, the seams varying in thickness from one foot
to twenty-four feet, and containing every description of combustible
material, from the anthracite to the richest bituminous coal. The
ravines here furrowing the land facilitate the study of the strata and
the extraction of the mineral. Yet these valuable deposits were long
neglected, and even during the Crimean war the Russians, deprived of
their English supplies, were still without the necessary apparatus to
avail themselves of these treasures.
[Illustration: THE DON]
Even the iron ores, which here also abound, were little utilized till
that event, since when the extraction both of coal and iron has gone on
continually increasing in the Donetz basin. In 1839, the yield scarcely
exceeded 14,000 tons, whereas the output of the Grushova mines alone
now amounts to 210,000 tons, and the total yield of the coal-pits
exceeded 672,000 tons in 1872. The coal is now used by the local
railways and steamers of the Don, Sea of Azov, and Euxine.
Already reduced in extent by the terrestrial revolutions which
separated it from the Caspian, the Sea of Azov has been further
diminished in historic times, although far less than might be supposed
from the local traditions. No doubt Herodotus gives the Palus Mæotis an
equal area to that of the Euxine. But as soon as the Greeks had visited
and founded settlements on this inland sea they discovered how limited
it was compared with the open sea. Nevertheless, fifteen hundred years
ago it was certainly somewhat larger and deeper than at present, the
alluvia of the Don having gradually narrowed its basin and raised its
bed. Its outline also has been completely changed, Strabo’s description
no longer answering to the actual form of its shores.
The town of Tanaïs, founded by the Greeks, at the very mouth of the
Don, and which at the time of Ptolemy was already at some distance
from the coast, has ceased to exist. But the architectural remains and
inscriptions discovered by Leontiyev between Siniavka and the village
of Nedoigovka, show that its site was about six miles from the old
mouth of the Great Don, since changed to a dry bed. The course of the
main stream has been deflected southwards, and here is the town of
Azov, for a time the successor of Tanaïs in strategic and commercial
importance. But where the flow is most abundant, there also the
alluvium encroaches most rapidly, and the delta would increase even
at a still more accelerated rate for the fierce east and north-east
gales prevailing for a great part of the year. The sedimentary matter
brought down, in the proportion of about one to 1,200 of fluid, amounts
altogether to 230,160,000 cubic feet, causing a mean annual advance of
nearly twenty-two feet.
The Gulf of Taganrog, about eighty miles long and forming the
north-east extremity of the sea, may, on the whole, be regarded as a
simple continuation of the Don, as regards both the character of its
water and its current, and the windings of its navigable channel. This
gulf, with a mean depth of from ten to twelve and nowhere exceeding
twenty-four feet, seems to have diminished by nearly two feet since the
first charts, dating from the time of Peter the Great. But a comparison
of the soundings taken at various times is somewhat difficult, as
the exact spots where they were taken and the kind of feet employed
are somewhat doubtful, not to mention the state of the weather, and
especially the direction of the winds during the operations. Under
the influence of the winds the level of the sea may be temporarily
raised or lowered at various points as much as ten or even sixteen or
seventeen feet. The mean depth of the whole sea is about thirty-two
feet, which, for an area of 14,217 square miles, would give an
approximate volume of 13,000 billion cubic feet, or about four times
that of Lake Geneva. The bed, composed, like the surrounding steppes,
of argillaceous sands, unbroken anywhere by a single rock, is covered,
at an extremely low rate of progress, with fresh strata, in which
organic remains are mingled with the sandy detritus of the shores. If
a portion of the sedimentary matter brought down by the Don were not
carried out to the Euxine, the inner sea would be filled up in the
space of 56,500 years.
THE COLUMBIA
J. BODDAM-WHETHAM
The Mackenzie River flows through the plain, and is singularly
beautiful. Great blocks of basalt come sheer down to the water’s edge,
and are divided naturally with great exactitude into huge segments.
Their yellow and brown colours are reflected with wondrous effect on
the surface of the stream. After a few most pleasant days, passed in
the neighbourhood of Eugene City, I went on to Oregon City, and there
remained to visit the Falls of the Willamette.
The river narrows near the town, and the water, rushing very swiftly,
is precipitated down a fall of about fifty feet. The rocks on either
side are of deep black basalt; and these huge walls, when viewed from
the south, are extremely grand. It is only when they are seen from
below that the mind is fully impressed with the magnificence of these
falls. They have been worn into a horseshoe form by the action of the
stream, and the river plunges into the depths below in great curves
and sweeping currents. Masses of broken basalt show their heads amidst
the rush of foaming waters, and altogether there is a noise, mist, and
confusion enough to justify the Oregonians in their pride of their
miniature Niagara. Formerly, these falls were the only obstruction
to the free navigation of the river, but now it is overcome by the
construction of locks, which have been built in the most substantial
manner. The scenery of the river is very picturesque and diversified,
and a lovely panorama of hill and dale, water and forest is continually
passing before the view.
[Illustration: THE COLUMBIA]
Portland had lately been nearly destroyed by fire, consequently I
had not a good opportunity of judging of the town. It is, however,
beautifully situated on the Willamette River, and is surrounded by
magnificent forests. There are some delightful drives through the
woods, one especially to a place called the White House, through a
succession of glades and glens full of splendid trees and sweet-scented
shrubs, and with views of peculiar quiet loveliness.
The Willamette runs into the Columbia River about twelve miles below
Portland; so, taking the morning steamer, I prepared to ascend that
river, which for grandeur of scenery is not surpassed by any river
(with the exception, perhaps, of the Fraser) on the American continent.
We started so early that a grey fog swallowed up everything, and the
only objects visible were the paddle-boxes and the funnel.
We steamed very slowly and cautiously down the Willamette, and as
we approached the junction of that river with the Columbia the mist
lifted. As it slowly crept back to the shores and up the hills and away
to the north, mountains, sky and river came out with intense brilliancy
and colour under the rays of the rising sun.
Wonderful forests extended from the far distance down to the very edge
of the river. Beeches, oaks, pines, and firs of enormous size formed
a sombre background, against which the maple and ash flamed out in
their early autumn tints. On the north, the four stately snow-crowned
mountains, Rainier, St. Helen’s, Jefferson, and Adams lifted
themselves, rose-flushed, high up in the heavens; the great river
flowed rapidly and smoothly between mountain shores, from a mile to a
mile and a quarter apart, and the bold rocky heights towered thousands
of feet in the air.
The mountains line the river for miles. When occasionally a deep ravine
opens you catch a glimpse of distant levels, bounded, in their turn, by
the never-ending chain of mountains.
There is a rare combination, too, of beauty about these mountains;
vegetation and great variety of colour heightening the picturesque
effect of the huge masses of bold bare rock. Now and then the cliffs
impeded the flow of the river, which then ran, disturbed and dangerous,
between rocky islands and sand-bars. Often the agitated waters became
gradually calm and formed long narrow lakes, without any apparent
outlet, until a sudden turn showed a passage through the lofty walls
into another link of the water-chain.
Sometimes a cataract of marvellous beauty came leaping down the rocks
from a height of 200 and 300 feet.
The Multanomah Falls in particular are most beautiful, possessing both
the swift resistless rush of the downpour of water and that broken
picturesque outline which is the principal charm of a fall.
Castle Rock, a huge boulder with basaltic columns like those of Staffa,
stands out grandly and alone from a feathery mass of cotton-wood, whose
golden splendour rivals in beauty that of the spreading dark green
boughs of the pines, whilst the contrast of colour heightens the effect
of each brilliant hue.
On the crest of the rock a fringe of pine trees, growing out of the
bare stone and dwarfed to insignificance, shows the vast height of this
rifted dome.
And now we are approaching Cape Horn, whose ramparts rise sheer and
straight, like a columnar wall, 800 feet high.
This majestic portal forms a worthy entrance to the cascades. Fierce,
seething rapids extend for six miles up the river, and the track of the
“portage” runs near the water’s edge for the entire distance. The river
is narrowed here by lofty heights of trap rock, and the bed itself is
nothing but sharp gigantic rocks, sometimes hidden by the water and
sometimes forming small islands, between which the foaming torrent
rushes with tremendous uproar.
Near where the “portage” begins, a relic of Indian warfare, in the
shape of an old block-house, stands under the fir-trees.
A small party of white men held a very large body of Indians at bay for
several days in 1856; and as the provisions ran short, a grand attack
was made on the red men, who were totally routed with great slaughter.
The scene in this gorge is wild in the extreme. Passing Rooster Rock,
the mountain-sides approach each other, and the river flows faster and
fiercer; the pillared walls rise sometimes to a height of nearly 3,000
feet, and the wind roaring through the ravine beats up huge waves and
adds to the wild grandeur of the view. Whenever the mountains recede
to the south, Mount Hood fills the horizon. Rising 14,000 feet, its
snow-covered head shines out magnificently against the blue sky, with
unvarying grandeur and a strangely attractive form.
Soon we pass an Indian burial-ground called Caffin Rock, a more
desolate slope, covered with rude monuments of rock and circular heaps
of piled grey stones.
Dalles City, where we now arrive, ranks as the second place of
importance in Oregon. It takes its name from the “dales” or rough
flag-stones, which impede the river, making narrow crooked channels,
and thereby causing another “portage” for a distance of fifteen
miles. Above the town the scene changes; the cliffs disappear, and
from splendid forests and mountains we pass into a region of sand and
desert. One tall pillar of red rock, overlooking the sandy waste,
stands up forlorn and battered, as if it were the last fragment of a
giant peak; and numbers of birds hovering over it seem to regard it as
their special observatory.
Hot white sand is everywhere, and the wind scatters it about in a most
uncomfortable manner, covering the track and half-stifling you in
its blinding showers. The river scenery is very fine all along this
passage, the Dalles being a succession of rapids, falls, and eddying
currents.
Although it was late in the season hundreds of salmon were still
ascending, and on the flat shore-rocks were several Indian lodges;
their occupants busily engaged in spearing and catching the fish.
Their usual mode of catching salmon is by means of nets fastened to
long handles. They erect wooden scaffolds by the riverside among the
rocks, and there await the arrival of the fish--scooping up thirty or
forty per hour. They are also very skilful at spearing them; rarely
missing a fair mark.
At one of the falls we saw a most treacherous contrivance. A large tree
with all its branches lopped off had been brought to the edge of the
river and there fastened, with its smaller end overhanging the foaming
fall. A large willow basket, about ten feet deep and over twenty feet
in circumference, was suspended at the end. The salmon in its efforts
to leap the fall would tumble in the basket, and an Indian seated in it
would then knock the fish on the head with a club and throw it on shore.
This mode requires relays of men, as they soon get almost drowned by
the quantity of spray and water. Very often, between two and three
hundred salmon are caught in a day in this manner. We saw about twenty,
averaging in weight from five to twenty pounds, caught in the hour
during which we watched the process. But the hook-nosed salmon--coarse,
nasty fish--were the most abundant. They always appear in the autumn,
and are found everywhere. The salmon are in their greatest perfection
in the Columbia River towards the end of June. The best variety is
called the “chinook,” and weighs from twenty to forty pounds. This
species is generally accompanied in its ascent by a smaller variety,
weighing on an average about ten pounds, and which is also extremely
good eating. Gradually as the salmon go higher and higher up the river,
their flesh changes from a bright red to a paler colour until it
becomes quite white. There are such enormous quantities of them that
they can be easily jerked on shore with a stick, and they actually
jostle each other out of the water. It is estimated that over 500,000
salmon were taken out of the Columbia River during the year 1872. There
is a perfectly true story of a traveller who, when riding, had to cross
a stream running from the Cascade Mountains, at a spot where the fish
were toiling up in thousands; and so quickly were they packed as to
impede the progress of the horse, which became so frightened as almost
to unseat his rider.
When the salmon are caught, the squaws cure them by splitting them and
drying the pieces upon wickerwork scaffoldings. Afterwards they smoke
them over fires of fir branches. The wanton destruction and waste of
these fish is terrible. In the season the Indians will only take the
fish in the highest condition, and those that do not satisfy their
fastidious tastes are thrown back mutilated and dying into the water.
Even when they have killed sufficient to last them for years, they
still go to the falls and catch and spear all they can, leaving the
beautiful silvery salmon to rot on the stones. Salmon ought certainly
to have “Excelsior” for a motto. Always moving higher and higher, they
are never content, but continue the ascent of the river as far as
possible. They go on till they drop, or become so weak and torn from
rubbing against the rocks and against one another, that they are pushed
into shallows by the stronger ones and die from want of water. Out of
the hosts that ascend the rivers, it is generally supposed that a very
small proportion indeed ever find their way back to the sea.
Just below the Great Salmon Falls the whole volume of the stream rushes
through a channel hardly one hundred and fifty feet in width. At the
falls themselves the river is nearly a mile across, and pours over a
rocky wall stretching from shore to shore and about twenty feet high.
It is fascinating in the extreme to watch the determined creatures as
they shoot up the rapids with wonderful agility. They care neither for
the seething torrent nor for the deep still pools, and with a rush--and
with clenched teeth, perhaps--they dart up like a silver arrow, and
defying rock and fall, are at length safe in the smooth haven above.
THE PO
GEORGE G. CHISHOLM
The northern plain of Italy, whose area is estimated at about 16,450
square miles, or about half that of Scotland, is a geographical unit
of the most unmistakable kind. It is, indeed, made up of many river
basins, but these are all of one character and without marked lines of
delimitation. By far the greater part of the area belongs to the basin
of the Po, and the rivers that do not belong to that basin present a
general parallelism to the tributaries of the Po. The general slope of
the plain is that indicated by the course of its main river, from west
to east, but there is also a slope from north to south, and another
from south to north, determining the general direction of at least the
upper portions of the numerous affluents descending from the Alps and
the Apennines. But before reaching the main stream, these affluents
are affected in their general direction by the general easterly slope
of the plain; that is to say, their course changes more or less to
south-easterly (Dora Baltea, Sesia, Ticino, Adda, Oglio, Mincio), or
north-easterly (Tanaro, Scrivia, Trebbia, Taro, Secchia, Panaro), and
the farthest east they are the larger is the proportion of the entire
course deflected in this manner. In the most easterly portion of the
plain, lying west of the Adriatic, so marked is this effect that the
rivers (Adige, Brenta, Piave, Livenza) are carried to the sea before
reaching the Po. North of the Adriatic the slope and the general
direction of the rivers (Tagliamento, Stella, Cormor) become wholly
southerly.
Since ancient times the Po has been recognized as rising to the height
of 6,400 feet in the marshy valley of Piano del Re at the foot of
Monte Viso, the ancient Vesulus, and after a course of only twenty-one
miles and a fall of 5,250 feet, it enters the plain at the bridge
of Revello, where its middle course may be said to commence. Fed by
the “aged snows” of the Alps, and by the heavy rains of the Alps and
Apennines, it is already at Turin, where it receives from the west the
Dora Riparia, a navigable stream with a width of 525 feet. At the mouth
of the Ticino, the outlet of the Lago Maggiore, its lower course may be
said to commence. Thence onwards it winds sluggishly across the great
plains of
Fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant garden of great Italy,
with a mean depth of about six and one-half to fifteen and one-half
feet, and a fall not exceeding 0.3:1,000, so that the waters could
hardly move onwards were it not for the impetus imparted by the
numerous mountain torrents which it receives at an acute angle. At
last, charged thick with sediment, it passes onwards through the mouths
that intersect its muddy delta into the Adriatic.
[Illustration: THE PO]
In this part of its course, artificial embankments have been found
necessary to protect the surrounding country from inundation, and
from Cremona onwards these dykes, in part of unknown antiquity, are
continuous. After receiving the Mincio, the last tributary on the
north, the Po assumes a south-easterly direction, which in ancient
times and during the Middle Ages down to about 1150, it maintained
to its mouths, passing Ferrara on the south, and then dividing into
two main arms, the Po di Volano to the north, and the Po di Primaro to
the south of the Valli di Comacchio. But about that date, it is said,
the people of Ficarolo cut the dyke on the north side at Stellata, and
thus gave rise to a new mouth, known first as the Po di Venezia, now
as the Po della Maestra, by which the entire volume of the river now
runs eastwards, till it breaks up into several small branches at the
delta. Since then the arm of the Po between Stulata and Ferrara has
become silted up. Since 1577 the Panaro which formerly entered this arm
at Ferrara has gradually moved its mouth backwards till it enters the
main stream just below Stellata. The Po di Volano, which in the Second
Century B. C. was the most accessible mouth for shipping and afterwards
the main mouth, has now become wholly detached from the Po, and merely
serves as a drainage canal for the surrounding marshes, while the Po
di Primaro has been utilized since 1770 as the mouth for the regulated
Remo.
Long before the historic period, tens of thousands of years ago, but
which geologists call recent, the great valley was an arm of the sea;
for beneath the gravels and alluvia that form the soils of Piedmont
and Lombardy, sea-shells of living species are found in well-known
unconsolidated strata at no great depth. At this period the lakes of
Como, Maggiore, and Garda may have been fiords, though much less deep
than now. Later still, the Alpine valleys through which the affluents
of the Po run were full to the brim with the huge old glaciers already
referred to.
When we consider the vast size of the moraines shed from the ancient
glaciers that fed the Po, it is evident that at all times, but
especially during floods, vast havoc must often have occurred among
the masses of loose _débris_. Stones, sand, and mud, rolled along the
bottom and borne on in suspension, must have been scattered across the
plains by the swollen waters.
It will thus be easily understood how the vast plains that bound the
Po and its tributaries were gradually formed by the constant annual
increase of river gravels and finer alluvia, and how these sediments
rose in height by the overflow of the waters, and steadily encroached
upon the sea by the growth of the delta. The fact that the drainage
line of the plain lies not in the middle but farther from the Alps
than the Apennines, shows that in this process the loftier range on
the north has contributed more than the lower one to the south. And
this process, begun thousands of years before history began, has
largely altered the face of the country within historic times, and is
powerfully in action at the present day.
It has been estimated by Sir Archibald Geikie that the area drained
by the Po is on an average being lowered one foot in 729 years, and a
corresponding amount of sediment carried away by the river.
It is hard to get at the historical records of the river more than two
thousand years ago, though we may form a good guess as to its earlier
geological history. Within the historical period extensive lakes and
marshes (some of them probably old sea lagoons) lay within its plains,
since gradually filled with sediment by periodical floods. The great
lines of dykes that have been erected to guard against those floods
have introduced an element that modifies this process. The result has
been that the alluvial flats on either side of the river outside the
dykes have long received but little addition of surface sediment, and
their level is nearly stationary. It thus happens that most of the
sediment that in old times would have been spread by overflows across
the land is now hurried along towards the Adriatic, there, with the
help of the Adige, steadily to advance the far-spreading alluvial
flats that form the delta of the two rivers. But the confined river,
unable by annual floods to dispose of part of its sediment, just as
the dykes were increased in height, gradually raised its bottom by the
deposition there of a portion of the transported material, so that the
risk of occasional floods is again renewed. All these dangers have been
increased by the wanton destruction of the forests of the Alps and
Apennines, for when the shelter of the wood is gone, the heavy rains of
summer easily wash the soil from the slopes down into the rivers, and
many an upland pasture has by this process been turned into bare rock.
In this way it happens that during the historical period the quantity
of detritus borne onwards by the Po has much increased; and whereas
between the years 1200 and 1600 the delta advanced on an average only
about twenty-five yards a year, from 1600 to 1800 the annual advance
has been more than seventy-five yards. Between 1823 and 1893 the
deposits at the Po di Maestra and the Po di Goro advanced on an average
260 feet yearly, those of the Po di Tolle 315 feet, and those of the Po
della Gnocca 110 feet. The area of the Po delta has increased within
that time by twenty and one-half square miles, and that of the whole
coast from 44° 20′ to the Austrian frontier by 29.8 square miles.
Besides the Po and some of its chief tributaries, the Adige is the only
river in the northern plain of Italy of importance as a waterway; and
even it, though navigable for vessels of considerable size, as high as
Trent in the Tirol, where there is a depth of from thirteen to sixteen
feet, is navigable only with great difficulty in consequence of the
great rapidity of its course. Boats can descend from Trent to Verona
(fifty miles) in twenty-four hours, but for the ascent require from
five to seven days. The country on the banks of this river is much
subject to inundations, protection against which is afforded, as on the
Po, by dykes, which begin about twelve miles below Verona.
THE MENAM
MRS. UNSWORTH
The River Menam (mother of waters) is the central attraction of all
life and trade; it is the great highway for traffic and the great
cleanser and purifier of the cities; its tide sweeps out to the sea
all the dirt and refuse accumulating therein; it is the universal bath
for all the Siamese. The children paddle and play their games in it;
it is the scene of their frolics in infancy, their means of livelihood
in manhood, and to many of them their grave in death. At sunset, when
work is suspended, there is a great splashing and plunging going on all
along the river banks, everybody taking a bath or amusing themselves
in the water. The river bar is a great trouble to navigators. The
king will not have it dredged, as he, in his ignorance, thinks it a
natural protection to his country, as only ships of a shallow draft can
cross. Trading ships have to be built specially constructed for that
purpose. No large man-of-war can cross, but the king did not take into
consideration the small torpedo boats that can do so much mischief;
recent events, however, must have opened his eyes. We cannot rush into
Siam at railway speed; the ship must be lightened as much as possible,
and we must wait until the tide is at its highest--it may be two hours,
or it may be twenty-two--and even then the channel is so narrow that if
we go a little to the right or to the left we run aground. Many times
there are two ships fast aground; once or twice there have been four
and five. Some have had to stay seven and eight days, and have every
movable thing taken out before they could rise. Nothing can exceed
the monotony of lying aground there; there is nothing to see, only in
the distance some low-lying ground covered with a scrub, no sign of
habitations, no cliffs or green hills rising out of the sea--nothing
but water, water all around, and a glimpse of flat low-lying ground
with wild shrubs on it.
