The Beauties of Nature, and the Wonders of the World We Live In

by Sir John Lubbock

CHAPTER IX

THE SEA

When the glorious summer weather comes, when we feel that by a year's honest work we have fairly won the prize of a good holiday, how we turn instinctively to the Sea. We pine for the delicious smell of the sea air, the murmur of the waves, the rushing sound of the pebbles on the sloping shore, the cries of the sea-birds; and long to

Linger, where the pebble-paven shore,
Under the quick, faint kisses of the Sea,
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy.[56]

How beautiful the sea-coast is! At the foot of a cliff, perhaps of pure white chalk, or rich red sandstone, or stern grey granite, lies the shore of gravel or sand, with a few scattered plants of blue Sea Holly, or yellow-flowered Horned Poppies, Sea-kale, Sea Convolvulus, Saltwort, Artemisia, and Sea-grasses; the waves roll leisurely in one by one, and as they reach the beach, each in turn rises up in an arch of clear, cool, transparent, green water, tipped with white or faintly pinkish foam, and breaks lovingly on the sands; while beyond lies the open Sea sparkling in the sunshine.

... O pleasant Sea
Earth hath not a plain
So boundless or so beautiful as thine.[57]

The Sea is indeed at times overpoweringly beautiful. At morning and evening a sheet of living silver or gold, at mid-day deep blue; even

Too deeply blue; too beautiful; too bright;
Oh, that the shadow of a cloud might rest
Somewhere upon the splendour of thy breast
In momentary gloom.[58]

There are few prettier sights than the beach at a seaside town on a fine summer's day; the waves sparkling in the sunshine, the water and sky each bluer than the other, while the sea seems as if it had nothing to do but to laugh and play with the children on the sands; the children perseveringly making castles with spades and pails, which the waves then run up to and wash away, over and over and over again, until evening comes and the children go home, when the Sea makes everything smooth and ready for the next day's play.

Many are satisfied to admire the Sea from shore, others more ambitious or more free prefer a cruise. They feel with Tennyson's voyager:

We left behind the painted buoy
That tosses at the harbour-mouth;
And madly danced our hearts with joy,
As fast we fleeted to the South:
How fresh was every sight and sound
On open main or winding shore!
We knew the merry world was round,
And we might sail for evermore.

Many appreciate both. The long roll of the Mediterranean on a fine day (and I suppose even more of the Atlantic, which I have never enjoyed), far from land in a good ship, and with kind friends, is a joy never to be forgotten.

To the Gulf Stream and the Atlantic Ocean Northern Europe owes its mild climate. The same latitudes on the other side of the Atlantic are much colder. To find the same average temperature in the United States we must go far to the south. Immediately opposite us lies Labrador, with an average temperature the same as that of Greenland; a coast almost destitute of vegetation, a country of snow and ice, whose principal wealth consists in its furs, and a scattered population, mainly composed of Indians and Esquimaux. But the Atlantic would not alone produce so great an effect. We owe our mild and genial climate mainly to the Gulf Stream—a river in the ocean, twenty million times as great as the Rhone—the greatest, and for us the most important, river in the world, which brings to our shores the sunshine of the West Indies.

The Sea is outside time. A thousand, ten thousand, or a million years ago it must have looked just as it does now, and as it will ages hence. With the land this is not so. The mountains and hills, rivers and valleys, animals and plants are continually changing: but the Sea is always the same,

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
Year after year.

Directly we see the coast, or even a ship, the case is altered. Boats may remain the same for centuries, but ships are continually being changed. The wooden walls of old England are things of the past, and the ironclads of to-day will soon be themselves improved off the face of the ocean.

The great characteristic of Lakes is peace, that of the Sea is energy, somewhat restless, perhaps, but still movement without fatigue.

The Earth lies quiet like a child asleep,
The deep heart of the Heaven is calm and still,
Must thou alone a restless vigil keep,
And with thy sobbing all the silence fill.[59]

A Lake in a storm rather gives us the impression of a beautiful Water Spirit tormented by some Evil Demon; but a storm at Sea is one of the grandest manifestations of Nature.

Yet more; the billows and the depths have more;
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast;
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave;
Give back the true and brave.[60]

The most vivid description of a storm at sea is, I think, the following passage from Ruskin's Modern Painters:

"Few people, comparatively, have ever seen the effect on the sea of a powerful gale continued without intermission for three or four days and nights; and to those who have not, I believe it must be unimaginable, not from the mere force or size of the surge, but from the complete annihilation of the limit between sea and air. The water from its prolonged agitation is beaten, not into mere creaming foam, but into masses of accumulated yeast, which hangs in ropes and wreaths from wave to wave, and, where one curls over to break, form a festoon like a drapery from its edge; these are taken up by the wind, not in dissipating dust, but bodily, in writhing, hanging, coiling masses, which make the air white and thick as with snow, only the flakes are a foot or two long each: the surges themselves are full of foam in their very bodies underneath, making them white all through, as the water is under a great cataract; and their masses, being thus half water and half air, are torn to pieces by the wind whenever they rise, and carried away in roaring smoke, which chokes and strangles like actual water. Add to this, that when the air has been exhausted of its moisture by long rain, the spray of the sea is caught by it as described above, and covers its surface not merely with the smoke of finely divided water, but with boiling mist; imagine also the low rain-clouds brought down to the very level of the sea, as I have often seen them, whirling and flying in rags and fragments from wave to wave; and finally, conceive the surges themselves in their utmost pitch of power, velocity, vastness, and madness, lifting themselves in precipices and peaks, furrowed with their whirl of ascent, through all this chaos, and you will understand that there is indeed no distinction left between the sea and air; that no object, nor horizon, nor any landmark or natural evidence of position is left; and the heaven is all spray, and the ocean all cloud, and that you can see no further in any direction than you see through a cataract."

SEA LIFE

The Sea teems with life. The Great Sea Serpent is, indeed, as much a myth as the Kraken of Pontoppidan, but other monsters, scarcely less marvellous, are actual realities. The Giant Cuttle Fish of Newfoundland, though the body is comparatively small, may measure 60 feet from the tip of one arm to that of another. The Whalebone Whale reaches a length of over 70 feet, but is timid and inoffensive. The Cachalot or Sperm Whale, which almost alone among animals roams over the whole ocean, is as large, and much more formidable. It is armed with powerful teeth, and is said to feed mainly on Cuttle Fish, but sometimes on true fishes, or even Seals. When wounded it often attacks boats, and its companions do not hesitate to come to the rescue. In one case, indeed, an American ship was actually attacked, stove in, and sunk by a gigantic male Cachalot.

The Great Roqual is still more formidable, and has been said to attain a length of 120 feet, but this is probably an exaggeration. So far as we know, the largest species of all is Simmond's Whale, which reaches a maximum of 85 to 90 feet.

In former times Whales were frequent on our coasts, so that, as Bishop Pontoppidan said, the sea sometimes appeared as if covered with smoking chimneys, but they have been gradually driven further and further north, and are still becoming rarer. As they retreated man followed, and to them we owe much of our progress in geography. Is it not, however, worth considering whether they might not also be allowed a "truce of God," whether some part of the ocean might not be allotted to them where they might be allowed to breed in peace? As a mere mercantile arrangement the maritime nations would probably find this very remunerative. The reckless slaughter of Whales, Sea Elephants, Seals, and other marine animals is a sad blot, not only on the character, but on the common sense, of man.

The monsters of the ocean require large quantities of food, but they are supplied abundantly. Scoresby mentions cases in which the sea was for miles tinged of an olive green by a species of Medusa. He calculates that in a cubic mile there must have been 23,888,000,000,000,000, and though no doubt the living mass did not reach to any great depth, still, as he sailed through water thus discoloured for many miles, the number must have been almost incalculable.