After crossing this vexatious river bar, we proceed up the river eight
miles with nothing to see but low banks until we come to the forts
at Paknam. The river banks are very low, and fringed at the water’s
edge with palms and huge tree ferns; the mango and tamarind trees hang
over and the banyan tree, with its branches hanging down and taking
root again, makes quite an entanglement of roots and branches. At
night these trees are lit up with thousands of fire flies; on a dark
night they glisten and sparkle like the firmament. But in the morning
the river is alive with buyers and sellers. We very soon come to a
market lying in the river--all kinds of Eastern fruits and vegetables
and crockeryware are piled up on floating rafts, the sellers sitting
cross-legged beside their wares, and the buyers rushing about in small
canoes propelled with one oar.
If the officers in charge of steamships like to be mischievous and go
full speed, leaving a big swell in their track, they have the fun of
seeing the floating stalls swaying up and down, banging against one
another fruit and vegetables, rolling off into the water, with the
stall-holders shouting and plunging into the river to save their wares!
[Illustration: THE MENAM]
We then come to more floating houses and houses on piles. Europeans
find the advantage of living on the river to be that they get more
breeze and fewer mosquitoes; so here and there, among the floating
mat-shed erections, we see a neat painted wooden house on piles; it has
to be approached by a boat, and you enter up a staircase on to a wide
verandah. The sitting-rooms and bedrooms all open out of this verandah.
No windows, no fireplaces are needed in this country--very strange
un-home-like residences they are to any one coming fresh from England,
yet they are suitable for the climate.
Here and there amongst the palm trees, and under wide-spreading
tamarind trees we see white-washed temples, with fantastically-shaped
gilded roofs; they look very picturesque amongst the trees; they have a
style of architecture peculiar to the country, which is more prominent
in the shape of the roof, which is a sloping Gothic roof, with all
the corners branching out and turning up; one roof is surmounted with
another smaller, and then a smaller one still. These buildings give
quite a character to the country and are very numerous. It makes
Siamese architecture quite distinctive from that of other countries.
As we get to the city of Bangkok, the sides of the river are lined
with timber and saw-mills and rice-mills, with tall chimneys, and
black smoke oozing out. This is European enterprise; they quite spoil
the scenic effect on the river, but not any more than the mean, dirty
bamboo huts that line the riversides. The Siamese have no medium
respectability; it is all either gorgeously gilded palaces, and
fantastically-adorned temples, or filthy-looking huts. A great many
of the shopkeepers have their shops right on the river. Some of them
are neatly arranged, with a platform in front, on which you land from
your boat. All the family are lounging about this platform, the wife
carrying on her domestic duties, washing up the cooking utensils
by dipping them into the river; the clothes (what few they wear) go
through the same process; and the children, naked, are sporting about
this narrow platform, or sitting on the edge with their feet in the
water.
It is very convenient for a shopkeeper who wishes to change his place
of business; if he thinks there is a more desirable and more frequented
spot, he just unmoors his floating shop and has it towed to the place
he wants, without disarranging his wares.
Branching off from the river are innumerable canals, or creeks--the
Siamese call them klongs--the banks of which are lined with houses
and shops; they make a canal where we would make a road or a street.
Up some of these klongs there are pretty views, especially at sunset.
Graceful ferns and palms, bamboo trees, with their branches dipping
into the water and reflected therein, and between the branches the
sloping roof of some house or temple is visible. But many of these
klongs or canals, in the most frequented part of the city, are the
reverse of pretty. They are just like a large open sewer running down
to the river, full of filthy garbage. When the tide is low there are
the black slime, the naked children playing in it, and the dirty huts
on rickety piles leaning forward as if they wanted to slide down into
the mud; sometimes a dead body comes floating down, and plenty of dead
animals.
It is very lively on the river in the city. Here are ocean-going
steamers and sailing vessels moored amid-stream, or tied up to the
various wharves, whilst an endless variety of native craft are darting
about--narrow boats, like canoes, propelled with one oarsman, hawking
fruit and betel; pretty little house boats, fashioned something like
the Venetian gondolas, with four, six or more rowers, standing up,
dressed in bright uniforms, according to the rank of the family they
belong to; the rice boats from far up the country, of very peculiar
construction, flat-bottomed, to go through shallow water, and wide
bulging out sides, roofed over like houses. In the rainy season,
when the river is full, the large teak-wood rafts about 1,000 feet
long, come floating down, with huts for the steersman built on them.
Small steam launches and ferries, running up and down from various
places, all combine to make the river scene pretty and interesting.
One enthusiastic newspaper correspondent pronounced Bangkok to be the
Venice of the East. It may resemble Venice in the amount of water
traffic, but it would require a great stretch of imagination, and the
help of some glorifying and transfiguring tints from the setting sun,
before we could allow the comparison; but no doubt it bears the same
relation to the East, where filth and squalor predominate, as Venice
bears to the refined and cultured Europe.
There are a few well-kept houses of business and private residences
bordering the river, but not many, and these in no way resemble the
marble palaces of European Venice. The general aspect of the river
banks is dirty disorder--rotten piles, with untidy-looking floating
houses, mat-sheds, and bamboo huts, reaching up to the King’s palace.
The palace walls enclose many buildings, offices, temples, private
residences, gardens, and residences for the sacred white elephants. The
attractive part of these buildings and the great ornamentation are in
the roofs, which are very gorgeous. Some have tall pointed pinnacles,
all gilded; some are covered with a fantastic pattern in porcelain,
with little gilded peaks, which look dazzling in the sun. Viewed from
a distance these buildings realize all that has been written in glowing
terms of Eastern palaces, but near to the charm is not so vivid, as
there is much tawdriness about them. Whilst remaining on the river
the filth and refuse are not so prominent; the tide sweeps all away.
But leave the river, and take to the woods. Oh! the offensive sights
and smells that greet one’s eyes and nose--offal and waste of every
description thrown in front of the houses in the public streets. But
nature is kind and very luxurious here; in a short time these heaps of
rubbish are covered with a growth of grass and creeping plants. The
principal shops are like those on the river--one large room open to the
street, no doors or windows, the family living there, and the domestic
arrangements mixed up with the business of selling.
Bangkok is a modern city. It is not more than 250 years old. It has
risen to importance through the ever-increasing exportation of rice
and timber. It is not purely Siamese, being a mixture of all Eastern
nations, the Chinese being very largely represented; and the European
influence is very prominent. The rice-mills for cleaning the rice and
the saw-mills are all fitted up with modern machinery and are the
outcome of European enterprise. There is a fine naval dockyard entirely
managed by English engineers, and the regular lines of steamers running
here constantly are all British. I must just mention that fifty years
ago the Siamese had a fine fleet of sailing vessels, built in Bangkok
of teak-wood; but the steamers have taken away their trade and that
industry has died out. The ship-building yards are quite deserted and
silent now.
But if we wish to see a real Siamese city, we must leave Bangkok and
go to Ayuthia, the old capital, before Bangkok was thought of.
It is sixty miles farther up the river. The scenery going up is
monotonous--no variety at all; it is a flat country. In the months of
October and November it is all under water; the river rises and floods
the country for miles, so we can understand the reason for living in
floating houses and on piles. But how can any one describe Ayuthia? It
is so different from any other city in the world; and entirely Siamese.
The inhabitants live principally on the river in small houses of
bamboo, roofed with Atap palm leaves. In some parts there is only a
narrow passage for a small boat, the river is so crowded up with their
houses. The trade seems to be buying and selling, and the principal
things sold rice and fruit, with a few very simple cooking utensils.
There is an old palace here which illustrates how much richer the kings
must have grown with the increase of trade.
In the Siamese court there are several very interesting ceremonies,
probably unlike anything belonging to any other country, a pageantry
peculiar to Siam, and of great magnificence.
One of the principal of these is a royal cremation. Then there is a
royal hair-cutting. This is an occasion for very great rejoicing. When
a boy attains the age of fourteen or fifteen, his head is shaved, and
then he enters the priesthood. When it is one of the royal family,
or the Crown Prince, then not many other courts can exceed such a
magnificent and gorgeous festival. The ceremony lasts for a week--a
continued succession of religious rites, with processions and feasts.
One of these is the sacred bath in the river, where the priests dip the
young prince.
Another elaborate spectacle is when the king, attended by all his
nobles, visits every great temple. This takes some weeks to accomplish,
is an annual event, and is another series of grand processions. It is
a water procession, and the barges which are kept and only used on
this occasion are most sumptuous. They are richly carved and gilded,
with silken awnings. They are long, narrow boats about 100 feet long,
rowed by over 150 oarsmen with gilded oars. The whole procession is a
scene of barbaric splendour, and recalls the stories of Aladdin and his
Wonderful Lamp.
THE MERRIMACK
HENRY D. THOREAU
We were thus entering the state of New Hampshire on the bosom of the
flood formed by the tribute of its innumerable valleys. The river was
the only key which could unlock its maze, presenting its hills and
valleys, its lakes and streams, in their natural order and position.
The Merrimack, or sturgeon river, is formed by the confluence of the
Pemigewasset, which rises near the notch of the White Mountains, and
the Winnipiseogee, which drains the lake of the same name, signifying
“The smile of the Great Spirit.” From their junction it runs south
seventy-eight miles to Massachusetts, and thence east thirty-five miles
to the sea. I have traced its stream from where it bubbles out of rocks
of the White Mountains above the clouds, to where it is lost amid the
salt billows of the ocean on Plum Island Beach. It was already the
water of Squam and Newfound Lake and Winnipiseogee, and White Mountain
snow dissolved, on which we were floating, and Smith’s and Baker’s
and Mad Rivers, and Nashua and Souhegan and Piscataquong, and Suncook
and Soucook and Contoocook, mingled in incalculable proportions,
still fluid, yellowish, restless all, with an ancient, ineradicable
inclination to the sea.
So it flows by Lowell and Haverhill, at which last place it first
suffers a sea change, and a few masts betray the vicinity of the ocean.
Between the towns of Amesbury and Newbury it is a broad, commercial
river, from a third to half a mile in width, no longer skirted with
yellow and crumbling banks, but backed by high green hills and
pastures, with frequent white beaches on which fishermen draw up their
nets. I have passed down this portion of the river in a steamboat, and
it was a pleasant sight to watch from its deck the fishermen dragging
their seines on the distant shore, as in pictures of a foreign strand.
At intervals you may meet with a schooner laden with lumber, standing
up to Haverhill, or else lying at anchor or aground, waiting for wind
or tide, until, at last, you glide under the famous Chain Bridge, and
are landed at Newburyport. From the steeples of Newburyport you may
review this river stretching far up into the country, with many a white
sail glancing over it like an island sea, and behold, as one wrote who
was born on its head-waters, “Down out at its mouth, the dark inky main
blending with the blue above, Plum Island, its sand ridges scalloping
along the horizon like the sea-serpent, and the distant outline broken
by many a tall ship, leaning, _still_, against the sky.”
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE
MERRIMACK]
Rising at an equal height with the Connecticut, the Merrimack reaches
the sea by a course only half as long, and hence has no leisure to
form broad and fertile meadows, like the former, but is hurried along
rapids, and down numerous falls, without long delay. The banks are
generally steep and high, with a narrow interval reaching back to the
hills, which is only rarely or partially overflown at present, and is
much valued by the farmers. Between Chelmsford and Concord, in New
Hampshire, it varies from twenty to seventy-five rods in many places,
owing to the trees having been cut down, and the consequent wasting
away of its banks. The influence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as far
as Cromwell’s Falls, and many think that the banks are being abraded
and the river filled up again by this cause. Like all our rivers, it
is liable to freshets, and the Pemigewasset has been known to rise
twenty-five feet in a few hours. It is navigable to vessels of burden
about twenty miles; for canal-boats, by means of locks, as far as
Concord in New Hampshire, about seventy-five miles from its mouth; and
for smaller boats to Plymouth, one hundred and thirteen miles. A small
steamboat once plied between Lowell and Nashua, before the railroad was
built, and one now runs from Newburyport to Haverhill.
Unfitted to some extent for the purposes of commerce by the sand-bar
at its mouth, see how this river was devoted to the service of
manufactures. Issuing from the iron regions of Franconia, and flowing
through still uncut forests, by inexhaustible ledges of granite, with
Squam, and Winnipiseogee, and Newfound, and Massabesic Lakes for its
mill-ponds, it falls over a succession of natural dams, where it has
been offering its _privileges_ in vain for ages, until at last the
Yankee race came to _improve_ them. Standing at its mouth, look up its
sparkling stream to its source,--a silver cascade which falls all the
way from the White Mountains to the sea,--and behold a city of each
successive plateau, a busy colony of human beavers around every fall.
Not to mention Newburyport and Haverhill, see Lawrence, and Lowell,
and Nashua, and Manchester, and Concord, gleaming one above the other.
When at length it has escaped from under the last of the factories, it
has a level and unmolested passage to the sea, a mere _waste water_,
as it were, bearing little with it but its fame; its pleasant course
revealed by the morning fog which hangs over it, and the sails of
the few small vessels which transact the commerce of Haverhill and
Newburyport. But its real vessels are railroad cars, and its true and
main stream, flowing by an iron channel farther south, may be traced
by a long line of vapour amid the hills, which no morning wind ever
disperses to where it empties into the sea at Boston. This river was
at length discovered by the white man “trending up into the land,” he
knew not how far, possibly an inlet to the South Sea. Its valley, as
far as the Winnipiseogee, was surveyed in 1652. The first settlers of
Massachusetts supposed that the Connecticut, in one part of its course
ran north-west, “so near the great lake as the Indians do pass their
canoes into it over-land.” From which lake and the “hideous swamps”
about it, as they supposed, came all the beaver that was traded between
Virginia and Canada--and the Potomac was thought to come out of or from
very near it. Afterwards the Connecticut came so near the course of the
Merrimack that, with a little pains they expected to divert the current
of the trade into the latter river, and its profits from their Dutch
neighbours into their own pockets.
Unlike the Concord, the Merrimack is not a dead but a living stream,
though it has less life within its waters and on its banks. It has a
swift current, and, in this part of its course, a clayey bottom, almost
no weeds, and comparatively few fishes. We looked down into its yellow
water with the more curiosity, who were accustomed to the Nile-like
blackness of the former river. Shad and alewives are taken here in
their season, but salmon, though at one time more numerous than shad,
are now more rare. Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but locks and
dams have proved more or less destructive to the fisheries. The shad
make their appearance early in May, at the same time with the blossoms
of the pyrus, one of the most conspicuous early flowers, which is for
this reason called the shad-blossom. An insect called the shad-fly also
appears at the same time, covering the houses and fences. We are told
that “their greatest run is when the apple-trees are in full blossom.
The old shad return in August; the young, three or four inches long,
in September. These are very fond of flies.” A rather picturesque and
luxurious mode of fishing was formerly practised on the Connecticut,
at Bellows Falls, where a large rock divides the stream. “On the steep
sides of the island rock,” says Belknap, “hang several arm-chairs,
fastened to ladders, and secured by a counterpoise, in which fishermen
sit to catch salmon and shad with dipping nets.” The remains of Indian
weirs, made of large stones, are still to be seen in the Winnipiseogee,
one of the head-waters of this river.
It cannot but affect our philosophy favourably to be reminded of these
shoals of migratory fishes, of salmon, shad, alewives, marsh-bankers,
and others, which penetrate up the innumerable rivers of our coast
in the spring, even to the interior lakes, their scales gleaming in
the sun; and again, of the fry which in still greater numbers wend
their way downwards to the sea. “And is it not pretty sport,” wrote
Captain John Smith, who was on this coast as early as 1614, “to pull up
twopence, sixpence, and twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and veer
a line?”--And what sport doth yield a more pleasing content, and less
hurt or charge, than angling with a hook, and crossing the sweet air
from isle to isle, over the silent streams of a calm sea.
THE YEN-E-SAY
HENRY SEEBOHM
We left London on Thursday, the 1st of March, at 8:25 P. M., and
reached Nishni Novgorod on Saturday, the 9th inst., at 10 A. M.,
having travelled by rail a distance of 2,400 miles. We stopped three
days in St. Petersburg to present our letters of introduction and to
pay some other visits. At Nishni we bought a sledge, and travelled
over the snow 3,240 English miles, employing for this purpose about
a thousand horses, eighteen dogs, and forty reindeer. We left Nishni
on the evening of the 10th of March, and travelled day and night in a
generally easterly direction, stopping a couple of days at Tyu-main,
and a day at Omsk, and reached Kras-no-yarsk on the morning of the 2d
of April, soon after crossing the meridian of Calcutta. We rested a day
in Kras-no-yarsk, and sledged thence nearly due north, spending four
days in Yen-e-saisk and three days in Toor-o-kansk.
The Yen-e-say is said to be the third largest river in the world,
being only exceeded in size by the Amazon and the Mississippi. The
principal stream rises in the mountains of Central Mongolia, enters
Siberia near the famous town of Kyakh-ta, on the Chinese frontier, and
flowing through Lake By-kal, passes Eer-kutsk (Irkutsk) the capital
of Siberia, under the name of the An-go-ra or Vairkh-nya, Tun-goosk,
and enters the smaller stream, whose name it subsequently bears, a
few miles south of Yen-e-saisk. Up to this point its length may be
roughly estimated at 2,000 miles, and judging from the time it takes
to sledge across the river at Yen-e-saisk, its width must exceed an
English mile. Following the windings of the river from the latter town
to the Arctic Circle, the road is calculated as a journey of 800 miles,
during which the waters are augmented by two important tributaries,
the Pod-kah-min-a-Tun-goosk and the Nizh-ni-Tun-goosk, which increase
the width of the river to more than three English miles. On the Arctic
Circle it receives an important tributary, the Koo-ray-i-ka, about a
mile wide, and, somewhat more circuitously than appears on our maps,
travels to the islands of the delta, a distance possibly slightly
over-estimated, during which the average width may be about four miles.
The delta and lagoon of the Yen-e-say are about 400 miles in length,
and must average twenty miles in width; making the total length of the
river about 4,000 miles.
Throughout the whole extent of the river, from Yen-e-saisk, in latitude
58° to Gol-chee-ka in latitude 71½°, the banks are generally steep and
lofty, from sixty to one hundred feet above the water-level, and so far
as I could learn, comparatively little land is covered by the summer
floods. The villages on the banks are from twenty to thirty versts
(fifteen to twenty miles) apart, and are of course built upon high
ground. As we sledged down the river, we had always a heavy climb up to
the port stations; and in descending again into the bed of the river,
it sometimes almost made our hearts jump into our mouths to look down
the precipice, which our horses took at a gallop, with half-a-dozen
villagers hanging on the sledge to prevent an upset, a feat they
performed so cleverly, that although many a peasant got a roll in the
snow, we always escaped without any serious accident. We found a
good supply of horses as far as Too-ro-kansk. The second stage from
this town we travelled by dogs, and completed the rest of the journey
by reindeer. Soon after leaving Yen-e-saisk agriculture practically
ceases. A few cows graze on the meadows near the villages, and hay is
cut for their use during winter, but the villagers are too busy fishing
during the short summer to till the land.
The banks of the Yen-e-say are clothed with magnificent forests up to
the Arctic Circle, but northwards the trees rapidly diminish in size,
and disappear altogether soon after leaving Doo-din-ka, in latitude
69½°. These forests are principally pine of various species. We reached
the Koo-ray-i-ka on the 23d of April, and found the crew of the
_Thames_ in excellent health.
The winter quarters chosen by Captain Wiggins were very picturesque.
Standing at the door of the peasant’s house on the brow of the hill,
we looked down on to the “crow’s nest” of the _Thames_. To the left
the Koo-ray-i-ka, a mile wide, stretched away some four or five miles,
until a sudden bend concealed it from view; whilst to the right the eye
wandered across the snow-fields of the Yen-e-say, and by the help of a
binocular the little village of Koo-ray-i-ka might be discerned about
four miles off, on the opposite bank of the great river. The land was
undulating rather than hilly, and everywhere covered with forest, the
trees reaching frequently two, and in some rare instances three feet
in diameter. The depth of the snow varied from four to six feet; and
travelling without snow-shoes, except on the hard-trodden roads, was of
course utterly impossible.
When we arrived at the ship, we found that it was still winter, and
were told that there had not been a sign of rain since last autumn.
April went by and May came in, but still there was no sign of summer,
except the arrival of some of the earliest migratory birds. We
generally had a cloudless sky; and the sun was often burning hot. On
the 9th, 10th, and 11th of May we had rain for the first time, and the
prospects of summer looked a little more hopeful. The rest of May,
however, was more dreary and wintry than ever, alternations of hard
frosts and driving snow-storms; but the river was slowly rising, and
outside the thick centre ice was a strip of thin, newly-frozen ice.
There was, however, little or no change in the appearance of the snow.
Up to the end of May the forces of winter had gallantly withstood the
fiercest attacks of the sun, baffled at all points, and entered into
an alliance with the south wind, and a combined attack was made upon
the winter forces. The battle raged for fourteen days, the battle of
the Yen-e-say, the great event of the year in this cold country, and
certainly the most stupendous display of the powers of nature that it
has ever been my lot to witness. On the morning of the 1st of June
the pressure underneath the ice caused a large field, about a mile
long and a third of a mile wide, opposite the lower angle of junction
of the Koo-ray-i-ka and the Yen-e-say, to break away. About half the
mass found a passage down the strip of newly-formed thin ice, leaving
open water behind it. The other half rushed headlong on to the steep
banks of the river. The result of the collision was a little range of
mountains, fifty or sixty feet high, and picturesque in the extreme.
Huge blocks of ice, six feet thick and twenty feet long, in many
places, were standing perpendicular, whilst others were crushed up
into fragments like broken glass; and in many other places the ice was
piled up in layers one over the other. The real ice on the river did
not appear to have been thicker than two or three feet, clear as a
glass, and blue as an Italian sky. Upon the top of this was about four
feet of white ice. This was as hard as a rock, and had, no doubt, been
caused by the flooding of the snow when the waters of the river had
risen, and its subsequent freezing. Upon the top of the white ice was
eighteen inches of clean snow, which had evidently never been flooded.