This is, moreover, no rare or exceptional case. Navigators often sail for leagues through shoals of creatures, which alter the whole colour of the sea, and actually change it, as Reclus says, into "une masse animée."

Still, though the whole ocean teems with life, both animals and plants are most abundant near the coast. Air-breathing animals, whether mammals or insects, are naturally not well adapted to live far from dry land. Even Seals, though some of them make remarkable migrations, remain habitually near the shore. Whales alone are specially modified so as to make the wide ocean their home. Of birds the greatest wanderer is the Albatross, which has such powers of flight that it is said even to sleep on the wing.

Many Pelagic animals—Jelly-fishes, Molluscs, Cuttle-fishes, Worms, Crustacea, and some true fishes—are remarkable for having become perfectly transparent; their shells, muscles, and even their blood have lost all colour, or even undergone the further modification of having become blue, often with beautiful opalescent reflections. This obviously renders them less visible, and less liable to danger.

The sea-shore, wherever a firm hold can be obtained, is covered with Sea-weeds, which fall roughly into two main divisions, olive-green and red, the latter colour having a special relation to light. These Sea-weeds afford food and shelter to innumerable animals.

The clear rocky pools left by the retiring tide are richly clothed with green sea-weeds, while against the sides are tufts of beautiful filmy red algæ, interspersed with Sea-anemones,—white, creamy, pink, yellow, purple, with a coronet of blue beads, and of many mixed colours; Sponges, Corallines, Starfish, Limpets, Barnacles, and other shell-fish; feathery Zoophytes and Annelides expand their pink or white disks, while here and there a Crab scuttles across; little Fish or Shrimps timidly come out from crevices in the rocks, or from among the fronds of the sea-weeds, or hastily dart from shelter to shelter; each little pool is, in fact, a miniature ocean in itself, and the longer one looks the more and more one will see.

The dark green and brown sea-weeds do not live beyond a few—say about 15—fathoms in depth. Below them occur delicate scarlet species, with Corallines and a different set of shells, Sea-urchins, etc. Down to about 100 fathoms the animals and plants are still numerous and varied. But they gradually diminish in numbers, and are replaced by new forms.

To appreciate fully the extreme loveliness of marine animals they must be seen alive. "A tuft of Sertularia, laden with white, or brilliantly tinted Polypites," says Hincks, "like blossoms on some tropical tree, is a perfect marvel of beauty. The unfolding of a mass of Plumularia, taken from amongst the miscellaneous contents of the dredge, and thrown into a bottle of clear sea-water, is a sight which, once seen, no dredger will forget. A tree of Campanularia, when each one of its thousand transparent calycles—itself a study of form—is crowned by a circlet of beaded arms, drooping over its margin like the petals of a flower, offers a rare combination of the elements of beauty.

"The rocky wall of some deep tidal pool, thickly studded with the long and slender stems of Tubularia, surmounted by the bright rose-coloured heads, is like the gay parterre of a garden. Equally beautiful is the dense growth of Campanularia, covering (as I have seen it in Plymouth Sound) large tracts of the rock, its delicate shoots swaying to and fro with each movement of the water, like trees in a storm, or the colony of Obelia on the waving frond of the tangle looking almost ethereal in its grace, transparency, and delicacy, as seen against the coarse dark surface that supports it."

Few things are more beautiful than to look down from a boat into transparent water. At the bottom wave graceful sea-weeds, brown, green, or rose-coloured, and of most varied forms; on them and on the sands or rocks rest starfishes, mollusca, crustaceans, Sea-anemones, and innumerable other animals of strange forms and varied colours; in the clear water float or dart about endless creatures; true fishes, many of them brilliantly coloured; Cuttle-fishes like bad dreams; Lobsters and Crabs with graceful, transparent Shrimps; Worms swimming about like living ribbons, some with thousands of coloured eyes, and Medusæ like living glass of the richest and softest hues, or glittering in the sunshine with all the colours of the rainbow.

And on calm, cool nights how often have I stood on the deck of a ship watching with wonder and awe the stars overhead, and the sea-fire below, especially in the foaming, silvery wake of the vessel, where often suddenly appear globes of soft and lambent light, given out perhaps from the surface of some large Medusa.

"A beautiful white cloud of foam," says Coleridge, "at momently intervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it; and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness."

Fish also are sometimes luminous. The Sun-fish has been seen to glow like a white-hot cannon-ball, and in one species of Shark (Squalus fulgens) the whole surface sometimes gives out a greenish lurid light which makes it a most ghastly object, like some great ravenous spectre.

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

The Land bears a rich harvest of life, but only at the surface. The Ocean, on the contrary, though more richly peopled in its upper layers, which swarm with such innumerable multitudes of living creatures that they are, so to say, almost themselves alive—teems throughout with living beings.

The deepest abysses have a fauna of their own, which makes up for the comparative scantiness of its numbers, by the peculiarity and interest of their forms and organisation. The middle waters are the home of various Fishes, Medusæ, and animalcules, while the upper layers swarm with an inexhaustible variety of living creatures.

It used to be supposed that the depths of the Ocean were destitute of animal life, but recent researches, and especially those made during our great national expedition in the "Challenger," have shown that this is not the case, but that the Ocean depths have a wonderful and peculiar life of their own. Fish have been dredged up even from a depth of 2750 fathoms.

The conditions of life in the Ocean depths are very peculiar. The light of the sun cannot penetrate beyond about two hundred fathoms; deeper than this complete darkness prevails. Hence in many species the eyes have more or less completely disappeared.

Sir Wyville Thomson mentions a kind of Crab (Ethusa granulata), which when living near the surface has well developed eyes; in deeper water, 100 to 400 fathoms, eyestalks are present, but the animal is apparently blind, the eyes themselves being absent; while in specimens from a depth of 500-700 fathoms the eyestalks themselves have lost their special character, and have become fixed, their terminations being combined into a strong, pointed beak.

In other deep sea creatures, on the contrary, the eyes gradually become more and more developed, so that while in some species the eyes gradually dwindle, in others they become unusually large.

Many of the latter species may be said to be a light to themselves, being provided with a larger or smaller number of curious luminous organs. The deep sea fish are either silvery, pink, or in many cases black, sometimes relieved with scarlet, and when the luminous organs flash out must present a very remarkable appearance.

We have still much to learn as to the structure and functions of these organs, but there are cases in which their use can be surmised with some probability. The light is evidently under the will of the fish.[61] It is easy to imagine a Photichthys (Light Fish) swimming in the black depths of the Ocean, suddenly flashing out light from its luminous organs, and thus bringing into view any prey which may be near; while, if danger is disclosed, the light is again at once extinguished. It may be observed that the largest of these organs is in this species situated just under the eye, so that the fish is actually provided with a bull's eye lantern. In other cases the light may rather serve as a defence, some having, as, for instance, in the genus Scopelus, a pair of large ones in the tail, so that "a strong ray of light shot forth from the stern-chaser may dazzle and frighten an enemy."

In other cases they appear to serve as lures. The "Sea-devil" or "Angler" of our coasts has on its head three long, very flexible, reddish filaments, while all round its head are fringed appendages, closely resembling fronds of sea-weed. The fish conceals itself at the bottom, in the sand or among sea-weed, and dangles the long filaments in front of its mouth. Little fishes, taking these filaments for worms, unsuspectingly approach, and thus fall victims.

Several species of the same family live at great depths, and have very similar habits. A mere red filament would be invisible in the dark and therefore useless. They have, however, developed a luminous organ, a living "glow-lamp," at the end of the filament, which doubtless proves a very effective lure.