When we turned into our berths in the evening the captain thought it
best to institute an anchor-watch. We had scarcely been asleep an hour
before the watch called us up with the intelligence that the river was
rising rapidly, and that the ice was beginning to crack. We immediately
dressed and went on deck. We saw at once that the Yen-e-say was rising
so rapidly that it was beginning to flow up its tributaries. A strong
current was setting up the Koo-ray-i-ka, and small floes were detaching
themselves from the main body of the ice and were running up the open
water. By and by the whole body of the Koo-ray-i-ka broke up and began
to move up stream. Some of the floes struck the ship some very ugly
blows on the stern, doing considerable damage to the rudder; but open
water was beyond, and we were soon out of the press of ice, with, we
hoped, no irretrievable injury. All this time we had been getting steam
up as fast as possible, to be ready for any emergency. It was hopeless
to attempt to enter the creek opposite which we were moored, and which
was now only just beginning to fill with water; but on the other side
of the river, across only a mile of open water, was a haven of perfect
safety. But, alas! when the ice had passed us, before we could get up
sufficient steam, the river suddenly fell three feet, and left aground
by the stern, and immovable as a rock. Nor was it possible, with a
swift current running up the river at the rate of four knots an hour,
to swing the ship round so as to secure the rudder against any further
attacks of the ice. Half a mile ahead of us, as we looked down the
river, was the edge of the Yen-e-say ice. The river was rising again;
but before the stern was afloat we discovered, to our dismay, that
another large field of ice had broken up; and the Koo-ray-i-ka was
soon full of ice again. In the course of the night the whole of the
ice of Yen-e-say, as far as we could see, broke up with a tremendous
crash, and a dense mass of ice-floes, pack-ice, and icebergs backed up
the Koo-ray-i-ka, and with irresistible force drove the Koo-ray-i-ka
ice before it. When it reached the ship, we had but one alternative,
to slip the anchor and let her drive with the ice. For about a mile
we had an exciting ride, pitching and rolling as the floes of ice
squeezed the ship, and tried to lift her bodily out of the water, or
crawl up her sides like a snake. The rudder was soon broken to pieces,
and finally carried away. Some of the sailors jumped on to the ice and
scrambled ashore, whilst others began to throw overboard their goods
and chattels. Away we went up the Koo-ray-i-ka, the ice rolling and
tumbling and squeezing along side, huge lumps climbing one on the top
of another, until we were finally jammed in a slight bay, along with a
lot of pack-ice. Early in the morning the stream slackened, the river
fell some five or six feet, and the ice stood still. The ship went
through the terrible ordeal bravely. She made no water, and there was
no evidence of injury beyond the loss of the rudder. In the evening the
ship was lying amidst huge hummocks of ice, almost high and dry. The
Koo-ray-i-ka, and right across the Yen-e-say, and southwards as far as
the eye could reach was one immense field of pack-ice, white, black,
brown, blue, green, piled in wild confusion as close as it could be
jammed. Northwards the Yen-e-say was not yet broken up. All this time
the weather was warm and foggy, with very little wind, and occasional
slight rain. There was a perfect Babel of birds as an accompaniment
to the crashing of the ice. Gulls, geese, and swans were flying about
in all directions; and their wild cries vied with the still wilder
screams of the divers. Flocks of red polls and shore larks, and
bramblings and wagtails in pairs, arrived, and added to the interest
of the scene. On the 2d of June there was little or no movement in
the ice until midnight, when an enormous pressure from above came on
somewhat suddenly, and broke up the great field of ice to the north
of the Koo-ray-i-ka, but not to a sufficient extent to relieve the
whole of the pressure. The water in the Koo-ray-i-ka rose rapidly. The
immense field of pack-ice began to move up stream at the rate of five
or six knots an hour. The poor ship was knocked and bumped along the
rocky shore, and a stream of water began to flow into the hold. At
nine o’clock all hands left her, and stood upon the snow on the bank,
expecting her instant destruction. The stream rose and fell during the
day; but the leak, which was apparently caused by the twisting of the
stern-post, choked up. Late in the evening an opportunity occurred of a
few hours’ open water, during which steam was got up; and by the help
of a couple of ropes ashore, the rudderless ship was steered into the
little creek opposite to which she had wintered, and run ashore. Here
the leak was afterwards repaired and a new rudder made. We calculated
that about 50,000 acres of ice passed the ship up stream during these
two days; and we afterwards learned that most of this ice got away
some miles up the Koo-ray-i-ka, where the banks are low, and was lost
in the forest.
The battle of the Yen-e-say raged for about a fortnight. The sun was
generally burning hot in the daytime; but every night there was more
or less frost. The ice came down the Yen-e-say at various speeds.
Sometimes we could see gigantic masses of pack-ice, estimated at twenty
to thirty feet in height, driven down the river at an incredible pace,
not less than twenty miles an hour. In the Koo-ray-i-ka the scene was
constantly changing. The river rose and fell. Sometimes the pack-ice
and floes were jammed so tight together that it looked as if one might
scramble across the river without difficulty. At other times there was
a good deal of open water, and the icebergs “calved” as they went along
with much commotion and splashing, that could be heard half a mile
off. Underlayers of the iceberg ground; and after the velocity of the
enormous mass has caused it to pass on, the pieces left behind rise to
the surface, like a whale coming up to breathe. Some of these “calves”
must come up from a considerable depth. They rise up out of the water
with a great splash, and rock about for some time before they settle
down to their floating level. At last the final march past of the
beaten winter-forces in this great fourteen days’ battle took place and
for seven days more the rag, tag, and bob-tail of the great Arctic army
come straggling down--warm and weather-beaten little icebergs, dirty
ice-floes that looked like mud-banks floating down, and straggling
pack-ice in the last stages of consumption. The total rise of the river
was upwards of seventy feet.
The moment that the snow disappeared vegetation sprang up as if by
magic, and the birds made preparations for breeding. As we passed
through Yen-e-saisk I bought a schooner off a ship-builder of the name
of Boiling, a Heligolander. I christened it the _Ibis_; and on the
29th of June we left the Koo-ray-i-ka with this little craft in tow.
Our progress down the river, however, was one catalogue of disasters,
ending in our leaving the _Thames_ on the 9th of July a hopeless wreck,
lying high and dry on a sand-bank, in latitude 67°. As we sailed
northwards in the _Ibis_, the forests became smaller and smaller, and
disappeared altogether about latitude 70°. The highest point we reached
was latitude 71½°, where I sold the _Ibis_ to the captain of a Russian
schooner, which had been totally wrecked during the break-up of the ice.
On the 23rd of July I left Gol-chee-ka in the last Russian steamer up
the river; and reached Yen-e-saisk on the 14th of August. After a few
days’ delay I drove across country to Tomsk, stopping a day or two in
Kras-no-yarsk. In Tomsk I found an excellent iron steamer, in which I
sailed down the river Tom into the Obb, down which we steamed to its
junction with the Eer-tish, up which we proceeded until we entered the
Tob-ol, and afterwards steamed up the Too-ra to Tyu-main, a distance by
water of 2,200 miles. From the Tyu-main I drove through Ekatereenburg
across the Urals to Perm, where I took my passage on board the
_Sam-o-lot_, or self-flyer, down the Kama, and up the Volga, to Nishni
Novgorod.
THE YARROW
JOHN MACWHIRTER
Yarrow and its vale form one of the high places of the earth. In this
age of cheap trips it is easy to get there, and perhaps you don’t think
much of it as you rattle through on the coach. There is many a Highland
scene incomparably grander. After all
“What’s Yarrow, but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere,
As worthy of your wonder.”
A word of dry description must commence. The Yarrow Water is in
Yarrow and Selkirk parishes of the country of Selkirk. It rises in
St. Mary’s Loch, it courses therefrom to its junction with Ettrick
Water fourteen and a half miles, when the latter gives its name to the
united currents. They are soon lost in the Tweed. Beyond St. Mary’s
Loch, and separated from it by a narrow strip of land, is the Loch o’
the Lowes (or Lochs). It is about two miles in length, and is fed by
the Yarrow, which rises some two miles higher up, though it is usually
taken as beginning in the large lake. In the lower reach the banks are
wooded; farther up the hills are bare, soft, rounded, the stream is
clear and swift-flowing, with a musical note on its large and small
stones; there is no growth of sedge or underwood, but the fresh green
grass stretches up the slope till it is lost in the heather. Between
the hills are glens down which wind greater or smaller tributaries to
the Yarrow. Each has its legend and its ruin. Dim, romantic, enticing,
these glens stretch away into the mysterious mountain solitude. You
begin your excursion from Selkirk, which is on Ettrick Water, ten miles
down stream from its junction with the Yarrow, and two places soon take
your attention, Carterhaugh and Philiphaugh. There is a farm “toun,” as
they name a steading in the north, that is called Carterhaugh; but what
is meant here is a charming piece of greensward and wood, that lies
almost encircled by the two streams at and near their meeting place. A
very Faeryland! and here is laid the scene of the faery ballad of “The
Young Tamlane.” The song is very old; it was well known in 1549, as we
learn from a chance mention in a work of the period. It is a delicious
poem, pure phantasy; a very Mid-summer Night’s Dream, scarcely of the
earth at all, far less dealing with historical incident. The forgotten
poet, lest he should be all in the air, makes the young Tamlane son to
Randolph, Earl Murray, and Fair Janet, daughter to Dunbar, Earl March,
but this is only because these were the noblest names in Scotland, and
he chooses Carterhaugh for his stage; as like as not he lived somewhere
on the Yarrow, and the stream sang in his ears as he built the song.
Tamlane is nine when his uncle sends for him “to hunt and hawk and
ride,” and on the way--
“There came a wind out o’ the north,
A sharp wind and a snell,
And a dead sleep came over me,
And frae my horse I fell.
The Queen of the Fairies she was there,
And took me to herself.”
On the left bank of the Yarrow, just across from Carterhaugh, is
Philiphaugh. It is a large space of level ground, and here the fortunes
of the great Montrose and his Highland army came to hopeless smash
in the early morning of 13th September, 1645. Montrose had won six
victories in the Highlands, had been appointed Viceroy of Scotland, and
full of ill-placed confidence was preparing an invasion of England. He
spent the previous evening at ease in Selkirk (they still show you the
house) and was writing despatches to the king, when he heard the sound
of firing. He galloped to the field and found everything practically
over! David Leslie had been seeking him far and near for some time, had
found the camp and invaded it in a mist. The Royalists were scattered;
Montrose--no one ever counted cowardice among his vices--made a
desperate effort to retrieve the fortune of the day, but all in vain.
Finally he dashed through the opposing forces, galloped away up the
Yarrow, then by a wild mountain path, right over Minchmoor, and drew
not bridle till he dashed up to Traquair House, sixteen miles from the
battle-field. A number of prisoners were taken. The common lowland Scot
has still a certain contempt for the Highlander, whose appreciation
in the modern world is due to literature; then he looked upon him as
an outcast and outlaw, “a broken man,” in the expressive phrase of an
earlier day. The captives were shot in the court-yard of Newark Castle,
and buried in a field still called Slain-mans-lee. Celtic troops are
very brave, but unless mixed with the steadier Saxon, they don’t seem
reliable.
[Illustration: THE YARROW]
Still keeping on the left bank, follow the road by the riverside and
as before you come to two places, each with an interest very different
from the others. One is a ruined house, a poor enough building at the
best. An inscription tells you that Mungo Park (1771-1805) the African
traveller, was born and lived here. He saw Scott a little before his
last voyage, told how he dreaded leave-taking (he had been recently
married!) and that he meant to leave for Edinburgh on some pretence
or other and make his adieux from there. On Williamhope ridge the two
parted.
“I stood and looked back, but he did not,” says Scott. He had put
his hand to the plough. Poor Mungo Park! his discoveries seem little
now-a-days, yet to me, he is always the most attractive of African
travellers, his life the most interesting, his end the most melancholy.
One thinks how under the hot sun in those fearful swamps he must have
often remembered the cool delicious green braes of his native Yarrow.
But we turn our eyes to the opposite bank and scarce need be told that
the castle we see, majestic, though in ruins, is “Newark’s stately
tower.” ’Tis a great weather-beaten square keep, where Anna, relict of
the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth, lived for some years of her widowed
life. To her Scott’s “Last Minstrel” sings his lay. But the place was
already centuries old. It was once a hunting-seat of the Scots kings,
when the whole region was the densely wooded Ettrick Forest, and here
there was great sport with the wolf, the mountain bear, the wild-cat,
and all sorts of other small and large deer. Some place-names still
save the old memories, Oxcleugh, Durhame, Hartleap, Hindshope, and so
forth.
After Yarrow hamlet the land is more desolate, the stream shrinks to
a mountain burn, there are no more clumps of trees, and the hills
creep in near the water’s edge, and they are taller and steeper. You
pass lofty Mount Benger, near where Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who
loved and sang of those sweet vales, had a farm. Farther on the right
bank is Altrive, where he afterwards lived, and where he died. Almost
opposite, the Douglas Burn flows through a gloomy and solitary glen to
Yarrow. Follow this burn and you come to the ruins of Blackhouse Tower.
It was from here that Lord William and Lady Margaret fled at midnight
from Lord Douglas and his seven sons. These were slain one by one, but
it was only when her lover began to press roughly on her father that
the lady interposed.
“Oh hold your hand, Lord William, she said,
For your strokes they are wondrous sair.
True lovers I can get many a one,
But a father I can never get mair.”
An obvious if belated reflection! ’Twas of no avail, the father is left
dead and dying, and the lady follows her knight (“For ye’ve left me nae
other guide,” she says somewhat bitterly). They light down at “yon wan
water” and his “gude heart’s bluid” dyes the stream, though he swears
“’Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak.” However, the lovers
die that very night and are buried in St. Marie’s Kirke, and “a bonny
red rose” and a briar grew out of the grave and twined together to the
admiration of all who saw, but to the great wrath of Black Douglas,
who, a sworn foe to sentimentality,
“Pull’d up the bonny briar
And flang’d in St. Marie’s Loch.”
The wild path followed by the lovers over the hillside is still to
be traced, the place of the combat is marked by seven stones; but
again these are of an earlier date, and again it would be useless to
criticise the creation of the fancy too curiously.
And now we are at St. Mary’s Loch, a beautiful sheet of water three
miles long and half a mile broad. At the head of the loch is a monument
to the Ettrick Shepherd. Near the monument is St. Mary’s Cottage,
better known as “Tibbie Shiel’s,” and scene of many a gay carouse of
Christopher North and his merry men, as you know very well if you
have read the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_. The cottage is still kept by a
relative of the original Tibbie, as a humble sort of an inn. If you
are wise you will prefer it to the large new Rodona hotel not far off.
It has a touch of the old times with its huge fireplace and box beds.
It is something to hear the local anecdote, how one morning “after”
Christopher or the shepherd, being more than ever consumed with the
pangs of thirst, in a burst of wild desire, cried “Tibbie, bring ben
the Loch.” It is said that Scott was never farther than the door.
Scott, Hogg, Wilson were, we all know, great writers, though to-day
Wilson is but little read, Hogg popular through one or two lyrics,
whilst Scott is more and more known with the years. But each of the
three had an impressive and attractive personality--he is more than a
writer, he is first of all a man. Superior in interest to monument and
cottage is St. Mary’s Kirk, which stands on a height on the left bank
of the loch. One should say stood, for nothing of it is left. Here
generations of martyrs and freebooters were carried, and the heroes and
heroines of so many of the tales and ballads were laid to rest, but--
“St. Mary’s Loch lies slumbering still,
But St. Mary’s Kirk-bells lang dune ringing,
There’s naething now but the grave-stone hill,
To tell o’ a’ their loud Psalm-singing.”
They still bury there, though at rare and distant intervals. Hard by is
Dryhope Tower. Here was born Mary Scott, the “Flower of Yarrow.” The
romance of the name caused this heroine to be incessantly be-rhymed
through all the subsequent centuries, but we don’t know much about
her. She was married to Walter Scott of Harden, a gentleman widely
and justly renowned for his skill in “lifting” other people’s cattle.
As a portion the bride’s father agreed to “find his son-in-law in
man’s meat and horse’s meat for a year and a day, five barons becoming
bound that, on the expiry of that period, Harden should retire without
compulsion.” Not one of the parties to the contract could write. A
daughter of the “Flower of Yarrow” was married to another freebooter
called “Gilly wi’ the gouden garters.” The bride was to remain at her
father’s house for a year and a day, and in return Gilly contracted
to hand over the plunder of the first harvest moon. By the way, there
is rather a pretty though quite untrustworthy tradition of the origin
of the ballads connected with the name of Mary Scott. In the spoils
brought home by her husband from one of his forays, was a child. Him
she took and reared. Of gentle nature, he delighted to hear of and
celebrate in songs the tragedies and romances acted or repeated around
him; and so he, “nameless as the race from whence he sprung, saved
other names and left his own unsung.” The Meggat Water is one of the
many streams that fill the loch. On one of its tributaries called
Henderland-burn is a ruined tower, and near it a large stone broken
into three parts, on which you may still make out the inscription,
“Here lyes Perys of Cockburne and his wyfe Marjory.” Cockburne was
in his day a noted freebooter, and secure in his tower defied all
attempts to bring him to justice. But James V. in his famous progress
through the Border-land, heard of his proceedings, and came right over
the hills and down upon Henderland, whose proprietor he found eating
his dinner. It was his last meal; he was at once seized and strung up
before his own door. His wife fled and concealed herself in a place
called the Lady’s seat, and when she recovered the silence of the glen
told her that the invaders had departed, and she returned and buried
her husband. One of the most pathetic of the old ballads is said to be
her lament
“But think na’ ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul’ on his yellow hair;
O think na’ ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, awa’ to gae.”
By the way, gold was found in the glen here; probably a little might
be extracted to-day; but then it wouldn’t pay for the washing. Quite
a different set of traditions deals with the Covenanting period. Far
up in the solitary side glens were favourite meeting-places; here the
saints came from far and near with Bible, and sword and gun, ready to
offer up their lives if need may be, but quite determined to sell them
as dearly as possible. Alas! the minstrels were not on their side,
and no contemporary ballads tell the story of the dangers and deaths,
though those were dramatic enough. In later times Hogg and Wilson did
something to weave them into song and story. It was near the loch of
the Lowes that Renwick preached his last sermon. “When he prayed that
day few of his hearers’ cheeks were dry.” On the 17th February, 1688,
“he glorified God in the grass-market,” as the old phrase ran.
And now one can understand how Yarrow came to its fame. Quieter,
sweeter, softer than other vales, its green braes, its delicious
streams attracted the old singers who preserved the memories of others’
deeds. But why is this music sad? Well, most border ballads are little
tragedies, the strongest emotions are the saddest, and such the singers
preferred. And then one or two ballads gave a decided tone to the
others. The “Dowie Dens,” in fact, strikes the key-note of them all.
William Hamilton, of Bangour, and John Logan have both told a story of
love and death in excellent fashion in their poems on “The Braes of
Yarrow.” As for the rest, Scott is chiefly descriptive; Wordsworth, in
spite of an occasional line or even verse of high excellence, is on the
whole very poor; and Alan Ramsay is exceedingly bad.
THE MISSISSIPPI
ALEXANDER D. ANDERSON
In the early days of European discoveries and rivalries in the
Mississippi Valley its comprehensive river system played a prominent
part on the stage of public affairs. The discovery of the river, in
1541, by De Soto and his Spanish troops, was about a century later
followed by explorations by the French under the lead of Marquette,
Joliet, La Salle and others, who entered the valley from the north.
La Salle, during the years 1679-83, explored the river throughout
its whole length, took possession of the great valley in the name of
France, and called it Louisiana in honour of his King, Louis XIV. Then
resulted grand schemes for developing the resources of the valley,
which a French writer characterized as “the regions watered by the
Mississippi, immense unknown virgin solitudes which the imagination
filled with riches.” One Crozat, in 1712, secured from the King a
charter giving him almost imperial control of the commerce of the
whole Mississippi Valley. There was at that date no European rival to
dispute French domination, for the English of New England and the other
Atlantic colonies had not extended their settlements westward across
the Alleghanies, and the Spanish inhabitants of New Spain or Mexico
had not pushed their conquest farther north than New Mexico. Crozat’s
trading privileges covered an area many times as large as all France,
and as fertile as any on the face of the earth. But he was equal to
the opportunity, and, failing in his efforts, soon surrendered the
charter.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE
MISSISSIPPI]
John Law, a Scotchman, at first a gambler, and subsequently a bold,
visionary, but brilliant financier, succeeded Crozat in the privileges
of this grand scheme, and secured from the successor of Louis XIV. a
monopoly of the trade and development of the French possessions in
the valley. In order to carry out his wild enterprise he organized
a colossal stock company, called “The Western Company,” but more
generally known in history as the “Mississippi Bubble.” According to
the historian Monette “it was vested with the exclusive privilege of
the entire commerce of Louisiana and New France, and with authority
to enforce its rights. It was authorized to monopolize the trade of
all the colonies in the provinces, and of all the Indian tribes within
the limits of that extensive region, even to the remotest source of
every stream tributary in anywise to the Mississippi.” So skilful and
daring were his manipulations that he bewitched the French people with
the fascinations of stock gambling. The excitement in Paris is thus
described by Thiers:
“It was no longer the professional speculators and creditors of the
Government who frequented the rue Quincampoix; all classes of society
mingled there, cherishing the same illusions--noblemen famous on the
field of battle, distinguished in the Government, churchmen, traders,
quiet citizens, and servants whom their suddenly acquired fortune had
filled with the hope of rivalling their masters.”
The rue Quincampoix was called the Mississippi. The month of December
was the time of the greatest infatuation. The shares ended by rising
to eighteen and twenty thousand francs--thirty-six and forty times the
first price. At the price which they had attained, the six hundred
thousand shares represented a capital of ten or twelve billions of
francs.
But the bubble soon burst; and its explosion upset the finances of
this whole kingdom. Some years later, in 1745, a French engineer named
Deverges made a report to his Government in favour of improving the
mouth of the Mississippi, and stated that the bars there existing were
a serious injury to commerce.
But France met with too powerful rivalry in the valley, and in 1762
and 1763, after a supremacy of nearly a hundred years, was crowded out
by the English from the Atlantic colonies and the Spaniards from the
south-west, the Mississippi River forming the dividing line between
the regions acquired by those two nations. The Spanish officials, for
the purpose of promoting colonization, and to aid in establishing
trading-posts on the Mississippi, Missouri, Arkansas, Red, and
other rivers in the western half of the valley, granted to certain
individuals, pioneers, and settlers, large tracts of land. They made
little progress, however, in peopling their new territory.