In the great depths, however, fish are comparatively rare. Nor are Molluscs much more abundant. Sea-urchins, Sea Slugs, and Starfish are more numerous, and on one occasion 20,000 specimens of an Echinus were brought up at a single haul. True corals are rare, nor are Hydrozoa frequent, though a giant species, allied to the little Hydra of our ponds but upwards of 6 feet in height, has more than once been met with. Sponges are numerous, and often very beautiful. The now well known Euplectella, "Venus's Flower-basket," resembles an exquisitely delicate fabric woven in spun silk; it is in the form of a gracefully curved tube, expanding slightly upwards and ending in an elegant frill. The wall is formed of parallel bands of glassy siliceous fibres, crossed by others at right angles, so as to form a square meshed net. These sponges are anchored on the fine ooze by wisps of glassy filaments, which often attain a considerable length. Many of these beautiful organisms, moreover, glow when alive with a soft diffused light, flickering and sparkling at every touch. What would one not give to be able to wander a while in these wonderful regions!

It is curious that no plants, so far as we know, grow in the depths of the Ocean, or, indeed, as far as our present information goes, at a greater depth than about 100 fathoms.

As regards the nature of the bottom itself, it is in the neighbourhood of land mainly composed of materials, brought down by rivers or washed from the shore, coarser near the coast, and tending to become finer and finer as the distance increases and the water deepens. The bed of the Atlantic from 400 to 2000 fathoms is covered with an ooze, or very fine chalky deposit, consisting to a great extent of minute and more or less broken shells, especially those of Globigerina. At still greater depths the carbonate of lime gradually disappears, and the bottom consists of fine red clay, with numerous minute particles, some of volcanic, some of meteoric, origin, fragments of shooting stars, over 100,000,000 of which are said to strike the surface of our earth every year. How slow the process of deposition must be, may be inferred from the fact that the trawl sometimes brings up many teeth of Sharks and ear-bones of Whales (in one case no less than 600 teeth and 100 ear-bones), often semi-fossil, and which from their great density had remained intact for ages, long after all the softer parts had perished and disappeared.

The greatest depth of the Ocean appears to coincide roughly with the greatest height of the mountains. There are indeed cases recorded in which it is said that "no bottom" was found even at 39,000 feet. It is, however, by no means easy to sound at such great depths, and it is now generally considered that these earlier observations are untrustworthy. The greatest depth known in the Atlantic is 3875 fathoms—a little to the north of the Virgin Islands, but the soundings as yet made in the deeper parts of the Ocean are few in number, and it is not to be supposed that the greatest depth has yet been ascertained.

CORAL ISLANDS

In many parts of the world the geography itself has been modified by the enormous development of animal life. Most islands fall into one of three principal categories:

Firstly, Those which are in reality a part of the continent near which they lie, being connected by comparatively shallow water, and standing to the continent somewhat in the relation of planets to the sun; as, for instance, the Cape de Verde Islands to Africa, Ceylon to India, or Tasmania to Australia.

Secondly, Volcanic islands; and

Thirdly, Those which owe their origin to the growth of Coral reefs.

Fig. 49.—Whitsunday Island.

Coral islands are especially numerous in the Indian and Pacific Oceans, where there are innumerable islets, in the form of rings, or which together form rings, the rings themselves being sometimes made up of ringlets. These "atolls" contain a circular basin of yellowish green, clear, shallow water, while outside is the dark blue deep water of the Ocean. The islands themselves are quite low, with a beach of white sand rising but a few feet above the level of the water, and bear generally groups of tufted Cocoa Palms.

It used to be supposed that these were the summits of submarine volcanoes on which the coral had grown. But as the reef-making coral does not live at greater depths than about twenty-five fathoms, the immense number of these reefs formed an almost insuperable objection to this theory. The Laccadives and Maldives for instance—meaning literally the "lac of or 100,000 islands," and the "thousand islands"—are a series of such atolls, and it was impossible to imagine so great a number of craters, all so nearly of the same altitude.

In shallow tracts of sea, coral reefs no doubt tend to assume the well-known circular form, but the difficulty was to account for the numerous atolls which rise to the surface from the abysses of the ocean, while the coral-forming zoophytes can only live near the surface.