But whatever progress was made under the successive supremacies of
France and Spain, the Mississippi and its navigable tributaries
supplied the only highways of communication and commerce.
In the year 1800, soon after Napoleon I. became the civil ruler of
France, he sought to add to the commercial glory of his country by
re-acquiring the territory resting upon the Mississippi which his
predecessors had parted with in 1763.
To quote the language of a French historian: “The cession that France
made of Louisiana to Spain in 1763 had been considered in all our
maritime and commercial cities as impolitic and injurious to the
interests of our navigation, as well as to the French West Indies,
and it was very generally wished that an opportunity might occur of
recovering that colony. One of the first cares of Bonaparte was to
renew with the court of Madrid a negotiation on that subject.”
He succeeded in these negotiations, and by secret treaty of St.
Ildefonso, in 1800, French domination was once more established over
the great river.
Two years later, the commerce of the river had grown to large
proportions. Says Marbois, of that period: “No rivers of Europe are
more frequented than the Mississippi and tributaries.” A substantially
correct idea of their patronage may be obtained from the record of the
foreign commerce from the mouth of the Mississippi, for nearly all of
the commodities collected there for export had first floated down the
river.
Marbois well illustrates the intense indignation at this order on
the part of the Western people by attributing to them the following
language: “The Mississippi is ours by the law of nature; it belongs to
us by our numbers, and by the labour which we have bestowed on those
spots which before our arrival were desert and barren. Our innumerable
rivers swell it and flow with it into the Gulf Sea. Its mouth is the
only issue which nature has given to our waters, and we wish to use it
for our vessels. No power in the world shall deprive us of this right.”
Of Morales’s order James Madison, then Secretary of State, wrote the
official representative of the United States at the court of Spain:
“You are aware of the sensibility of our Western citizens to such an
occurrence. This sensibility is justified by the interest they have at
stake. The Mississippi to them is everything. It is the Hudson, the
Delaware, the Potomac, and all the navigable rivers of the Atlantic
States formed into one stream.”
At this time Thomas Jefferson was President, and in view of the
uneasiness of the Western settlers, he hastened to send to France a
special ambassador to negotiate for the purchase of the Louisiana
Territory. The opportunity was a favourable one, for France was then
in danger of a conflict with Great Britain. The latter country had
become alarmed at and jealous of Bonaparte’s commercial conquests, and
he, apprehending war and fearing that he could not hold Louisiana, had
about determined to do the next best thing--dispose of it to one of
England’s rivals.
Marbois, the historian of Louisiana, from whom we have above quoted,
was chosen by Napoleon to represent France in the negotiations with the
representative of the United States sent by Jefferson. His account of
the cession--the consultation between Napoleon and his ministers--and
of his remarks and motives, forms one of the most instructive and
interesting chapters of modern history. Napoleon foreshadowed his
action by the following remark to one of his counsellors:
“To emancipate nations from the commercial tyranny of England it is
necessary to balance her influence by a maritime power that may one day
become her rival; that power is the United States. The English aspire
to dispose of all the riches of the world. I shall be useful to the
whole universe if I can prevent their ruling America as they rule Asia.”
In a subsequent conversation with two of his ministers, on the 10th
of April, 1803, on the subject of the proposed cession, he said in
speaking of England: “They shall not have the Mississippi which they
covet.”
In accordance with this conclusion, on the 30th day of the same
month, the sale was made to the United States. When informed that
his instructions had been carried out and the treaty consummated, he
remarked:
“This accession of territory strengthens forever the power of the
United States, and I have just given to England a maritime rival that
will sooner or later humble her pride.”
Under the stimulating influence of American enterprise the commerce
of the valley rapidly developed. In 1812 it entered upon a new era of
progress by the introduction for the first time upon the waters of the
Mississippi of steam transportation.
The river trade then grew from year to year, until the total domestic
exports of its sole outlet at the sea-board--the port of New
Orleans--had during the fiscal year 1855-56 reached the value of over
$80,000,000. Its prestige was then eclipsed by railways, the first
line reaching the Upper Mississippi in 1854, and the second the Lower
Mississippi, at St. Louis in 1857. Says Poor:
“The line first opened in this state from Chicago to the Mississippi
was the Chicago and Rock Island, completed in February, 1854. The
completion of this road extended the railway system of the country
to the Mississippi, up to this time the great route of commerce of
the interior. This work, in connection with the numerous other lines
since opened, has almost wholly diverted this commerce from what may
be termed its natural to artificial channels, so that no considerable
portion of it now flowed down the river to New Orleans.”
The correctness of this assertion may be seen by reference to the
statistics of the total domestic exports of New Orleans during the year
ending June 30, 1879. They were $63,794,000 in value, or $16,000,000
less than in 1856, when the rivalry with railways began.
But since 1879 the river has entered upon a new and important era. The
successful completion of the jetties by Capt. Jas. B. Eads inaugurated
a new era of river commerce and regained for it some of its lost
prestige.
Another step of great importance to the welfare of the Mississippi was
taken about this time. The control of its improvement was transferred
by Congress to a board of skilled engineers known as the Mississippi
River Commission. The various conflicting theories of improvement which
have for years past done much to defeat the grand consummation desired
will now be adjusted in a scientific and business-like manner.
Again, the rapidly growing popular demand throughout the United
States for more intimate commercial relations with Mexico and the
several sister nations of Central and South America, which lie
opposite the mouth of this great River System, is stimulating the
long-neglected longitude trade and thereby creating a new demand for
new transportation on the longitudinal water-ways which comprise the
Mississippi and its tributaries.
The Mississippi and tributaries considered as a drainage system, extend
nearly the whole length of the United States from Canada to the Gulf,
and across more than half its width, or from the summit of the Rocky
Mountains to that of the Alleghanies.
Steamers can now transport freight in unbroken bulk from St. Anthony’s
Falls to the Gulf of Mexico, a distance of 2,161 miles, and from
Pittsburg to Fort Benton, Mont., 4,333 miles. Lighter craft can ascend
the Missouri to Great Falls, near where that river leaves the Rocky
Mountains.
THE ZAMBESI
HENRY DRUMMOND
Zambesi, the most important river on the East Coast of Africa, and the
fourth largest on the continent, drains during its course of about
1,200 miles an area of 600,000 square miles. Its head-streams, which
have not yet been fully explored, are the Leeambye, or Iambaji, rising
in Cazembe’s country; the Lungebungo, which descends from the Mossamba
Mountains; and the Leeba River, from the marshy Lake Dilolo (4,740
feet), situated between 10° and 12° south latitude and 22° and 23°
east longitude. These three rivers, reinforced by the Nhengo, unite to
form the upper Zambesi (Leeambye), which flows at first southwards and
slightly eastwards through the Barotse valley, then turns prominently
to the east near its junction with the Chobe (Chuando or Linianti),
and passes over the Victoria Falls. Thence, as the middle reach of the
Zambesi, the river sweeps north-east towards Zumbo and the Kebrabassa
rapids above Tete, and finally forms the lower Zambesi, which curves
southwards until it reaches the Indian Ocean at 18° 50′ south latitude.
Fed chiefly from the highland country which stretches from Lake Nyassa
to inner Angola, its chief tributaries are the Loängwa and the Shiré,
the last an important river draining out of Lake Nyassa, and which
in the dry season contains probably as great a volume of water as
the Zambesi, and is much more navigable. Except for an interruption
of seventy miles at the Murchison cataracts, the Shiré is open
throughout its entire length to the lake.
[Illustration: THE ZAMBESI]
On the whole the Zambesi has a gentle current, and flows through a
succession of wide fertile valleys and richly wooded plains; but, owing
to the terrace-like structure of the continent, the course of the river
is interrupted from point to point by cataracts and rapids. These form
serious, and in some cases insurmountable, hindrances to navigation.
Those on the lower Zambesi begin with its delta. The bar here was long
held to be impassable, except to vessels of the shallowest draught, but
the difficulty was exaggerated partly through ignorance and partly in
the interests of the Portuguese settlement of Quilimane, which, before
the merits of the Kongone entrance were understood, had been already
established on the Qua-qua River, sixty miles to the north. The Zambesi
is now known to have four mouths, the Milambe to the west, the Kongone,
the Leeabo, and the Timbwe. The best of these, the Kongone, has altered
and the channel improved recently. There are at least eighteen feet of
water on the bar at high water neap tides; and steamers drawing fifteen
feet, and sailing vessels drawing three feet less, have no difficulty
in entering. The deep water continues only a short distance, and,
after Mazaro (sixty miles) is reached, where the river has already
dwindled to the breadth of a mile, the channel is open in the dry
season as far as Senna (120 miles from the mouth) for vessels drawing
four and one-half feet. Up to this point navigation could only be
successfully and continuously carried on by vessels of much lighter
draught--stern-wheelers for preference with a draught of little more
than eighteen inches. About ninety miles from Senna the river enters
the Lupata gorge, the impetuous current contracting between walls to
a width of scarcely 200 yards. Passing Tete (240 miles from the mouth
with a smooth course) the channel becomes dangerous at Kebrabassa,
ninety miles further on. From the Kebrabassa rapids upwards, and past
the Victoria Falls, there are occasional stretches of navigable water
extending for considerable distances, while the upper Zambesi with its
confluents and their tributaries forms a really fine and extensive
waterway. Like the Nile, the Zambesi is visited by annual inundations,
during which the whole country is flooded and many of the minor falls
and rapids are then obliterated.
The chief physical feature of the Zambesi is the Mosi-oa-tunya (“smoke
sounds there”) or Victoria Falls, admitted to be one of the noblest
waterfalls in the world. The cataract is bounded on three sides by
ridges 300 or 400 feet high, and these, along with many islands dotted
over the stream, are covered with sylvan vegetation. The falls,
according to Livingstone, are caused by a stupendous crack or rent,
with sharp and almost unbroken edges, stretching right across the
river in the hard black basalt which here forms the bed. The cleft is
360 feet in sheer depth and close upon a mile in length. Into this
chasm, or more than twice the depth of Niagara, the river rolls with a
deafening roar, sending up vast columns of spray, which are visible for
a distance of twenty miles. Unlike Niagara, the Mosi-oa-tunya does not
terminate in an open gorge, the river immediately below the fall being
blocked at eighty yards by the opposing side of the (supposed) cleft
running parallel to the precipice which forms the waterfall. The only
outlet is a narrow channel cut in this barrier at a point 1,170 yards
from the western end of the chasm and some 600 from its eastern, and
through this the Zambesi, now only twenty or thirty yards wide, pours
for 120 yards before emerging into the enormous zigzag trough which
conducts the river past the basalt plateau.
The region drained by the Zambesi may be represented as a vast
broken-edged plateau 3,000 or 4,000 feet high, composed in the remote
interior of metamorphic beds and fringed with the igneous rocks of the
Victoria Falls. At Shupanga, on the lower Zambesi, thin strata of grey
and yellow sandstone, with an occasional band of limestone, crop out on
the bed of the river in the dry season, and these persist beyond Tete,
where they are associated with extensive seams of coal. Gold is also
known to occur in several places.
The higher regions of the Zambesi have only been visited by one or
two explorers; and the lower, though nominally in possession of the
Portuguese since the beginning of the Sixteenth Century, are also
comparatively little known. The Barotse valley, or valley of the upper
Zambesi, is a vast pastoral plain, 3,300 feet above sea-level, about
189 miles in length and thirty to thirty-five broad. Though inundated
in the rainy season, it is covered with villages and supports countless
herds of cattle. The Luiwas who inhabit it are clothed with skins,
work neatly in ivory, and live upon milk, maize, and sweet potatoes.
In the neighbourhood of the falls the tsetse fly abounds; and the
Batoka people who live there, and who are the only arboriculturists
in the country, live upon the products of their gardens. Zumbo, on
the north bank, and Chicova, opposite on the southern side (500 miles
above the delta), were the farthest inland of the Portuguese East
African settlements, and are well placed for commerce with the natives.
Founded by Pereira, a native of Goa, these settlements were ultimately
allowed to go to ruins; but Zumbo has been recently reoccupied. The
once celebrated gold mines of Parda Pemba are in the vicinity. The
only other Portuguese settlements on the Zambesi are Tete and Senna.
Tete, formerly a large and important place, now nearly in ruins, still
possesses a fort and several good tiled stone and mud houses. Thither
Portuguese goods, chiefly wines and provisions, are carried by means
of canoes. The exports, which include ivory, gold dust, wheat, and
ground-nuts, are limited owing to the difficulty of transport; but this
difficulty is not insurmountable, for Tete has been twice visited by
some small steam vessels. Senna, further down the river, a neglected
and unhealthy village, has suffered much from political mismanagement,
and has ceaseless troubles with the Landeens or Zulus, who own the
southern bank of the river, and collect in force every year to exact a
heavy tribute-money. The industrial possibilities of the lower Zambesi,
and indeed of the whole river system, are enormous. India-rubber,
indigo, archil, beeswax, and columbo root are plentiful, and oil-seeds
and sugar-cane could be produced in sufficient quantity to supply the
whole of Europe.
The Zambesi region was known to the mediæval geographers as the empire
of Monomotapa, and the course of the river, as well as the position
of Lakes N’gami and Nyassa, was filled in with a rude approximation
to accuracy in the earlier maps. These were probably constructed from
Arab information. The first European to visit the upper Zambesi was
Livingstone in his exploration from Bechuanaland between 1851 and 1853.
Two or three years later he descended the Zambesi to its mouth and in
the course of this journey discovered the Victoria Falls. In 1859,
accompanied by Dr. Kirk (now Sir John Kirk), Livingstone ascended
the river as far as the falls, after tracing the course of its main
tributary, the Shiré, and discovering Lake Nyassa. The mouths of the
Zambesi were long claimed exclusively by the Portuguese, but in 1888
the British Government opened negotiations with Portugal to have the
river declared free to all nations.
THE URUGUAY
ERNEST WILLIAM WHITE
The River Uruguay, a health-giving stream impregnated with
sarsaparilla, and the lesser of the two affluents which swell into the
mighty La Plata, possesses charms for the traveller, denied to the
greater, the Paraná, at least in the lower part of its course; the
water is clearer, the range not so vast, the scenery more varied and
picturesque, whilst the traces of industry are more patent and the
difficulties and dangers of its navigation add a piquancy unknown to
the sister waters.
As its shores were to me as yet an unknown region, I determined to
spend a fortnight in becoming familiar with their beauties, so on the
morning of the 25th of December, in the midst of a glorious summer
season, a friend joined me in taking return tickets from Buenos Ayres
to Concordia, Entre Rios, which at the then state of the tide, was the
furthest point upwards that a steamer could reach.
During breakfast we pretty well lose sight of the Argentine coast
and have nothing before us but a broad freshwater ocean covered
with innumerable blue-flowered camelotes, consisting chiefly of
_Pontederia_, which spread their broad leaves as sails to speed them on
their course; these nesine fragments descend the Paraná but are unknown
on the bosom of the Uruguay. On our right side soon rises a long low
ridge of sand indicating the Banda Oriental coast, terminating opposite
the island of Martin Garcia, in cliffs resembling those of loved
Albion. Calm as the Thames at London bridge is all this mighty estuary;
it is not always so however, but on this holy day of peace
“The winds with wonder whist
Smoothly the waters kissed!”
And it is only by sailing over it in the glare of daylight that any
adequate impression of its vastness can be obtained. Whence comes all
this overflowing tide? is a question readily answered by the rigid
scientist, but with whose conclusions, the imagination rests not
satisfied.
After leaving the outer roads of Buenos Ayres, but little shipping is
met with, and the reflection immediately occurs, how different the
case would be, were this magnificent water-highway in the hands of the
Anglo-Saxon race. On finding ourselves nearly abreast of Martin Garcia,
the Argentine coast magically arose under a strong mirage, the trees
appearing suspended in the air and completely separated from the shore
line; whilst a shoal several miles in extent threatening our port bow,
indicated the necessity of hugging the island, if we would avoid the
fate of a fine bark which lay rotting only a few yards off.
The navigation is extremely perilous especially at low water and yet
but a few buoys are visible, an unaccount-able omission, at least in
times of peace. A boat containing the _comandante_ sallies from the
fort and we, in common with all other passing vessels, are obliged to
lie to, in order to await its visit.
Martin Garcia, at once the Norfolk island and Gibraltar of the River
Plate, is the key of the common entrance to both the Paraná and
Uruguay, as their bifurcation occurs farther north; and the channel,
whose character may be surmised from its name “_Hell channel_,” passes
within easy reach of the guns of this sentinel of the rivers, which
has been strongly fortified by the Argentine government. A barren
looking granitic tract, whence are quarried the _adoquines_ (paving
stones) for the streets of the metropolis, with low sandy shores,
rising in the interior to the height of two hundred feet and bristling
with permanent fortifications and earthworks, it presents a standing
menace to dispute with intruders entrance by water into the heart of
the republic. On entering the River Uruguay, which has an embouchure
of about thirteen miles, both banks are visible and very striking
differences they present; the right or Entre-Riano shore is well-wooded
and clothed with vegetation, whilst the left or Montevidean lies in
all its naked barrenness. Further on, the Banda Oriental coast alters
its character, being fringed with islands and less sandy; then jut out
into the river a succession of bold bluffs, almost all with a bloody
history, covered with a scanty verdure emerging from sand, presenting a
close general resemblance to the southern shore of the Isle of Wight;
and these promontories are usually dotted with _estancias_. Casting our
eyes across the broad waters, we notice a change there likewise; long
reefs of sand exchange verdure for sterility, and it is a remarkable
circumstance throughout our whole progress up the Uruguay, that the
two shores bear continually opposite or, so to speak, complimentary
characters, not only physically and politically but botanically; when
one is bold or fertile, the other is low or sterile. We now pass
several wrecks, attesting the difficulties which beset our watery path.
Rounding a point, we suddenly come upon what looks uncommonly like an
English fishing-village, with its craft quietly reposing in a snug bay;
the church and cemetery topping our eminence, whilst the residence
of the lord of the manor caps another, and learn that this is _Nueva
Palmira_. The Oriental flag here boards us for the first time and the
Easterns got rid of, the Saturno is again let loose on her orbit to
hug the Montevidean coast, which now descends again to long reaches of
low flat sands, with a broader stream, forming extensive sabulous, and
in some cases well-wooded islands, which stretch leagues upon leagues
along this left bank. A glorious moon, within two days of the full,
succeeded one of the angriest yet finest of sunsets, and her rays,
falling full upon the capacious bosom of the placid river transformed
it into a lake of burnished silver. At about 9 P. M. we arrive off
the mouth of the Rio Negro (Black River), called thus because the
decaying sarsaparilla roots, with which its banks are lined, impregnate
and discolour the waters and at the same time render them so highly
medicinal as to attract great numbers of bathers to its shores.
As the rising sun’s disk was cut in twain by the horizon, I started
upon deck to view the landscape. We were coursing through numberless
islands, with a scenery on both banks exactly like that of the Suffolk
river Orwell, but with an atmosphere O! how different! ours was as
the balm of Eden, theirs, the nipping dry Eoic. The breadth of the
stream is here about half a mile, and the moderately elevated banks
are clothed with vivid green to the water’s edge; then as the river
narrows again, we traverse a beautiful Ægean, whose innumerable islets
are thickly wooded, principally with Espinillo (_Acacia cavenia_),
Tala (_Celtis Sellowiana_), the willow of Humboldt, Ceibo (_Erythrina
cristagalli_) and Laurel; but which, to my utter astonishment,
presented scarcely any trace of animal life; hardly a dozen
butterflies, a chimango or two, and a few weary-looking butcher-birds
were its sole visible representatives. About 6 A. M., whilst passing
through low jungle we sight our first city on the Argentine side,
Concepcion del Uruguay, the capital of the province of Entre Rios; and
entering a deep channel scarce a hundred yards broad, flanked by a
double row of poplars, emerge in front of the splendid _Saladero_[4] of
Santa Candida.
[Footnote 4: Slaughter-house.]
Ten miles above Paysandú, the river expands into a broad belt clear as
a mirror, in which the sky, distant foliage and hills are brilliantly
reflected, the air changes and bathed in tropical fragrance and
balminess, the intensely vivid verdure springs up magically around us.
At the junction of the Queguay, an oriental affluent with the main
stream, which at this point has a breadth of about half a mile are
planted several _Saladeros_, apparently hard at work; but whether the
palms are scared by the scent of blood or refuse to witness the daily
holocaust, certain it is that they here suddenly vanish from the scene.
Twenty miles above this rises a veritable _Tarpeia_ in the shape of
a very lofty, bold, perpendicular-faced mass jutting into the river
from the Uruguay coast, and which, with a refinement of cruelty and a
just appreciation of history, was actually used by a general in one of
the periodic revolutions to which this unhappy country is so subject,
wherefrom to hurl his prisoners. Two picturesque islands, circular,
rising abruptly out of the water, apparently exactly equal in size
and shape, and hence styled “_Las dos hermanas_” (the two sisters),
stand as advanced guards to this precipitous promontory, and by their
intensely green verdure to the river’s edge and smooth mathematical
uniformity, offer a pleasing contrast to the rugged, battered and
blackened face of the cliff.
We hold our breath as with a quick turn and dart through the seething
flood, our clever steersman pilots us through dangers greater than ever
Sylla and Charybdis offered, and leaves us at leisure to survey the
prosperous cattle farms, which, on both banks, now line our approach to
Concordia.
At length about 5 P. M., after a passage of thirty-one hours and at a
distance of 300 miles from Buenos Ayres, we sight the town of Concordia
on the right bank, and at almost the same moment Salto, on the left,
which, rising tier upon tier, very much resembles Bath; these two
occupy almost the same relative positions as Buda and Pesth on the
Danube.
From its junction with the Paraná, the Uruguay is navigable at all
states of the tide as far as Concordia, but some miles above that city
occur the Falls of Salto-grande and numerous rapids which render it
unnavigable to steamers from below, except in times of extraordinary
freshets between which an interval of years sometimes elapses; whilst
above these, although still sown with rapids, the river is navigable
but to vessels of smaller draught.
From the marvellous accounts I had listened to, I expected to behold in
these Falls another Niagara, but great was my disappointment on viewing
them for the first time, for although very picturesque, they struck me
as completely wanting in the grandeur with which my imagination had
clothed them. Extending for about a mile longitudinally, they consist
on the northern limit of a transverse bar of boulders which cause a
perpendicular descent of about twenty-five feet; then a succession of
rugged rocks, sometimes of very fantastic shape, pile Pelion on Ossa,
amongst which the river surges and eddies. The reef spreads completely
across the river, a distance of about a quarter of a mile, so that in
some states of the tide, it is possible to pass on foot from Entre
Rios to the Banda Oriental, at all times a difficult, nay dangerous,
undertaking. An island formed of massive boulders occupies the centre,
on which a few dwarfed trees struggle for an aquatic existence. Here
are found splendid agates, blocks of rock crystal, amethysts and other
precious stones; and there lie naked on the blistering rocks, those
rusty and silent mementos of Garibaldi’s unsuccessful expedition in
1840 when, to cross the rapids, he was obliged to throw overboard ten
eighteen-pounder iron guns.
By contemplating the scene, however, it grows in magnitude and
sublimity.
THE TWEED
SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER
The great valley which affords a course for the Tweed, when taken in
conjunction with those minor branch valleys which give passage to its
various tributaries, may be called the great Scoto-Arcadian district of
pastoral poetry and song. Who could enumerate the many offerings which
have been made to the rural muses in this happy country? for where
there are poetry and song, happiness must be presupposed, otherwise
neither the one nor the other could have birth.
During those barbarous times, when border raids were in continual
activity, and when no one on either side of the marches, or debatable
land, could lay down his head to sleep at night, without the chance
of having to stand at his defense, or perhaps to mount and ride ere
morning, the valleys of the Tweed and its tributaries must have
witnessed many strange and stirring events and cruel slaughters. To
defend themselves from these predatory incursions the Scottish monarchs
erected strong castles along the lower part of the course of the Tweed,
and the chain of these places of strength was carried upwards, quite
to the source of the streams by the various land owners. These last
were either Towers or Peels--these different names being given, rather
to distinguish the structures as to their magnitude and importance,
than from any great difference of plan--the Tower possessing greater
accommodations and being much the larger and more impregnable in
strength of the two. These strongholds, being intended for the general
advantage and preservation of all the inhabitants of the valley, were
built alternately on both sides of the river, and in a continued
series, so as to have a view one of another; so that a fire kindled on
the top of any one of them, was immediately responded to, in the same
way, by all the others in succession; the smoke giving the signal by
day and the flame by night--thus spreading the alarm through a whole
country of seventy miles in extent, in the provincial phrase, from
“Berwick to the Bield,”--and to a breadth of not less than fifty miles
carrying alarm into the uppermost parts of every tributary glen.
Availing ourselves of the quaint language of Dr. Pennecuick, we now
beg to inform our readers that “The famous Tweed hath its first spring
or fountain nearly a mile to the east of the place where the shire of
Peebles marches and borders with the stewartry of Annandale--that is
Tweed’s Cross, so called from a cross which stood and was erected there
in the time of Popery, as was ordinar y, in all the eminent places of
public roads in the kingdom before our Reformation. Both Annan and
Clyde have their first rise from the same height, about half a mile
from one another, where Clyde runneth west, Annan to the south, and
Tweed to the east.” There is some little exaggeration, however, in the
old Doctor here--for there is, in reality, no branch of Clyde within
two miles of Tweed’s Cross, or Errickstane Brae. Tweed’s Well is not
very far from the great r oad; and the site of Tweed’s Cross is 1,632
feet above the level of the sea. “Tweed runneth for the most part with
a soft, yet trotting stream, towards the north-east, the whole length
of the country, in several meanders, passing first through the Paroch
of Tweeds-moor, the place of its birth, then running eastwards,
it watereth the parishes of Glenholm, Drumelzear, Broughton, Dawick,
Stobo, Lyne, Mannor, Peebles, Traquair, Innerleithen, and from thence
in its course to the March at Galehope-burn, where, leaving Tweeddale,
it beginneth to water the forest on both sides, a little above Elibank.”
[Illustration: THE TWEED]
The Banks of the Tweed abound in simple rural charms as you proceed
downwards from Elibank Tower, and they partake of that peaceful
pastoral character which its green sided hills bestow upon it.
We now come to that part of the course of the Tweed, extending from its
junction with the united rivers Ettrick and Yarrow to the mouth of Gala
Water. The estate of Abbotsford makes up a large part of the whole.
The part of it that borders the Tweed consists of a large and very
beautiful flat haugh, around the margin of which the river flows gently
and clearly over its beds of sparkling pebbles.
The angling from Gala Water foot to Leader foot is all excellent, both
for salmon and trout, when the river is in proper condition; and then
the beauty and interest of all the surrounding features of nature and
the silent grandeur of the holy pile of ruin are such that even the
unsuccessful angler must find pleasure in wandering by the river-side,
quite enough to counterbalance the disappointment of empty baskets.
Sir Walter Scott says:--
“If thou would’st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold lights’ uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately,
Seemed framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When the distant Tweed is heard to rave
And the howlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave;
Then go--but go alone the while--
Then view St. David’s ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear
Was never scene so sad and fair.”
Before leaving this section of the Tweed, we must not forget to mention
that the Knights Templars had a house and establishment on the east
side of the village of Newstead. It was called the Red Abbey. Before
concluding this part of our subject, it appears to us to be very
important, if not essential, to call our readers’ especial attention to
the singular promontory of Old Melrose on the right bank of the river.
It is a high bare head, around which the river runs in such a way as
to convert it into a peninsula. Here it was that the first religious
settlement was made. This monastery was supposed to have been founded
by Columbus or by Aidan, probably about the end of the Sixth Century.
It would appear that it was built of oak wood, thatched with reeds, the
neck of land being enclosed with a stone wall. It is supposed to have
been burned by the Danes. The name given to it was decidedly Celtic
and quite descriptive of its situation--Maol-Ros, signifying Bare
Promontory--and from this the more recent Abbey and the whole of the
more modern parish of Melrose have derived their name.
We now come to a very beautiful, nay, perhaps, we ought to say the
most beautiful part of the Tweed, where it meanders considerably, as it
takes its general course in a bold sweep round the parish of Merton.
On its north side the ground rises to a very considerable height in
cultivated and wooded hills. From several parts of the road that winds
over it, most magnificent views are enjoyed up the vale of the Tweed
including Melrose and the Eildon Hills; and then at the same time,
these rising grounds and the southern banks, which are likewise covered
with timber, give the richest effect of river scenery to the immediate
environs of the stream.
We scarcely know a place anywhere which is so thoroughly embowered in
grand timber as Dryburgh Abbey. The most beautiful fragment of the ruin
is that which is called Saint Mary’s Aisle, which formed the south
aisle of the transept; and let it not be approached save with that holy
awe which is inspired by the recollection of the illustrious dead! for
here repose the ashes of the immortal Sir Walter Scott!
Below Dryburgh Lord Polwarth’s property of Merton begins and runs
for about two miles down the Tweed. As you approach the place of
Mackerston, the immediate bed of the stream becomes more diversified
by rocks, both on its side and in its channel. The Duke of Roxburgh’s
fishings stretch for nearly four miles to a point about half a mile
below Kelso.
Nothing can surpass the beauty of the scene when looked at from Kelso
bridge. And then when it is taken from other points, the bridge itself,
the ruined abbey, the buildings of the town, with the wooded banks and
the broad river form a combination of objects, harmonizing together,
which are rarely to be met with. Each particular description of
scenery requires to be judged of and estimated according to its own
merits. You cannot, with any good effect or propriety, compare a wild,
mountainous and rocky highland scene with a rich, lowland district. But
this we will say, that, of all such lowland scenes, we know of none
that can surpass the environs of Kelso; for whilst the mind is there
filled with all those pleasing associations with peace and plenty,
which such scenes are generally more or less calculated to inspire,
there are many parts of it which would furnish glowing subjects for the
artist. Here the Tweed is joined by the Teviot; and we shall finish
this part of our subject by those beautiful lines from Teviot’s own
poet, Leyden, in his _Scenes of Infancy_:--
“Bosomed in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso’s fair vale expands before the sun;
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And, fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell;
Green spangled plains to dimpling lawns succeed
And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed.
Blue o’er the river Kelso’s shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the waters rise.”
Like a gentleman of large fortune, who has just received a great
accession to it, the Tweed, having been joined by the Teviot, leaves
Kelso with a magnitude and an air of dignity and importance that it has
nowhere hitherto assumed during its course, and which it will be found
to maintain, until it is ultimately swallowed up by that grave of all
rivers--the sea. A few miles brings it to the confines of Berwickshire,
and in its way thither it passes through a rich country.
Just before quitting the confines of Roxburghshire the Tweed receives
the classic stream of the Eden, which enters it from the left bank. The
Eden is remarkable for the excellence of the trout, which are natives
of the stream, but they require very considerable skill and great
nicety of art to extract them by means of the angle from their native
element.
And now we must congratulate our kind and courteous reader, as well as
ourselves, that the romantic days of border warfare have been long at
an end; for if it had been otherwise, our noble companion the Tweed,
which has now brought us to a point where he washes England with his
right hand waves whilst he laves Scotland with his left, might have
brought us into some trouble. As he forms the boundary between England
and Scotland from hence to the sea, we must in order to preserve him
as a strictly Scottish river, say little about his right bank, except
what may be necessary for mere illustration. But as we see before us
the truly dilapidated ruins of what was once the strong and important
fortress of Wark Castle, we must bestow a few words upon it.
Wark was the barony and ancient possession of the family of Ross, one
of whom, William de Ross, was a competitor for the crown of Scotland
in the reign of Edward I. of England. It continued in that family to
the end of the Fourteenth Century, when it appears to have become the
possession of the Greys, who took their title from the place, being
styled the Lords Grey of Wark, in the descendants of which family it
has continued to the present time.
The Scottish banks of the river from the Eden water to Coldstream are
richly cultivated and partially wooded by hedgerows and the plantations
of several properties. The view down the course of the stream, which
runs down wooded banks of no great height, and is crossed by the
noble bridge of Coldstream, is extremely beautiful. The village of
Coldstream itself is very pretty with its nice modern cottages and
gardens; but it is likewise interesting from some of its old buildings.
Coldstream was remarkable for its convent of Cistercian nuns, of which
Mr. Chambers gives us the following interesting account:--Previous to
the Reformation Coldstream could boast of a rich priory of Cistercian
nuns; but of the buildings not one fragment now remains. The nunnery
stood upon a spot a little eastwards from the market-place, where
there are still some peculiarly luxuriant gardens, besides a small
burying-ground, now little used. In a slip of waste ground, between
the garden and the river, many bones and a stone coffin were dug up
some years ago; the former supposed to be the most distinguished of
the warriors that fought at Flodden; for there is a tradition that
the abbess sent vehicles to that fatal field and brought away many of
the better orders of the slain, whom she interred here. The field, or
rather hill, of Flodden, is not more than six miles from Coldstream,
and the tall stone that marks the place where the king fell, only about
half that distance, the battle having terminated about three miles from
the spot where it commenced.
General Monk made this his quarters till he found a favourable
opportunity for entering England to effect the Restoration; and it was
here that he raised that regiment that has ever afterwards had the name
of the Coldstream Guards.
The River Till is an important tributary to the Tweed from its right
bank. The Till runs so extremely slow that it forms a curious contrast
with the Tweed, whose course here is very rapid, giving rise to the
following quaint verses:--
“Tweed said to Till,
What gars ye rin sae still?
Till said to Tweed,
Though ye rin wi’ speed,
And I rin slow,
Yet where ye drown ae man
I drown twa.”
We must now proceed to make our last inroad into England--an inroad,
however, very different indeed from those which used to be made by our
ancestors, when they rode at the head of their men-at-arms, for the
purpose of harrying the country and driving a spoil. We go now upon a
peaceful visitation of Norham Castle, certainly the most interesting of
all objects of a similar description on the whole course of the Tweed.
The ancient name of the castle appears to have been Ubbanford. It
stands on a steep bank, partially wooded and overhanging the river.
It seems to have occupied a very large piece of ground as the ruins
are very extensive, consisting of a strong square keep, considerably
shattered, with a number of banks and fragments of buildings enclosed
within an outer wall of a great circuit; the whole forming the most
picturesque subject for the artist. It was here that Edward I. resided
when engaged in acting as umpire in the dispute concerning the Scottish
crown. From its position exactly upon the very line of the border, no
war ever took place between the two countries without subjecting it
to frequent sieges, during which it was repeatedly taken and retaken.
The Greys of Chillingham Castle were often successively captains of
the garrison; yet as the castle was situated in the patrimony of St.
Cuthbert, the property was in the see of Durham till the Reformation.
After that period it passed through various hands.
The parish of Ladykirk, which now comes under our notice, upon the
left bank of the Tweed, was created at the Reformation by the junction
of Upsetlington and Horndean. James IV. had built a church which he
dedicated to the Virgin Mary, whence it received its name.
As we proceed downwards, the scenery on the Tweed may be said to be
majestic, from the fine wooded banks which sweep downwards to its
northern shores. The surface of the water is continually animated by
the salmon coble shooting athwart the stream.
A very handsome suspension bridge, executed by Captain Samuel Brown
of the Royal Navy here connects England with Scotland, and at some
distance below, the Tweed receives the Whitadder as its tributary from
the left bank.
When we begin to find ourselves within the liberties of Berwick, we
discover that we are in a species of no man’s land. We are neither in
England nor in Scotland, but in “our good town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.”
We have never passed through it without being filled with veneration
for the many marks that yet remain to show what a desperate struggle
it must have had for its existence for so many centuries, proving a
determined bravery in the inhabitants almost unexampled in the history
of man. It always brings to our mind some very ancient silver flagon,
made in an era when workmen were inexpert and when the taste of their
forms was more intended for use than for ornament, but of materials
so solid and valuable as to have made it survive all the blows and
injuries, the marks of which are still to be seen upon it; and which
is thus infinitely more respected than some modern mazer of the most
exquisite workmanship.
Escaping from Berwick-bridge the Tweed, already mingled with the tide,
finds its way down to its estuary, the sand and muddy shores of which
have no beauty in them.
And now, oh silver Tweed! we bid thee a kind and last adieu, having
seen thee rendered up to that all-absorbing ocean, with which all
rivers are doomed to be commingled, and their existence terminated, as
is that of frail man, with the same hope of being thence restored by
those well-springs of life that are formed above the clouds.
NIAGARA
JOHN TYNDALL
It is one of the disadvantages of reading books about natural scenery
that they fill the mind with pictures, often exaggerated, often
distorted, often blurred, and, even when well drawn, injurious to the
freshness of first impressions. Such has been the fate of most of us
with regard to the Falls of Niagara. There was little accuracy in
the estimates of the first observers of the cataract. Startled by an
exhibition of power so novel and so grand, emotion leaped beyond the
control of the judgment, and gave currency to notions which have often
led to disappointment.
A record of a voyage, in 1535, by a French mariner named Jacques
Cartier, contains, it is said, the first printed allusion to Niagara.
In 1603 the first map of the district was constructed by a Frenchman
named Champlain. In 1648 the Jesuit Rageneau, in a letter to his
superior at Paris, mentions Niagara as “a cataract of frightful
height.” In the winter of 1678 and 1679 the cataract was visited by
Father Hennepin, and described in a book dedicated “to the King of
Great Britain.” He gives a drawing of the waterfall, which shows that
serious changes have taken place since his time. He describes it as
“a great and prodigious cadence of water, to which the universe does
not offer a parallel.” The height of the fall, according to Hennepin,
was more than 600 feet. “The waters,” he says, “which fall from this
great precipice do foam and boil in the most astonishing manner,
making a noise more terrible than that of thunder. When the wind blows
to the south its frightful roaring may be heard for more than fifteen
leagues.” The Baron la Hontan, who visited Niagara in 1687, makes
the height 800 feet. In 1721 Charlevois, in a letter to Madame de
Maintenon, after referring to the exaggerations of his predecessors,
thus states the result of his own observations: “For my part, after
examining it on all sides, I am inclined to think that we cannot
allow it less than 140 or 150 feet”--a remarkably close estimate. At
that time, viz., a hundred and fifty years ago, it had the shape of
a horseshoe, and reasons will subsequently be given for holding that
this has been always the form of the cataract, from its origin to its
present site.
[Illustration: THE NIAGARA]
As regards the noise of the fall, Charlevois declares the accounts of
his predecessors, which, I may say, are repeated to the present hour,
to be altogether extravagant. He is perfectly right. The thunders of
Niagara are formidable enough to those who really seek them at the base
of the Horseshoe Fall; but on the banks of the river, and particularly
above the fall, its silence, rather than its noise, is surprising. This
arises, in part, from the lack of resonance; the surrounding country
being flat, and therefore furnishing no echoing surfaces to reinforce
the shock of the water. The resonance from the surrounding rocks causes
the Swiss Reuss at the Devil’s Bridge, when full, to thunder more
loudly than the Niagara.
Seen from below, the American Fall is certainly exquisitely beautiful,
but it is a mere frill of adornment to its nobler neighbour the
Horseshoe. At times we took to the river, from the centre of which
the Horseshoe Fall appeared especially magnificent. A streak of cloud
across the neck of Mont Blanc can double its apparent height, so here
the green summit of the cataract shining above the smoke of spray
appeared lifted to an extraordinary elevation. Had Hennepin and La
Hontan seen the fall from this position, their estimates of the height
would have been perfectly excusable.
From a point a little way below the American Fall, a ferry crosses the
river, in summer, to the Canadian side. Below the ferry is a suspension
bridge for carriages and foot-passengers, and a mile or two lower down
is the railway suspension bridge. Between ferry and bridge the river
Niagara flows unruffled; but at the suspension bridge the bed steepens
and the river quickens its motion. Lower down the gorge narrows,
and the rapidity and turbulence increase. At the place called the
“Whirlpool Rapids,” I estimated the width of the river at 300 feet, an
estimate confirmed by the dwellers on the spot. When it is remembered
that the drainage of nearly half a continent is compressed into this
space, the impetuosity of the river’s rush may be imagined.
Two kinds of motion are here obviously active, a motion of translation
and a motion of undulation--the race of the river through its gorge,
and the great waves generated by its collision with, and rebound from,
the obstacles in its way. In the middle of the river the rush and
tossing are most violent; at all events, the impetuous force of the
individual waves is here most strikingly displayed. Vast pyramidal
heaps leap incessantly from the river, some of them with such energy
as to jerk their summits into the air, where they hang momentarily
suspended in crowds of liquid spherules. The sun shone for a few
minutes. At times the wind, coming up the river, searched and sifted
the spray, carrying away the lighter drops and leaving the heavier
ones behind. Wafted in the proper direction, rainbows appeared and
disappeared fitfully in the lighter mist. In other directions the
common gleam of the sunshine from the waves and their shattered crests
was exquisitely beautiful. The complexity of the action was still
further illustrated by the fact, that in some cases, as if by the
exercise of a local explosive force, the drops were shot radially from
a particular centre, forming around it a kind of halo.
At some distance below the Whirlpool Rapids we have the celebrated
whirlpool itself. Here the river makes a sudden bend to the north-east,
forming nearly a right angle with its previous direction. The water
strikes the concave bank with great force, and scoops it incessantly
away. A vast basin has been thus formed, in which the sweep of the
river prolongs itself in gyratory currents. Bodies and trees which
have come over the falls are stated to circulate here for days without
finding the outlet. From various points of the cliffs above this is
curiously hidden. The rush of the river into the whirlpool is obvious
enough; and though you imagine the outlet must be visible, if one
existed, you cannot find it. Turning, however, round the bend of the
precipice to the north-east, the outlet comes into view.
The Niagara season was over; the chatter of sight-seers had ceased,
and the scene presented itself as one of holy seclusion and beauty.
I went down to the river’s edge, where the weird loneliness seemed
to increase. The basin is enclosed by high and almost precipitous
banks--covered, at the time, with russet woods. A kind of mystery
attaches itself to gyrating water, due perhaps to the fact that we
are to some extent ignorant of the direction of its force. It is said
that, at certain points of the whirlpool, pine-trees are sucked down,
to be ejected mysteriously elsewhere. The water is of the brightest
emerald-green. The gorge through which it escapes is narrow, and
the motion of the river swift though silent. The surface is steeply
inclined, but it is perfectly unbroken. There are no lateral waves, no
ripples with their breaking bubbles to raise a murmur; while the depth
is here too great to allow the inequality of the bed to ruffle the
surface. Nothing can be more beautiful than this sloping liquid mirror
formed by the Niagara in sliding from the whirlpool.
A connected image of the origin and progress of the cataract is easily
obtained. Walking northwards from the village of Niagara Falls by the
side of the river, we have to our left the deep and comparatively
narrow gorge, through which the Niagara flows. The bounding cliffs
of this gorge are from 300 to 350 feet high. We reach the whirlpool,
trend to the north-east, and after a little time gradually resume our
northward course. Finally, at about seven miles from the present falls,
we come to the edge of a declivity, which informs us that we have been
hitherto walking on table-land. At some hundreds of feet below us is
a comparatively level plain, which stretches to Lake Ontario. The
declivity marks the end of the precipitous gorge of the Niagara. Here
the river escapes from its steep mural boundaries, and in a widened bed
pursues its way to the lake which finally receives its waters.