Darwin showed that so far from the ring of corals resting on a corresponding ridge of rocks, the lagoons, on the contrary, now occupy the place which was once the highest land. He pointed out that some lagoons, as for instance that of Vanikoro, contain an island in the middle; while other islands, such as Tahiti, are surrounded by a margin of smooth water separated from the ocean by a coral reef. Now if we suppose that Tahiti were to sink slowly it would gradually approximate to the condition of Vanikoro; and if Vanikoro gradually sank, the central island would disappear, while on the contrary the growth of the coral might neutralise the subsidence of the reef, so that we should have simply an atoll with its lagoon. The same considerations explain the origin of the "barrier reefs," such as that which runs for nearly a thousand miles, along the north-east coast of Australia. Thus Darwin's theory explains the form and the approximate identity of altitude of these coral islands. But it does more than this, because it shows that there are great areas in process of subsidence, which though slow, is of great importance in physical geography.

The lagoon islands have received much attention; which "is not surprising, for every one must be struck with astonishment, when he first beholds one of these vast rings of coral-rock, often many leagues in diameter, here and there surmounted by a low verdant island with dazzling white shores, bathed on the outside by the foaming breakers of the ocean, and on the inside surrounding a calm expanse of water, which, from reflection is generally of a bright but pale green colour. The naturalist will feel this astonishment more deeply after having examined the soft and almost gelatinous bodies of these apparently insignificant coral-polypifers, and when he knows that the solid reef increases only on the outer edge, which day and night is lashed by the breakers of an ocean never at rest. Well did François Pyrard de Laval, in the year 1605 exclaim, 'C'est une merveille de voir chacun de ces atollons, environné d'un grand banc de pierre tout autour, n'y ayant point d'artifice humain.'"[62]

Of the enchanting beauty of the coral beds themselves we are assured that language conveys no adequate idea. "There were corals," says Prof. Ball, "which, in their living state, are of many shades of fawn, buff, pink, and blue, while some were tipped with a magenta-like bloom. Sponges which looked as hard as stone spread over wide areas, while sprays of coralline added their graceful forms to the picture. Through the vistas so formed, golden-banded and metallic-blue fish meandered, while on the patches of sand here and there Holothurias and various mollusca and crustaceans might be seen slowly crawling."

Abercromby also gives a very graphic description of a Coral reef. "As we approached," he says, "the roaring surf on the outside, fingery lumps of beautiful live coral began to appear of the palest lavender-blue colour; and when at last we were almost within the spray, the whole floor was one mass of living branches of coral.

"But it is only when venturing as far as is prudent into the water, over the outward edge of the great sea wall, that the true character of the reef and all the beauties of the ocean can be really seen. After walking over a flat uninteresting tract of nearly bare rock, you look down and see a steep irregular wall, expanding deeper into the ocean than the eye can follow, and broken into lovely grottoes and holes and canals, through which small resplendent fish of the brightest blue or gold flit fitfully between the lumps of coral. The sides of these natural grottoes are entirely covered with endless forms of tender-coloured coral, but all beautiful, and all more or less of the fingery or branching species, known as madrepores. It is really impossible to draw or describe the sight, which must be taken with all its surroundings as adjuncts."[63]

The vegetation of these fairy lands is also very lovely; the Coral tree (Erythrina) with light green leaves and bunches of scarlet blossoms, the Cocoa-nut always beautiful, the breadfruit, the graceful tree ferns, the Barringtonia, with large pink and white flowers, several species of Convolvulus, and many others unknown to us even by name.