The fact that in historic times, even within the memory of man, the
fall has sensibly receded, prompts the question, How far has this
recession gone? At what point did the ledge which thus continually
creeps backwards begin its retrograde course? To minds disciplined in
such researches the answer has been, and will be--At the precipitous
declivity which crossed the Niagara from Lewiston on the American
to Queenston on the Canadian side. Over this transverse barrier the
united affluents of all the upper lakes once poured their waters, and
here the work of erosion began. The dam, moreover, was demonstrably of
sufficient height to cause the river above it to submerge Goat Island;
and this would perfectly account for the finding, by Sir Charles Lyell,
Mr. Hall, and others, in the sand and gravel of the island, the same
fluviatile shells as are now found in the Niagara River higher up. It
would also account for those deposits along the sides of the river,
the discovery of which enabled Lyell, Hall, and Ramsay to reduce to
demonstration the popular belief that the Niagara once flowed through a
shallow valley.
The vast comparative erosive energy of the Horseshoe Fall comes
strikingly into view when it and the American Fall are compared
together. The American branch of the river is cut at a right angle
by the gorge of the Niagara. Here the Horseshoe Fall was the real
excavator. It cut the rock, and formed the precipice, over which the
American Fall tumbles. But, since its formation, the erosive action
of the American Fall has been almost nil, while the Horseshoe has
cut its way for 500 yards across the end of Goat Island, and is now
doubling back to excavate its channel parallel to the length of the
island. This point, which impressed me forcibly, has not, I have just
learned, escaped the acute observation of Professor Ramsay. The river
bends; the Horseshoe immediately accommodates itself to the bending,
and will follow implicitly the direction of the deepest water in the
upper stream. The flexures of the gorge are determined by those of
the river channel above it. Were the Niagara centre above the fall
sinuous, the gorge would obediently follow its sinuosities. Once
suggested, no doubt geographers will be able to point out many examples
of this action. The Zambesi is thought to present a great difficulty
to the erosion theory, because of the sinuosity of the chasm below the
Victoria Falls. But, assuming the basalt to be of tolerably uniform
texture, had the river been examined before the formation of this
sinuous channel, the present zigzag course of the gorge below the fall
could, I am persuaded, have been predicted, while the sounding of the
present river would enable us to predict the course to be pursued by
the erosion in the future.
But not only has the Niagara River cut the gorge; it has carried away
the chips of its own workshop. The shale, being probably crumbled,
is easily carried away. But at the base of the fall we find the huge
boulders already described, and by some means or other these are
removed down the river. The ice which fills the gorge in winter, and
which grapples with the boulders, has been regarded as the transporting
agent. Probably it is so to some extent. But erosion acts without
ceasing on the abutting points of the boulders, thus withdrawing their
support and urging them gradually down the river. Solution also does
its portion of the work. That solid matter is carried down is proved
by the difference of depth between the Niagara River and Lake Ontario,
where the river enters it. The depth falls from seventy-two feet to
twenty feet, in consequence of the deposition of solid matter caused by
the diminished motion of the river.
In conclusion, we may say a word regarding the proximate future of
Niagara. At the rate of excavation assigned to it by Sir Charles
Lyell, namely, a foot a year, five thousand years or so will carry the
Horseshoe Fall far higher than Goat Island. As the gorge recedes it
will drain, as it has hitherto done, the banks right and left of it,
thus leaving a nearly level terrace between Goat Island and the edge
of the gorge. Higher up it will totally drain the American branch of
the river; the channel of which in due time will become cultivable
land. The American Fall will then be transformed into a dry precipice,
forming a simple continuation of the cliffy boundary of the Niagara
gorge. At the place occupied by the fall at this moment we shall
have the gorge enclosing a right angle, a second whirlpool being the
consequence. To those who visit Niagara a few millenniums hence I
leave the verification of this prediction. All that can be said is,
that if the causes now in action continue to act, it will prove itself
literally true.
THE NIAGARA RIVER
G. K. GILBERT
The Niagara River flows from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario. The shore of
Erie is more than 300 feet higher than the shore of Ontario; but if
you pass from the higher shore to the lower, you do not descend at a
uniform rate. Starting from Lake Erie and going northwards, you travel
upon a plain--not level, but with only gentle undulations--until you
approach the shore of Lake Ontario, and then suddenly you find yourself
on the brink of a high bluff, or cliff, overlooking the lower lake and
separated from it only by a narrow strip of sloping plain.
Where the Niagara River leaves Lake Erie at Buffalo and enters the
plain, a low ridge of rock crosses its path, and in traversing this
its water is troubled; but it soon becomes smooth, spreads out broadly
and indolently loiters on the plain. For three-fourths of the distance
it cannot be said to have a valley, it rests upon the surface of the
plateau; but then its habit suddenly changes. By the short rapid at
Goat Island and by the cataract itself the water of the river is
dropped two hundred feet down into the plain, and thence to the cliff
at Lewiston it races headlong through a deep and narrow gorge. From
Lewiston to Lake Ontario there are no rapids. The river is again broad,
and its channel is scored so deeply in the littoral plain that the
current is relatively slow, and the level of its water surface varies
but slightly from that of the lake.
The narrow gorge that contains the river from the Falls to Lewiston
is a most peculiar and noteworthy feature. Its width rarely equals
the fourth of a mile, and its depth to the bottom of the river ranges
from two hundred to five hundred feet. Its walls are so steep that
opportunities for climbing up and down them are rare, and in these
walls one may see the geologic structure of the plateau.
The contour of the cataract is subject to change. From time to time
blocks of rock break away, falling into the pool below, and new shapes
are then given to the brink over which the water leaps. Many such falls
of rock have taken place since the white man occupied the banks of the
river, and the breaking away of a very large section is still a recent
event. By such observation we are assured that the extent of the gorge
is increasing at its end, that it is growing longer, and that the
cataract is the cause of its extension.
This determination is the first element in the history of the river.
A change is in progress before our eyes. The river’s history, like
human history, is being enacted, and from that which occurs we can
draw inferences concerning what has occurred, and what will occur. We
can look forward to the time when the gorge now traversing the fourth
part of the width of the plateau will completely divide it, so that the
Niagara will drain Lake Erie to the bottom. We can look back to the
time when there was no gorge, but when the water flowed on the top of
the plain to its edge, and the Falls of Niagara were at Lewiston.
We may think of the river as labouring at a task--the task of sawing
in two the plateau. The task is partly accomplished. When it is done
the river will assume some other task. Before it was begun what did the
river do?
How can we answer this question? The surplus water discharge from
Lake Erie could not have flowed by this course to Lake Ontario without
sawing at the plateau. Before it began the cutting of the gorge it did
not flow along this line. It may have flowed somewhere else, but if
so it did not constitute the Niagara River. The commencement of the
cutting of the Niagara gorge is the beginning of the history of the
Niagara River.
The river began its existence during the final retreat of the great
ice sheet, or, in other words, during the series of events that closed
the age of ice in America. During the course of its history the length
of the river has suffered some variation by reason of the successive
fall and rise of the level of Lake Ontario. It was at first a few miles
shorter than now; then it became suddenly a few miles longer, and its
present length was gradually acquired.
With the change in the position of its mouth there went a change in the
height of its mouth; and the rate at which it eroded its channel was
affected thereby. The influence on the rate of erosion was felt chiefly
along the lower course of the river between Lewiston and Fort Niagara.
The volume of the river has likewise been inconstant. In early days,
when the lakes levied a large tribute on the melting glacier, the
Niagara may have been a larger river than now; but there was a time
when the discharge from the upper lakes avoided the route by Lake Erie,
and then the Niagara was a relatively small stream.
The great life work of the river has been the digging of the gorge
through which it runs from the cataract to Lewiston. The beginning of
its life was the beginning of that task. The length of the gorge is in
some sense a measure of the river’s age.
The river sprang from a great geologic revolution, the banishment of
the dynasty of cold, and so its lifetime is a geologic epoch; but from
first to last man has been a witness to its toil, and so its history is
interwoven with the history of man. The human comrade of the river’s
youth was not, alas! a reporter with a notebook, else our present
labour would be light. He has even told us little of himself. We only
know that on a gravelly beach of Lake Iroquois, now the Ridge Road, he
rudely gathered stones to make a hearth and built a fire; and the next
storm breakers, forcing back the beach, buried and thus preserved, to
gratify yet whet our curiosity, hearth, ashes and charred sticks.
In these Darwinian days we cannot deem primeval the man possessed of
the Promethean art of fire, and so his presence on the scene adds zest
to the pursuit of the Niagara problem. Whatever the antiquity of the
great cataract may be found to be, the antiquity of man is greater.
THE MEUSE
ESTHER SINGLETON
The Meuse, or Maas, has the distinction of belonging to three
countries,--France, Belgium and Holland. In its long journey of 580
miles to the sea, it passes through varied and beautiful scenery,
including the Forest of Ardennes, so famous in the Charlemagne romances
and in the turbulent period of the Middle Ages; then through the
vine-lands and hop-gardens so often laid waste by battles in Belgium;
and finally through the flat lands of Holland where it has afforded
inspiration to many painters.
[Illustration: THE MEUSE]
Rising in France in the south of the Department Haute Marne near the
Monts Faucilles, it crosses the Department Vosges, where, between
Bazeilles and Noncourt, it disappears and has a subterranean course
for three miles and a half. After crossing the Meuse and Ardennes
Departments, passing by the towns of Neufchâteau, Vaucouleurs, Commercy
St. Mihiel and Verdun, it reaches Sedan and enters Belgium. During
the rest of its course, its name is variously Meuse, Maes, Maas
and Merwede. Above Dinant it receives the Lesse and at Namur, its
largest tributary, the Sambre, which almost doubles its volume. Going
north-east, it flows through a narrow valley, enclosed between wooded
hills and cliffs, dotted with picturesque villas and country houses,
and at Liège it is joined by the Ourthe. The river now enters Dutch
territory, and is henceforth called the Maas. Passing Maestricht,
or Maastricht, it flows by Roermond, where it receives the Roer,
and at Venlo a canal begins which connects it with the Scheldt. At
Gorinchem, it receives the Waal, an arm of the Rhine. Now the Maas soon
divides: the Merwede flowing west, while the southern arm falls into
the Biesbosch, an estuary of the sea. On reaching Dortrecht, river and
sea navigation begin. Here the Maas again divides. The Old Maas flows
directly west while the northern arm joins the Lek, a second branch of
the Rhine, and continues its course to Rotterdam, where the Rotte joins
it. The two arms unite here and flow into the North Sea by the Hook
of Holland. Schiedam and Vlardingen are the last places of importance
upon its banks. Including all windings, the Meuse is 580 miles long and
is navigable for about 460 miles. In the early part of its course the
Meuse traverses a wide valley covered by green meadows and then flows
through narrow gorges, hemmed in by high hills and cliffs. At Dinant,
picturesquely situated on the right bank, at the base of limestone
cliffs crowned by a fortress, it is said that Philip the Good, Duke
of Burgundy, and his son, Charles the Bold, having captured the town,
caused 800 people to be drowned in the Meuse. The river, however, quite
unconscious of this tragedy, flows on beneath a pinnacle of rock called
the _Roche à Bayard_, because the famous steed, Bayard, belonging to
the Quatre Fils d’Aymon, left a hoof-print here as it sprang over the
valley when pursued by Charlemagne. Rocks of fantastic shapes now
rise above the river, which is spanned by bridges. Innumerable villas
and ancestral castles peep through the thick foliage and command the
cliffs. The French border is reached at Givet; and at Sedan, memorable
for the battle between the French and Germans (September 1, 1870),
Belgian territory is entered. The hills and valleys in the vicinity of
Sedan were occupied by the Army of the Meuse.
At Namur, also grouped on the cliffs, the Meuse is crossed by several
stone bridges. The citadel on a hill between the Sambre and Meuse is
believed to occupy the site of the camp of the Aduatuci described by
Cæsar. The Meuse, flowing through the town of Liège, forms an island
which is connected with each bank by six bridges. The principal town
lies on the left bank: Outremeuse is a factory town on the right bank.
A fine view is afforded from the citadel (520 feet above the sea
level), erected by Prince Bishop Maximilian Henry of Bavaria in 1650,
on the site of earlier fortifications. The valleys of the Meuse, Ourthe
and Vesdre are here bounded on the south by the Ardennes, while the
Petersburg with Maestricht and the broad plains of Limburg are seen on
the north. On the opposite bank of the Meuse is the Chartreuse. The
river here is 460 feet wide and is crossed by several bridges, of which
the Pont des Arches, rebuilt in 1860-3, dates from the Eighth Century,
and is famous in local history.
After the train passes under the Chartreuse, the town of Jupille is
reached, a favourite residence of Pepin of Héristal, who died here in
714. The town was often visited by Charlemagne.
The Dutch custom-house is at Eysden, where a beautiful old _château_
is seen among its trees; and on the opposite bank of the Meuse, the
Petersburg rises 330 feet above the river, with the _château_ of
Castert on its summit. We are now in the Dutch province of Limburg,
with its capital, Maestricht, on the left bank of the Maas, the
_Trajectum Superius_ of the Romans (_Trajectum ad Mosam_), the seat of
a bishopric; the residence of Frankish Kings; and, later, the joint
possession of Prince Bishops of Liège and the Dukes of Brabant.
At Gorinchem the river is joined by the Waal and as both streams are
broad, an impressive sheet of water is the result. For a time, the
river is known as the Merwede. About four miles below Gorinchem, the
Biesbosch (reed forest) begins, a district of forty square miles and
consisting of 100 islands formed by a destructive inundation in 1421,
when seventy-two towns and villages and more than 100,000 persons
perished.
This inundation also separated the next town of importance, Dordrecht,
or Dort, as the Dutch call it, from the mainland. This town, one of the
wealthiest towns of the Netherlands in the Middle Ages, presents a most
picturesque appearance with its quaint gables, red-tiled roofs, and
the lofty square tower of the Groote Kerk, which has kept watch over
the Maas for six hundred years. How familiar it looks in the silvery
light of early morning or when flooded with the warm golden glow of the
afternoon to those who are well acquainted with the pictures of Cuyp
and Jan van Goyen! Could we wander through the town, we should find
much to study. There are numerous old mediæval houses in the Wynstraat;
the ancient gate, Groothoofd-Poort, that had to be rebuilt in 1618;
and the finest specimens of carving in Holland,--the choir-stalls of
1538-40 in the Groote Kerk. The harbour is full of boats and timber
rafts that have drifted down the Rhine from the Black Forest and the
_tjalks_, _praams_ and other Dutch boats, large and small, with their
lee-boards (called _zwaards_) used to steady the keelless boats, and
bright sails become more numerous.
The Maas now flows through typical Dutch landscapes and feeds many
canals that lead to Delft and other cities.
At length we reach Rotterdam which lies on both sides of the river;
the older city lies on the right bank of the Maas near its confluence
with the Rotte. The many docks and canals--Koningshaven, Nieuwehaven,
Haringvliet, Oudehaven, Wijnhaven, Scheepmakershaven, Leuvehaven,
Zalmhaven, Westerhaven, etc., are filled with ocean-going vessels
and river craft of all sizes and kinds, as well as nationalities,
presenting forests of masts and innumerable funnels. The streets
are animated with sailors and merchants, while the tree-bordered
embankment, called the Bompjes, affords a gay promenade.
On the way to the sea, Schiedam on the Schie, is passed, and also
the more interesting town of Vlaardingen, one of the oldest towns in
Holland, as is evidenced by the market-place. It is the _dépôt_ for the
“great fishery,” and from it a fleet of 125 boats and 1,500 men are
sent forth annually. Maasluis, the next town, which takes a share in
the “great fishery,” is passed, and then the open sea greets the Maas
at the Hook of Holland.
THE RHONE
ANGUS B. REACH
Few travellers have much fancy for the most rapid of the great European
streams. If they at all make its personal acquaintance, it is with
knapsack on back, and iron-shod _bâton_ in hand--when they stand upon
the mother-glacier, and watch the river-child glide brightly into
air--or perhaps it is near fair Geneva, that, loitering on a wooden
bridge, they mark the second start in life of the strong river, and,
if they be philosophers, lament the clamorous and not cleanly Arve.
Later in the river’s career--the pellucid waters of the snow are again
and still more fatally fouled by the slow-running Saone which comes
down by Lyons, heavy and fat with the rich mud of Burgundy. At the
point of junction there, also, the tourist sometimes goes to observe
the coalition of the streams, and to find out, that instead of the
bigger river cleansing the smaller, the smaller utterly besmirches and
begrimes the greater. So pondering over the moral, he too often takes
little further heed of the Rhone; or if he does, it is as a mere beast
of burden. He is bound south, and he knows that the “swift and arrowy
Rhone” will add wings to the speed of steam; that stepping on board the
long, long steamboat from the noble quays of Lyons at summer’s dawn,
he will step ashore amid the clamour of the uproarious Avignon porters
by the summer’s eve. But the day’s flight--through rocks, and vines,
and corn-lands, and by ancient towns and villages, and through old
bridges of stone, and modern bridges of boats, is to the conventional
traveller usually nearly a blank. How different from the Rhine; no
legends in the handbook, no castles, no picturesque students, no jolly
Burschen choruses over pipes and beer. The steamer flies southwards.
If she be one of the quickest of the Rhone fleet, and the river be in
good order, she could carry you between sunrise and sunset, from the
land where the chestnut and the walnut most abound, through the zone
where the mulberry is almost exclusively the tree; next past the region
where men are clipping, and twisting, and trimming the olive, at once
sacred and classic, and, finally, fairly into the flats, where tropical
rice grows out of fever-haunted swamps in the African-like jungles of
the Camargue. During this flight, it is to be noted, that you have
descended upwards of 600 feet, in fact, that you have been steaming
down a modified water-fall, and have measured in a day, a run from a
climate which may be described as temperate, to one which is, to all
intents and purposes, torrid.
[Illustration: THE RHONE]
And in this run must we not have passed some rather curious objects,
some rather striking points of scenery? May not there have been nooks,
and ravines, and old towers within that sterile, yet viney land,
burnt by the hot kiss of the sun, which are worthy of a traveller’s
afternoon? There are many such. The masonry of Rome still stands by the
stream, and ancient rock-perched ruins there are, telling grim tales of
the old religious wars of France; tales going back to the Albigenses
and Count Raymond of Toulouse, and in later days dealing with the feuds
which Ivry put an end to, but which were renewed when the peasants of
the wild hills of the Cevennes, in their white _camisas_, Langue d’
Oc for shirts, worn over their clothes as uniforms, held out the
long and obstinate contest of the dragonnades, and frequently beat
even Marichale Villars, with the best of the cavaliers of the Grand
Monarque. But there are still other points of interest connected with
the Rhone itself--parts and pendicles of the river. First, look at the
current. Did you ever see a blacker, fiercer, more unmercifully minded
looking stream? Take care how you get into it. There is drowning in
its aspect. A sudden sweep down that foaming current, and all would be
over. No swimming in these deadly whirling eddies. Once they embrace
you in their watery arms, down you go, never stopping, even to die, to
the sea, whither the Rhone is ever, ever rushing, ploughing its way
through shingles, roaring round opposing rocks, sometimes carrying by
assault a new channel through a green pasture, at others, when its
sudden floods are out, rushing with a furious vengeance, at what at
sunset was a fertile island, rich with the ripe corn, which to-morrow
will be a torrent, and a few morrows afterwards--sand.
In spite of its fury of current, in spite of its sudden shiftings of
sand and shingle banks, its sudden floods, its sudden fogs, the Rhone
has been navigated from time immemorial.
Toiling hard and slowly up the stream an _equipage_ goes crawling
along, composed of half a dozen huge barges hauled by those struggling,
splashing, panting horses on the bank. Before the introduction of
steam, there were upwards of fifty of these barge squadrons. They
floated down from Lyons to Beaucaire, opposite Arles, in two days, but
difficult and dreary was the passage back. A month in summer, six weeks
in winter were consumed in the tedious struggle with the ever-opposing
stream.
But our boat is sweeping towards a rocky promontory. The contracted
stream shoots rapidly through the defile; and, at the narrowest point,
a chain bridge appears, connecting two small villages clustered beneath
vine-covered steps. The crag above that on the right hand is castled
most picturesquely; that on the left is crowned with a more genial
diadem. The first village is Tournon, the second Tain. The latter is
poor, shabby, dirty: the houses are rickety and slovenly. All the slope
of the cliff is split up into squares, triangles, etc., and bounded
by stone walls: and these are full of vines--the aristocracy of the
grape--in short, Hermitage.
Descending the Rhone a little further, we find ourselves opposite
Valence. About a mile from the river--the intervening space is
corn-country, the fields dotted with mulberries--rises a bold and high
peak of rocks, and on their summit, a nobly perched lyric of a castle.
Clamber up! The hill is steep, and tough to ascend, and the heath
is slippery. Nevertheless, persevere, and be rewarded at length by
entering the ruins, where you will perceive a half-crumbled cavernous
looking recess in a thick wall. It seems to have been a fireplace.
Approach cautiously! That fireplace has no back, and fuel flung in
there will roll out at a hole behind, and find itself upwards of eight
hundred feet high in the yielding air.
The castle once belonged to a Protestant lord, the Seigneur de Crussol,
and when, after a successful foray across the river, amongst the
Catholic population, he managed to secure a score or two of prisoners,
high festival was held, and the unhappy captives, amid the brimming
glasses and convivial jokes of the company, were flung into the chimney
of Crussol, and found by the trembling peasantry indefinite masses of
horror next morning.
These were wild old savage days; but let us go back for a few moments
to days far more ancient though hardly more barbarous. Hannibal,
coming from Spain, also crossed the Rhone; and, looking at that wild
rushing river, so deep and broad, and perpetual in its current, we have
often thought that the great Carthaginian performed a more brilliant
exploit in getting his moorish cavalry, his war-elephants, and his
undisciplined Spanish brigades, across the water, than across the
mountains. No one knows the spot he selected for his ferriage. Imagine
the leader with his troops encamped, and chafing at the broad river
which lay between them and those distant snow-capped hills, beyond
which was Italy. In three days, we are told, the feat was achieved.
Apocryphal accounts tell us how the horses, mad with the terror of
fire, swam wildly across the stream, and how the elephants trumpeted
upon the rafts.
A wide champagne country, fertile to magnificent luxuriance--the
rushing Rhone dotted with wooded islands; a city clustering on a hill
and a castle crowning it, and we approach Avignon. Here the traveller
usually leaves the river (if he be antiquarian and historic) and
examines the noble churches, towers, bastions and dungeons with which
the Avignon Popes beautified the city; or, if he be sentimental and
romantic, he prepares his feelings, works them--hard work it usually
is--into a proper frame, and proceeds to Vaucluse. A pretty spot it is
in itself, with its grottoed rocks and limpid waters; and certainly the
name of Petrarch may fairly enough add a certain degree of interest to
the scene.
The last point of interest is the delta of the river; the several
mouths through which, after its rapid course from the lake of Geneva,
the Rhone at length pours itself into the sea. The Carmargue, as
this strange swampy district is called, is seldom or ever trodden by
English foot. It has no attractions for the ordinary sightseer, but it
has many for the lover of aspects of nature, of a strange and unwonted
character, and of which few are to be seen in Europe. Proceeding from
Arle, along a muddy, clayey road, through a perfect flat intersected
by numerous draining ditches, you gradually find yourself arriving
in a region where the earth appears to be losing its consistence and
melting into mud beneath your feet. Forests of swamp-growing trees,
willows, and marsh-mallows stretch around; and as you emerge from them
you come upon a boundless plain, an enormous stagnant flat--mud and
water and water and mud for scores and scores of square miles, but
intersected as far as the eye can reach, by a network of clay walls,
upon which you can make your way, gazing in wonder upon the perfect
sublimity of the apparent desolation. But there is no desolation in the
case. These swamps are rice-fields. If you paid your visit during the
summer, the grain will be growing out of the tepid water; if during
the autumn, you will see withered beds of the straw left for manure,
slowly rotting in the soil. At long distances crawling figures appear.
These are the labourers employed by the Company which grows the rice,
and whose stations for draining out the surplus water, which would
otherwise perhaps overwhelm the whole district, may be fixed by their
lofty siphon tubes breaking the dead flatness of the several lines of
view. And yet there is a dreary death-like beauty about all this silent
land. Shelley has sung such; Tennyson has done it more elaborately and
better, and we find traces of the sentiment in “Eothen.” The vast and
the drear have a sublime of their own, and in this dismal waste of
laid-out world we feel it. Even ugliness is made respectable by extent,
and we leave the swamps with an impression of lorn, melancholy grandeur
looming in our minds.
THE YUKON
WILLIAM OGILVIE
To within a few years ago a great unexplored solitude extended to the
eastward between the valleys of the Upper Yukon, or Lewes, and the
Mackenzie, and from the sixtieth parallel of latitude northward to
the shores of the “frozen ocean.” This extensive region is known as
the Yukon country, a name rendered appropriate by the fact that it is
drained by the Yukon River and its tributaries, which form one of the
great river systems of the world.
Walled in by high mountains, and in consequence unapproachable from
every side, it is not strange that the Yukon district should so long
have remained in almost undisturbed seclusion. Had it not been for the
fact that the rich metalliferous belt of the Coast and Gold Ranges
passes through the district from one end to the other, the probability
is that it would still have remained unexplored for many years to come.
Only four gates of approach to the district exist, and, strangely
enough, these are situated at the four corners. From the north-west,
access is gained to the country by following the Yukon from its mouth
in Behring Sea; from the north-east, by crossing from the Mackenzie to
the Porcupine, and following down the latter stream to its confluence
with the Yukon; from the south-east, by ascending the Liard from Fort
Simpson and crossing the water-shed to the head-waters of the Pelly;
and finally, from the south-west, by entering where the coast range is
pierced by the Chilkoot and Chilkat Passes.
As a matter of fact, all these routes are beset with difficulties, and
when it is remembered that there are only four roads into a region
three times greater in extent than the total area of the New England
States, it is not to be wondered at that the total population of the
region should consist of a few scattered Indian families and a hundred
or so of hardy miners.
Occasional contributions to our knowledge of the district have been
made from time to time for at least half a century, mainly by officers
of the Hudson’s Bay Company, miners and _employés_ of the abandoned
Telegraph Expedition; and skeleton maps of the interior have been
constructed in accordance with the topographical data, so far as known.
Among recent expeditions that of Lieutenant Schwatka, of the United
States Army, in the summer of 1883, may be mentioned. Entering the
country by the Chilkoot Pass, Lieutenant Schwatka floated down the
Yukon on a raft from the source of the Lewes River to Nuklikahyet,
continuing his journey from this point to the sea by boat. The object
of this expedition was to examine the country from a military point
of view, and to collect all available information with regard to the
Indian tribes. We are indebted to it also for a great deal of general
information with regard to the country. Schwatka, who seems to have
gone through the country with his eyes open, used the explorer’s
baptismal privilege freely, and scattered monuments of Schwatkanian
nomenclature broadcast throughout the land, re-christening many places
that had already been named, and doing so too in apparent indifference
to the fact that many thus set aside had an established priority of
many years.
The part of the journey between Victoria and Chilkoot Inlet has been so
much written of, talked of and pictured during the last few years that
I will repeat only one of the many statements made concerning it--that
though it is in ocean waters and can be traversed by the largest ships,
it is so sheltered by countless islands from the gales and waves of
the vast Pacific, nearly the whole of the length, that its waters are
always as smooth as those of a large river. In marked contrast to this
is the west coast of the United States, where harbours are like angel’s
visits.
Chatham Strait and Lynn Channel lie almost in a straight line, and
during the summer there is always a strong wind blowing up from the
sea. At the head of Lynn Channel are Chilkat and Chilkoot Inlets. The
distance down these channels to the open sea is about three hundred
and eighty miles, and along the whole extent of this the mountains on
each side of the water confine the incoming currents of air and deflect
inclined currents in the direction of the axis of the channel. Coming
from the sea, these air currents are heavily charged with moisture,
which is precipitated when they strike the mountains, and the fall of
rain and snow is consequently very heavy.
The rapids extending for a couple of miles below the Cañon, are not
at all bad. What constitutes the real danger is a piece of calm water
forming a short, sharp bend in the river, which hides the last or
“White Horse” rapids from sight until they are reached. These rapids
are about three-eighths of a mile long. They are the most dangerous
on the river, and are never run through in boats except by accident.
Parties always examine the Cañon and rapids below before going
through, and coming to the calm water suppose they have seen them all,
as all noise from the lower rapid is drowned in that of the ones above.
On this account several parties have run through the “White Horse,”
being ignorant of its existence until they were in it. These rapids
are confined by low basaltic banks, which, at the foot, suddenly close
in and make the channel about thirty yards wide. It is here the danger
lies, as there is a sudden drop, and the water rushes through at a
tremendous rate, leaping and seething like a cataract. The miners have
constructed a portage road on the west side, and put down rollways in
some places on which to shove their boats over. They have also made
some windlasses with which to haul their boats uphill, notably one at
the foot of the Cañon. This roadway and the windlasses must have cost
them many hours of hard labour.
Lake Labarge was reached on the evening of the 26th of July, and our
camp pitched on its southern shore. The lake is thirty-one miles in
length, broad at both ends and narrow in the middle, lying north and
south, like a long slender foot-print made by some gigantic Titan in
long-bygone days.
As the prevailing wind blows almost constantly down the lake, the
miners complain much of the detention from the roughness of the water,
and for the three days I was on the lake, I certainly cannot complain
of any lack of attention from blustering Australis.
The survey was carried along the western shore, which is irregular in
shape, being indented by large, shallow bays, especially at the upper
and lower ends.
Just above where the lake narrows in the middle, there is a large
island, which is shown on Schwatka’s map as a peninsula, and called
by him Richtofen Rocks. How he came to think it a peninsula I cannot
understand, as it is well out in the lake; the nearest point of it to
the western shore is upwards of half a mile distant, and the extreme
width of the lake here, as determined from triangulation, is not more
than five miles, which includes the depth of the deepest bays on the
western side. It is therefore difficult to understand that he did not
see it as an island. The upper half of this island is gravelly, and
does not rise very high above the lake; the lower end is rocky and
high, the rock of a bright red colour and probably granite.
At the lower end of the lake there is a deep wide valley extending
northwards, which has evidently at one time been the outlet of the
lake. In this the mixed timber, poplar, and spruce, is of a size which
betokens a fair soil; the herbage, too, is more than usually rich for
this region. This valley, which Dr. Dawson has named “Ogilvie Valley,”
is extensive, and if ever required as an aid to the sustenance of our
people, will figure largely in the district’s agricultural assets.
We left this, the last lake of the great chain, behind us on Saturday,
the 30th of July, and proceeded with a moderate current of about four
miles an hour. The river just here is crooked and runs past high, steep
banks surmounted by scrub pine and stunted poplar which shut in the
narrow valley. There are, however, many flats of moderate extent, along
the river and at its confluence with other streams, where the soil is
fair.
The waters of the Big Salmon are sluggish and slow. The valley, as seen
from the mouth, is wide, and gives one the impression of being occupied
by a much more important stream. Looking up it, in the distance could
be seen many high peaks covered with snow, and, as this was in the
beginning of August, it is likely they are always covered so--which
would make their probable altitude above the river, five thousand feet
or more.
Two days’ run, or about thirty-six miles, the river constantly winding
low, sandy points, and dotted with small, well-timbered islands,
brought us to the Little Salmon (Daly of Schwatka), a small and
unimportant stream entering upon the east. One of the most remarkable
objects along the river, located just below the Little Salmon, is a
huge hemisphere of rock, called the “Eagle’s Nest,” rising abruptly
from a gravel slope on the east bank, to a height of about five hundred
feet. It is of a light grey colour, but what the character of the rock
is I could not determine, as I saw it only from the river, which is
about a quarter of a mile distant.
We passed the mouth of the Nordenskiold on the 9th of August. The river
here makes a loop of eight miles round a hill on the east bank named by
Schwatka, Tantalus Butte. The distance across from point to point is
only half a mile.
Early the next day we heard the booming of the Rink Rapids in the
distance, and it was not long before they were in sight. These rapids
are known to miners as Five Finger Rapids, from the fact that five
large, bold masses of rock stand in mid-channel. This obstruction backs
up the water so as to raise it about a foot, causing a swell below for
a few yards.
Six miles below Rink Rapids are what are known as “Little Rapids.” This
is simply a barrier of rocks which extends from the westerly side of
the river about half-way across. Over this barrier there is a ripple
which would offer no great obstacle to the descent in a good canoe.
About five miles above Pelly River there is another lake-like expanse
filled with islands. The river here is nearly a mile wide, and so
numerous and close are the islands that it is impossible to tell where
the shores of the river are. The current, too, is swift, leading one to
suppose the water shallow; but I think that even here a channel deep
enough for such boats as will navigate this part of the river, could
easily be found. Schwatka named this group “Ingersoll Islands.”
About a mile below the junction with the Lewes, and on the south side,
stands all that remains of the only permanent trading-post ever built
by white men in the district. This post was established by Robert
Campbell, for the Hudson’s Bay Company, in the summer of 1848. It was
built upon the point of land between the two rivers, but this location
proving untenable, on account of flooding by ice-jams in the spring,
it was, in the season of 1852, moved across the river to where the
ruins now stand. It appears that the houses composing the post were
not finished when the Indians from the coast on Chilkat and Chilkoot
Inlets, came down the river to put a stop to the competitive trade
which Mr. Campbell had inaugurated and which they found to seriously
interfere with their profits. Their method of trade appears to have
been then pretty much as it is now--very one-sided. What they found
convenient to take by force, they took; and what they found convenient
to pay for, they paid for--at their own price.
Rumours had reached the post that the coast Indians contemplated
a raid, and, in consequence, the friendly Indians in the vicinity
remained about nearly all summer. Unfortunately, they went away for
a short time, and, during their absence, the coast Indians arrived
and pillaged the place, and set fire to it, leaving nothing but the
remains of two chimneys, which are still standing. This raid and
capture took place on Sunday, the 1st of August, 1852. Mr. Campbell was
ordered to leave the country within twenty-four hours, and accordingly
he dropped down the river. On his way he met some of the local Indians,
and returned with them, but the robbers had made their escape. Mr.
Campbell went on down the river until he met the outfit for his post
on its way up from Fort Yukon. He turned it back. He then ascended
the Pelly, crossed to the Liard, and reached Fort Simpson, on the
Mackenzie, late in October.
Nothing more was ever done in the vicinity of Fort Selkirk by the
Hudson’s Bay Company after these events, and in 1869 the company
was ordered by Capt. Chas. W. Raymond, who represented the United
States Government, to evacuate the post at Fort Yukon, which he had
ascertained to be west of the 141st meridian. The post was occupied by
the company, however, for some time after the receipt of the order,
until Rampart House, which was intended to be on British territory,
and to take the trade previously done at Fort Yukon, was built. Under
present conditions the company cannot very well compete with the Alaska
Fur Company, whose agents do the only trade in the district, and they
appear to have abandoned--for the present at least--all attempts
to do any trade nearer to it than Rampart House, to which point,
notwithstanding the distance and difficulties in the way, many of the
Indians on the Pelly-Yukon make a trip every two or three years to
procure goods in exchange for their furs.
On the 19th I resumed my journey northwards. Opposite Fort Selkirk, the
Pelly-Yukon River is about one-third of a mile broad; and it maintains
this width down to White River, a distance of ninety-six miles. Islands
are numerous, so much so that there are few parts of the river where
one or more are not in sight; many of them are of considerable size,
and nearly all are well timbered.
Between Stewart and White Rivers the river spreads out to a mile and
upwards in width, and is a maze of islands and bars. Stewart River,
which was reached on the following day, enters from the east in the
middle of a wide valley, with low hills on both sides, rising on the
north side in clearly marked steps or terraces to distant hills of
considerable height. The river, a short distance up, is two hundred
yards in width, the current slack, the water shallow and clear, but
dark-coloured; while at the mouth, I was fortunate enough to meet a
miner, named McDonald, who had spent the whole of the summer of 1887
on the river and its branches, prospecting and exploring. He gave me a
good deal of information, which I have incorporated in my map of the
district. This man had ascended two of the main branches of the river.
At the head of one of them he found a large lake, which he named Mayhew
Lake. On the other branch he found falls, which he estimated to be from
one to two hundred feet in height. McDonald went on past the falls to
the head of this branch, and found terraced gravel hills to the west
and north; he crossed them to the north and found a river flowing
northwards. On this he embarked on a raft, and floated down it for a
day or two, thinking it would turn to the west and join the Stewart,
but finding it still continuing north, and acquiring too much volume
to be any of the branches he had seen while passing up the Stewart, he
returned to his point of departure, and after prospecting among the
hills around the head of the river he started westwards, crossing a
high range of mountains composed principally of shales with many thin
seams of what is called quartz, ranging from one to six inches in
thickness. On the west side of this range he found the head-waters of
Beaver River, which he descended on a raft, taking five days to do so.
It is probable the river flowing northwards, on which he made a journey
and returned, is a branch of Peel River. The timber on the gravel
terraces of the water-shed, he described as small and open. He was
alone in this unknown wilderness all summer, not seeing even any of the
natives. There are few men, I think, so constituted as to be capable of
isolating themselves in such a manner.
On the 1st of September, we passed the site of the temporary
trading-post shown on the maps as Fort Reliance. Several days of
continuous rain now interrupted our work so that Forty Mile River (Cone
Hill River of Schwatka) was not reached till the 7th of September.
THE JORDAN
ANDREW ROBERT FAUSSET
The Jordan is two hundred miles long from its source at Antilebanon
to the head of the Dead Sea. It is not navigable, nor has it ever had
a large town on its banks. The cities Bethsham and Jericho on the
west, and Gerasa, Pella, and Gadara to the east of Jordan produced
intercourse between the two sides of the river. Yet it is remarkable
as the river of the great plain (_ha Arabah_, now el Ghor) of the Holy
Land, flowing through the whole from north to south. Lot, from the
hills on the north-west of Sodom, seeing the plain well watered by it,
as Egypt is by the Nile, chose that district as his home, in spite of
the notorious wickedness of the people.
[Illustration: THE JORDAN]
Its sources are three. The northernmost near Hasbeya between Hermon and
Lebanon; the stream is called Hasbany. The second is best known, near
Banias, _i. e._, Cæsarea Philippi, a large pool beneath a high cliff,
fed by gushing streamlets, rising at the mouth of a deep cave; thence
the Jordan flows, a considerable stream. The third is at Dan, or Tel el
Kady (Daphne); from the north-west corner of a green eminence a spring
bursts forth into a clear wide pool, which sends a broad stream into
the valley. The three streams unite at Tel Dafneh, and flow sluggishly
through marshland into Lake Meron. Captain Newbold adds a fourth, _wady
el Kid_ on the south-east of the slope, flowing from the springs Esh
Shar. Indeed Antilebanon abounds in gushing streams which all make
their way into the swamp between Banias and Huleh and become part of
the Jordan. The traditional site of Jacob’s crossing Jordan at his
first leaving Beersheba for Padan Aram is a mile and a half from Merom,
and six from the Sea of Galilee: in those six its descent with roaring
cataracts over the basaltic rocks is 1,050 feet. This, the part known
to Naaman in his invasions, is the least attractive part of its course;
and was unfavourably contrasted with Abana and Pharpar of his native
land. From the Sea of Galilee, it winds 200 miles in the sixty miles
of actual distance to the Dead Sea. Its tortuous course is the secret
of the great depression (the Dead Sea being 663 feet below the lake of
Galilee) in this distance.
Three banks may be noted in the Ghor or Jordan valley, the upper or
first slope (the abrupt edge of a wide table land reaching to the
Hauran Mountains on the east and the high hills on the west side), the
lower or middle terrace embracing the strip of land with vegetation,
and the true banks of the river bed, with a jungle of agnus castus,
tamarisks, and willows and reed and cane at the edge, the stream
being ordinarily thirty yards wide. At the flood, the river cannot be
forded, being ten or twelve feet deep east of Jericho; but in summer it
can, the water being low. To cross it in the flood by swimming was an
extraordinary feat performed by the Gadites who joined David; this was
impossible for Israel under Joshua with wives and children. The Lord
of the whole earth made the descending waters stand in a heap very far
from their place of crossing, viz: by the town of Adam, that is beside
Zarthan or Zaretan, the moment that the feet of the priests bearing the
ark dipped into the water. The priests then stood in the midst of the
dry river bed till all Israel crossed over. Joshua erected a monument
of twelve large stones in the river bed where the priests had stood,
near the east bank of the river. This would remain at least for a time
as a memorial to the existing generation besides the monument erected
at Gilgal.
By this lower ford, David passed to fight Syria, and afterwards in his
flight from Absalom to Mahanaim, east of Jordan. Thither Judah escorted
him and we crossed in a ferry boat. Here Elijah and Elisha divided the
waters with the prophets’ mantle. At the upper fords Naaman washed off
his leprosy. Here too the Syrians fled, when panic-struck by the Lord.
John the Baptist “first” baptized at the lower ford near Jericho,
whither all Jerusalem and Judea resorted, being near; where too, our
Lord took refuge from Jerusalem, and where many converts joined Him,
and from whence He went to Bethany to raise Lazarus. John’s next
baptisms were at Bethabara; thither out of Galilee the Lord Jesus and
Andrew repaired after the baptisms in the south, and were baptized.
His third place of baptism was near Ænon and Salim, still farther to
the north, where the water was still deep though it was summer, after
the passover, for there was no ford there; he had to go thither, the
water being too shallow at the ordinary fords. John moved gradually
northwards towards Herod’s province, where ultimately he was beheaded;
Jesus, coming from the north southwards, met John half-way.
The overflow of Jordan dislodged the lion from its lair on the wooded
banks. Between Merom and Lake Tiberias the banks are so thickly wooded
as often to shut out the view of the water.
Four-fifths of Israel, nine tribes and a half, dwelt west, and
one-fifth, two and a half, dwelt east of Jordan. The great altar built
by the latter was the witness of the oneness of the two sections. Of
the six cities of refuge three were east, three west of Jordan at equal
distances.
Jordan enters Gennesareth two miles below the ancient city Julias,
or Bethsaida, of Gaulonitis on the east bank. It is seventy feet
wide at its mouth, a sluggish, turbid stream. The lake of Tiberias
is 653 feet below the Mediterranean level. The Dead Sea is 1,316
feet below the Mediterranean, the springs of Hasbeya are 1,700 above
the Mediterranean, so that the valley falls more than 3,000 feet in
reaching the north end of the Dead Sea. The bottom descends 1,308 feet
lower, in all 2,600 below the Mediterranean. The Jordan, well called
“the Descender,” descends eleven feet every mile. Its sinuosity is
less in its upper course. Besides the Jabbok it receives the Hieromax
(_Yarmuk_) below Gennesareth. From Jerusalem to Jordan is only a
distance of twenty miles; in that distance the descent is 3,500 feet,
one of the greatest chasms in the earth; Jerusalem is 2,581 feet above
the Mediterranean.
Bitumen wells are not far from the Hasbeya in the north. Hot springs
abound about Tiberias; and other tokens of volcanic action, tufa, etc.,
occur near the Yarmuk’s mouth and elsewhere. Only on the east border
of Lake Huleh, the land is now well cultivated, and yields largely
wheat, maize, rice, etc. Horses, cattle, and sheep, and black buffaloes
(the “bulls of Bashan”) pasture around. West of Gennesareth are seen
corn, palms, vines, figs, melons, and pomegranates. Cultivation is rare
along the lower Jordan, but pink oleanders, arbutus, rose hollyhocks,
the purple thistle, marigold, and anemone abound. Tracks of tigers
and wild boars, flocks of wild ducks, cranes, and pigeons have been
seen by various explorers. There are no bridges earlier than the
Roman. The Saracens added or restored some. The Roman bridge of ten
arches, was on the route from Tiberias to Gadara. In coincidence with
Scripture, the American survey sets down three fords: that at Tarichæa,
the second at the Jabbok’s confluence with the Jordan, and that at
Jericho. The Jordan seldom now overflows its banks; but Lieutenant
Lynch noticed sedge and driftwood high up in the overhanging trees on
the banks, showing it still at times overflows the plains. The flood
never reaches beyond the lower line of the Ghor, which is covered with
vegetation. The plain of the Jordan between the Sea of Galilee and the
Dead Sea is generally eight miles broad, but at the north end of the
Dead Sea the hills recede so that the width is twelve miles, of which
the west part is named “the plains of Jericho.” The upper terrace
immediately under the hills is covered with vegetation; under that is
the Arabah or desert plain, barren in its southern part except where
springs fertilize it, but fertile in its northern part and cultivated
by irrigation. Grove remarks of the Jordan: “So rapid that its course
is one continued cataract, so crooked that in its whole lower and
main course it has hardly a half mile straight, so broken with rapids
that no boat can swim any distance continuously, so deep below the
adjacent country that it is invisible and can only be with difficulty
approached; refusing all communication with the ocean, and ending in
a lake where navigation is impossible, unless for irrigation, it is
in fact what its Arabic name signifies, nothing but a ‘great watering
place,’ _Sheriat el Khebir_.”
THE CONCORD
HENRY D. THOREAU
The Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though probably as old as the
Nile or Euphrates, did not begin to have a place in civilized history,
until the fame of its grassy meadows and its fish attracted settlers
out of England in 1635, when it received the other but kindred name
of Concord from the first plantation on its banks, which appears to
have been commenced in a spirit of peace and harmony. It will be
Grass-ground River as long as grass grows and water runs here; it will
be Concord River only while men lead peaceable lives on its banks. To
an extinct race it was grass-ground, where they hunted and fished,
and is still perennial grass-ground to Concord farmers, who own the
great meadows, and get the hay from year to year. “One branch of it,”
according to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote so good
authority, “rises in the south part of Hopkinton, and another from
a pond and a large cedar-swamp in Westborough,” and flowing between
Hopkinton and Southborough, through Framingham, and between Sudbury
and Wayland, where it is sometimes called Sudbury River, it enters
Concord at the south part of the town, and after receiving the North
or Assabeth River, which has its source a little farther to the north
and west, goes out at the north-east angle, and flowing between Bedford
and Carlisle, and through Billerica, empties into the Merrimack at
Lowell. Between Sudbury and Wayland the meadows acquire their greatest
breadth, and when covered with water, they form a handsome chain of
shallow vernal lakes, resorted to by numerous gulls and ducks. Just
above Sherman’s Bridge, between these towns, is the largest expanse,
and when the wind blows freshly in a raw March day, heaving up the
surface into dark and sober billows or regular swells, skirted as it is
in the distance with alder-swamps and smoke-like maples, it looks like
a smaller Lake Huron, and is very pleasant and exciting for a landsman
to row or sail over. The farmhouses along the Sudbury shore, which
rises gently to a considerable height, command fine water prospects at
this season. The shore is more flat on the Wayland side and this town
is the greatest loser by the flood. Its farmers tell me that thousands
of acres are flooded now, since the dams have been erected, where they
remember to have seen the white honeysuckle or clover growing once, and
they could go dry with shoes only in summer. Now there is nothing but
blue-joint and sedge and cut-grass there, standing in water all the
year round. For a long time, they made the most of the driest season to
get their hay, working sometimes till nine o’clock at night, sedulously
paring with their scythes in the twilight round the hummocks left by
the ice; but now it is not worth the getting when they can come at
it and they look sadly round to their wood-lots and upland as a last
resource.
[Illustration: THE CONCORD]
It is worth the while to make a voyage up this stream, if you go no
farther than Sudbury, only to see how much country there is in the rear
of us; great hills, and a hundred brooks, and farmhouses, and barns,
and haystacks, you never saw before, and men everywhere. Sudbury,
that is _Southborough_ men, and Wayland, and Nine-Acre-Corner men,
and Bound Rock, where four towns bound on a rock in the river,
Lincoln, Wayland, Sudbury, Concord. Many waves are there agitated by
the wind, keeping nature fresh, the spray blowing in your face, reeds
and rushes waving; ducks by the hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in
the raw wind, just ready to rise, and now going off with a clatter
and a whistling like riggers straight from Labrador, flying against
the stiff gale with reefed wings, or else circling round first, with
all their paddles briskly moving, just over the surf, to reconnoitre
you before they leave these parts; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats
swimming for dear life, wet and cold, with no fire to warm them by that
you know of; their laboured homes rising here and there like haystacks;
and countless mice and moles and winged titmice along the sunny, windy
shore; cranberries tossed on the waves and heaving up on the beach,
their little red skiffs beating about among the alders;--such natural
tumult as proves the last day is not yet at hand. And there stands all
around the alders, and birches, and oaks, and maples, full of glee and
sap, holding in their buds, until the waters subside. You shall perhaps
run aground on Cranberry Island, only some spires of last year’s
pipe-grass above water, to show where the danger is, and get as good
a freezing there as anywhere on the North-west Coast. I never voyaged
so far in all my life. You shall see men you never heard of before,
whose names you don’t know, going away down through the meadows with
long ducking-guns, with watertight boots wading through the fowl-meadow
grass, on bleak, wintry, distant shores, with guns at half-cock, and
they shall see teal, blue-winged, green-winged, shelldrakes, whistlers,
black ducks, ospreys, and many other wild and noble sights before
night, such as they who sit in parlours never dream of. You shall see
rude and sturdy, experienced men, keeping their castles, or teaming up
their summer’s wood, or chopping alone in the woods, men fuller of talk
and rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a chestnut is of
meat; who were out not only in ’75 and 1812, but have been out every
day of their lives; greater men than Homer, or Chaucer, or Shakespeare,
only they never got time to say so; they never took to the way of
writing. Look at their fields, and imagine what they might write, if
ever they should put pen to paper. Or what have they not written on
the face of the earth already, clearing, and burning, and scratching,
and harrowing, and ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in, and out and
out, and over and over, again and again, erasing what they had already
written for want of parchment.
As yesterday and the historical ages are past, as the work of to-day
is present, so some flitting perspectives, and demi-experiences of the
life that is in nature are in time veritably future, or rather outside
to time, perennial, young, divine, in the wind and rain which never die.
The respectable folks,--
Where dwell they?
They whisper in the oaks,
And they sigh in the hay;
Summer and winter, night and day,
Out on the meadow, there dwell they.
They never die,
Nor snivel, nor cry,
Nor ask our pity
With a wet eye.
A sound estate they never mend,
To every asker readily lend;
To the ocean wealth,
To the meadow health,
To Time his length,
To the rocks strength,
To the stars light,
To the weary night,
To the busy day,
To the idle play;
And so their good cheer never ends,
For all are their debtors, and all their friends.
Concord River is remarkable for the gentleness of its current, which
is scarcely perceptible, and some have referred to its influence the
proverbial moderation of the inhabitants of Concord, as exhibited in
the Revolution, and on later occasions. It has been proposed, that
the town should adopt for its coat of arms a field verdant, with the
Concord circling nine times around. I have read that a descent of an
eighth of an inch in a mile is sufficient to produce a flow. Our river
has, probably, very near the smallest allowance. The story is current,
at any rate, though I believe that strict history will bear it out,
that the only bridge ever carried away on the main branch, within the
limits of the town, was driven up stream by the wind. But wherever
it makes a sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its
title to be called a river. Compared with the other tributaries of
the Merrimack, it appears to have been properly named Musketaquid, or
Meadow River, by the Indians. For the most part, it creeps through
broad meadows, adorned with scattered oaks, where the cranberry is
found in abundance, covering the ground like a moss-bed. A row of
sunken dwarf willows borders the stream on one or both sides, while
at a greater distance the meadow is skirted with maples, alders, and
other fluviatile trees, overrun with the grape-vine, which bears fruit
in its season, purple, red, white, and other grapes. Still farther from
the stream, on the edge of the firm land, are seen the gray and white
dwellings of the inhabitants.
The sluggish artery of the Concord meadows steals thus unobserved
through the town, without a murmur or a pulse beat, its general course
from south-west to north-east, and its length about fifty miles; a
huge volume of matter, ceaselessly rolling through the plains and
valleys of the substantial earth with the moccasined tread of an Indian
Warrior, making haste from the high places of the earth to its ancient
reservoir. The murmurs of many a famous river on the other side of the
globe reach even to us here, as to more distant dwellers on its banks;
many a poet’s stream floating the helms and shields of heroes on its
bosom. The Xanthus or Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a
mountain torrent, but fed by the overflowing springs of fame;--
“And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere
Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea”;--
and I trust that I may be allowed to associate our muddy but much
abused Concord River with the most famous in history.
“Sure there are poets which did never dream
Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose
Those made not poets, but the poets those.”
The Mississippi, the Ganges and the Nile, those journeying atoms from
the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a
kind of personal importance in the annals of the world. The heavens
are not yet drained over their sources, but the Mountains of the Moon
still send their annual tribute to the Pasha without fail, as they did
to the Pharaohs, though he must collect the rest of his revenue at the
point of the sword. Rivers must have been the guides which conducted
the footsteps of the first travellers. They are the constant lure, when
they flow by our doors, to distant enterprise and adventure, and, by a
natural impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at length accompany
their currents to the lowlands of the globe, or explore at their
invitation the interior of continents. They are the natural highways
of all nations, not only levelling the ground and removing obstacles
from the path of the traveller, quenching his thirst and bearing him on
their bosoms, but conducting him through the most interesting scenery,
the most populous portions of the globe, and where the animal and
vegetable kingdoms attain their greatest perfection.
I had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watching the lapse of
the current, an emblem of all progress, following the same law with the
system, with time, and all that is made; the weeds at the bottom gently
bending down the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still planted where
their seeds had sunk, but erelong to die and go down likewise; the
shining pebbles, not yet anxious to better their condition, the chips
and weeds, and occasional logs and stems of trees that floated past,
fulfilling their fate, were objects of singular interest to me, and
at last I resolved to launch myself on its bosom and float whither it
would bear me.
THE TAGUS
ARTHUR SHADWELL MARTIN
The Tagus rises in that maze of mountains between Cuenca and Tereul
on the frontier of New Castile and Aragon. It is the largest river of
the Iberian peninsula, having a length of 566 miles. It is of little
commercial advantage, however, as a means of traffic and communication,
because in Spain its shallows, rapids and cataracts render it
unnavigable through much of its course; and only from Villavelha,
eighteen miles within the Portuguese frontier does it become navigable
for the remaining 115 miles to its mouth. It flows from its source
first north-westwards for about thirty miles to its junction with the
Gallo, where it turns to the south-west to Toledo, whence it flows
westwards to the frontier of Portugal at Abrantes. There it again
curves south-westwards and falls into the Atlantic ten miles below
Lisbon.
[Illustration: THE TAGUS]
The waves of the Tagus, according to ancient historians, rolled with
gold; it is even said that the sceptre of the kings of Portugal is
made of the gold dust found in the deposit of this river. However, the
Tagus is not now endowed with this auriferous virtue; and its banks
in nowise deserve the brilliant descriptions indulged in by ancient
and modern poets. They are generally escarpments and rocky gorges. The
traveller, who follows the course of the stream through a country often
bare, arid and uncultivated, or burnt up by the sultry rays of the sun,
sees little but an impetuous water course, narrow and impeded with
dangerous rocks, forming dangerous cataracts and rapids. The rocky
cliffs that hem it in have little vegetation beyond a few evergreen
oaks; and with a few rare exceptions, notably the valleys of Aranjuez
and Talavera, which have been embellished with human art and culture
there are few parts of Spain so poor and savage in character. In
winter, the Tagus has a considerable rise, and covers the few plains to
be found along its banks; but in summer, like most of the other Spanish
rivers it dwindles to almost nothing; so that even below Santarem, from
Alcantara to the confluence of the Zezere, navigation is interrupted by
numerous cataracts.
“Of the various phases of its most poetical and picturesque
course--first green and arrowy amid the yellow cornfields of New
Castile; then freshening the sweet Tempe of Aranjuez, clothing the
garden with verdure, and filling the nightingale-tenanted glens
with groves; then boiling and rushing around the granite ravines of
rock-built Toledo, hurrying to escape from the cold shadows of its deep
prison, and dashing joyously into light and liberty, to wander far away
into silent plains and on to Talavera, where its waters were dyed with
brave blood, and gladly reflected the flash of the victorious bayonets
of England,--triumphantly it rolls thence, under the shattered arches
of Almaraz, down to desolate Estremadura, in a stream as tranquil as
the azure sky by which it is curtained, yet powerful enough to force
the mountains of Alcantara. There the bridge of Trajan is worth going
a hundred miles to see; it stems the now fierce condensed stream, and
ties the rocky gorges together; grand, simple, and solid, tinted by the
tender colours of seventeen centuries, it looms like the grey skeleton
of Roman power, with all the sentiment of loneliness, magnitude, and
the interest of the past and present.
“How stern, solemn, and striking is this Tagus of Spain! No commerce
has ever made it its highway--no English steamer has ever civilized
its waters like those of France and Germany. Its rocks have witnessed
battles, not peace; have reflected castles and dungeons, not quays or
warehouses: few cities have risen on its banks, as on those of the
Thames and Rhine; it is truly a river of Spain--that isolated and
solitary land. Its waters are without boats, its banks without life;
man has never laid his hand upon its billows, nor enslaved their free
and independent gambols.”
Travellers and tourists never take in the river as a whole, but content
themselves with keeping to the railroad, and visiting the more famous
towns on the banks,--such as Toledo, Talavera, Aranjuez, Abrantes and
Lisbon.
At Toledo, the Tagus ages ago forced its way through a romantic, rocky
pass, 2,400 feet above the level of the sea. The walls of the gorge
are 200 feet high. This ancient city stands on the north bank of
the river which washes its walls on three sides and forms the great
protection of the stronghold. Rushing around it, on the east, south and
west, between rocky cliffs, it leaves only one approach on the land
side, which is defended by an inner and an outer wall. Its magnificent
cathedral still repays a visit notwithstanding the vandalism of its
foes. The river, after passing Toledo, runs through a deep and long
valley, walled up on either hand by lofty mountains. Those on the right
bank are always capped with snow, and ranging nearly parallel with the
course of the stream, divide the valley of the Tagus from Old Castile
and the Salamanca country; the highest parts are known by the names
of the Sierra de Gredos, Sierra de Bejar, and Sierra de Gata. In these
sierras the Alberche, the Tietar, and the Alagon, take their rise, and,
ploughing the valley in a slanting direction, fall into the Tagus.
Talavera de la Reyna is a delapidated ancient town surrounded with
interesting old walls, and abounding in antique picturesque fragments.
It is situated on the Tagus, seventy-five miles south-west of Madrid,
in the centre of a fruit-growing district. It is famous for the great
battle fought there in 1809 in which the French suffered a great defeat
by Wellington.
Aranjuez is on the left bank of the river, twenty-eight miles
south-west of Madrid, in a beautifully wooded valley. Here, for once,
the stream runs smoothly between smiling banks.
Abrantes is finely situated on the river seventy miles above Lisbon.
Its surrounding hills are covered with vineyards and olive groves;
it is strongly fortified, and was an important position during the
Peninsula war. Marshal Junot took this city as the title of his Dukedom.
Lisbon is built partly on the right bank of the Tagus and partly on
hills behind. It extends for five miles along the estuary, which here
forms a safe and spacious harbour.
The principal affluents of this neglected river are the Jarama,
Guaddarama, Alberche, Alagon and Zezere from the north, and the
Guadiela and Rio del Monte from the south.
THE INDUS
EDWARD BALFOUR
The source of the Indus is in latitude 31° 20′ north, and longitude 80°
30′ east, at an estimated height of 17,000 feet, to the north-west of
Lakes Manasarowara and Rawan H’rad in the southern slopes of the Gangri
or Kailas Mountains, a short way to the eastwards of Gartop (Garo).
The Garo river is the Sing-ge-chu or Indus. From the lofty mountains
round Lake Manasarowara, spring the Indus, the Sutlej, the Gogra, and
the Brahmaputra. A few miles from Leh, about a mile above Nimo, the
Indus is joined by the Zanskar river. The valley where the two rivers
unite is very rocky and precipitous, and bends a long way to the south.
From this point the course of the Indus, in front of Leh and to the
south-east for many miles, runs through a wide valley, but the range
of the mountains to the north sends down many rugged spurs. A little
lower, the Indus is a tranquil but somewhat rapid stream, divided into
several branches by gravelly islands, generally swampy, and covered
with low Hippophae scrub. The size of the river there is very much less
than below the junction of the river of Zanskar. The bed of the Indus
at Pitak, below Leh, has an elevation of about 10,500 feet above the
level of the sea, but the town is at least 1,300 feet higher. From the
sudden melting of accumulations of ice, and from temporary obstacles,
occasioned by glaciers and avalanches in its upper course, this river
is subject to irregularities, and especially to debacles or cataclysms,
one of which, in June, 1841, produced terrific devastation along its
course, down even to Attock.
At the confluence of Sinh-ka-bab with the Shayok, the principal river
which joins it on the north from the Kara-Korum Mountains, the river
takes the name of Aba-Sin, Father of Rivers, or Indus proper, and flows
then between lofty rocks, which confine its furious waters, receiving
the tribute of various streams; and at Acho, expanding into a broader
surface, it reaches Derbend, the north-west angle of the Panjab, where
(about 815 miles from its source) it is 100 yards wide in August, its
fullest season. From Derbend it traverses a plain, in a broad channel
of no great depth in Attock, in latitude 33° 54′ north, longitude 72°
18′ east, having about 200 yards above this place received the river of
Kabul, almost equal in breadth and volume, and attains a width of 286
yards, with a rapid boiling current, running (in August) at the rate of
six miles an hour. The breadth of the Indus at Attock depends not only
upon the season but the state of the river upwards, and varies from
100 to 260 yards. The whole length of its mountain course, from its
source to Attock, is about 1,035 miles, and the whole fall is 16,000
feet, or 15.4 per mile. From Attock to the sea the length is 942 miles,
making its whole length, from the Kailas Mountains to the Indian Ocean,
1,977 miles. Its maximum discharge, above the confluence of the Panjab
or Five Rivers, occurs in July and August, when it is swollen by the
seasonal rains, and it then reaches 135,000 cubic feet, falling to its
minimum of 15,000 in December.
In the Tibetan of Ladakh it is commonly designated Tsang-po, or the
river, and is the Lampo-ho of the Chinese Pilgrim, Hiwen Thsang, who
travelled in the middle of the Seventh Century.
Below the junction of the Panjab rivers down to Schwan, the Indus takes
the name of Sar, Siro, or Sira; from below Hyderabad to the sea it
is called Lar, and the intermediate portion is called Wicholo (Bich,
Hindi), or Central, representing the district lying immediately around
Hyderabad, just as, on the Nile, the Wustani, or Midlands of the Arabs,
represents the tract between Upper and Lower Egypt. Sir A. Burnes
mentions that Sar and Lar are two Baluch words for north and south. The
Indus or Sind has been called by that name from time immemorial to the
present day, by the races on its banks. The ancients knew that this was
the native appellation. Pliny (lib. 6, vi), says, “Indus incolis Sindus
appellatus.” The Chinese call the river Sin-tow.
From Attock the course of the Indus to the sea, 940 miles, is south
and south-west, sometimes along a rocky channel, between high and
perpendicular cliffs, or forcing its way, tumbling and roaring, amidst
huge boulders, the immense body of water being pent within a narrow
channel, causing occasional whirlpools, dangerous to navigation, to
Kalabagh, in latitude 32° 57′ north, longitude 71° 36′ east, situated
in a gorge of the great Salt Range, through which the river rushes
forth into the plain. In this part of its course it has acquired the
name of Nil-ab, or Blue Water, from the colour imparted to it by the
blue limestone hills through which it flows. There are some remains of
a town on the bank of the river, named Nil-ab (where Timur crossed the
Indus) supposed to be the Naulibus or Naulibe of Ptolemy. At Kalabagh
the Indus enters a level country, having for a short time the Khursuri
Hills, which rise abruptly on the right. It now becomes muddy, and as
far as Mittunkote, about 350 miles, the banks being low, the river,
when it rises, inundates the country sometimes as far as the eye can
reach. Hence the channels are continually changing, and the soil of
the country being soft--a mud basin, as Lieutenant Wood terms it,--the
banks and bed of the river are undergoing constant alterations. These
variations, added to the shoals, and the terrific blasts occasionally
encountered in this part of the river, are great impediments to
navigation. The population on its banks are almost amphibious; they
launch upon its surface, sustained by the inflated skins or mussaks,
dried gourds, and empty jars used for catching the celebrated pulla
fish, the Hilsa of Bengal. At Mittunkote the Indus is often 2,000
yards broad, and near this place, in latitude 28° 55′ north, longitude
70° 28′ east, it is joined, without violence, by the Panjnad, a large
navigable stream, the collected waters of the Sutlej, Beas, Ravi,
Chenab, and Jhelum. Its true channel, then a mile and a quarter wide,
flows thence through Sind, sometimes severed into distinct streams, and
discharges its different branches by various mouths into the Indian
Ocean, after a course of 1,977 miles. The Indus, when joined by the
Panjnad, never shallows, in the dry season, to less than fifteen feet,
and seldom preserves so great a breadth as half a mile. Keeled boats
are not suited to its navigation, as they are liable to be upset. The
Zoruk, or native boat, is flat-bottomed. Other boats are the Dundi,
Dund, Kotal, and Jumpti. Gold is found in some parts of the sands of
the Indus.
The shore of its delta, about 125 miles in extent, is low and flat,
and at high tide, to a considerable distance inland, overflowed; and
generally a succession of dreary, bare swamps.
In the mouths of the Indus, the tides rise about nine feet at full
moon, and flow and ebb with great violence, particularly near the sea,
when they flood and abandon the banks with incredible velocity. At
seventy-five miles from the ocean they cease to be perceptible.
Between the Seer and Kori mouths, at the south-east of the delta, it is
overspread with low mangrove jungle, running far into the sea, and from
the Seer is a bare, uninhabited marsh. The main stream of the Indus has
discharged its waters at many points between Cape Monze, immediately
west of Kurachee and gulf of Cutch, if not even that of Cambay. Pitti,
Hajamri, and Kediwari, now sea-channels and tidal creeks, shut off from
the river, except during the monsoon, are all former mouths of the
Indus. The Buggaur or Gharra is still a considerable stream during the
inundation; it takes off from the Indus close to Tatta.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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