THE SOUTHERN SKIES

In considering these exquisite scenes, the beauty of the Southern skies must not be omitted. "From the time we entered the torrid zone," says Humboldt, "we were never wearied with admiring, every night, the beauty of the southern sky, which, as we advanced towards the south, opened new constellations to our view. We feel an indescribable sensation, when, on approaching the equator, and particularly on passing from one hemisphere to the other, we see those stars which we have contemplated from our infancy, progressively sink, and finally disappear. Nothing awakens in the traveller a livelier remembrance of the immense distance by which he is separated from his country, than the aspect of an unknown firmament. The grouping of the stars of the first magnitude, some scattered nebulæ rivalling in splendour the milky way, and tracts of space remarkable for their extreme blackness, give a particular physiognomy to the southern sky. This sight fills with admiration even those, who, uninstructed in the branches of accurate science, feel the same emotions of delight in the contemplation of the heavenly vault, as in the view of a beautiful landscape, or a majestic river. A traveller has no need of being a botanist to recognise the torrid zone on the mere aspect of its vegetation; and, without having acquired any notion of astronomy, he feels he is not in Europe, when he sees the immense constellation of the Ship, or the phosphorescent clouds of Magellan, arise on the horizon. The heaven and the earth, in the equinoctial regions, assume an exotic character."

"The sunsets in the Eastern Archipelago," says H. O. Forbes,[64] "were scenes to be remembered for a lifetime. The tall cones of Sibissie and Krakatoa rose dark purple out of an unruffled golden sea, which stretched away to the south-west, where the sun went down; over the horizon gray fleecy clouds lay in banks and streaks, above them pale blue lanes of sky, alternating with orange bands, which higher up gave place to an expanse of red stretching round the whole heavens. Gradually as the sun retreated deeper and deeper, the sky became a marvellous golden curtain, in front of which the gray clouds coiled themselves into weird forms before dissolving into space...."

THE POLES

The Arctic and Antarctic regions have always exercised a peculiar fascination over the human mind. Until now every attempt to reach the North Pole has failed, and the South has proved even more inaccessible. In the north, Parry all but reached lat. 83; in the south no one has penetrated beyond lat. 71.11. And yet, while no one can say what there may be round the North Pole, and some still imagine that open water might be found there, we can picture to ourselves the extreme South with somewhat more confidence.

Whenever ships have sailed southwards, except at a few places where land has been met with, they have come at last to a wall of ice, from fifty to four hundred feet high. In those regions it snows, if not incessantly, at least very frequently, and the snow melts but little. As far as the eye can reach nothing is to be seen but snow. Now this snow must gradually accumulate, and solidify into ice, until it attains such a slope that it will move forward as a glacier. The enormous Icebergs of the Southern Ocean, moreover, show that it does so, and that the snow of the extreme south, after condensing into ice, moves slowly outward and at length forms a wall of ice, from which Icebergs, from time to time, break away. We do not exactly know what, under such circumstances, the slope would be; but Mr. Croll points out that if we take it at only half a degree, and this seems quite a minimum, the Ice cap at the South Pole must be no less than twelve miles in thickness. It is indeed probably even more, for some of the Southern tabular icebergs attain a height of eight hundred, or even a thousand feet above water, indicating a total thickness of the ice sheet even at the edge, of over a mile.

Sir James Ross mentions that—"Whilst measuring some angles for the survey near Mount Lubbock an island suddenly appeared, which he was quite sure was not to be seen two or three hours previously. He was much astonished, but it eventually turned out to be a large iceberg, which had turned over, and so exposed a new surface covered with earth and stones."

The condition of the Arctic regions is quite different. There is much more land, and no such enormous solid cap of ice. Spitzbergen, the land of "pointed mountains," is said to be very beautiful. Lord Dufferin describes his first view of it as "a forest of thin lilac peaks, so faint, so pale, that had it not been for the gem-like distinctness of their outline one could have deemed them as unsubstantial as the spires of Fairyland."

It is, however, very desolate; scarcely any vegetation excepting a dark moss, and even this goes but a little way up the mountain side. Scoresby ascended one of the hills near Horn Sound, and describes the view as "most extensive and grand. A fine sheltered bay was seen to the east of us, an arm of the same on the north-east, and the sea, whose glassy surface was unruffled by a breeze, formed an immense expanse on the west; the glaciers, rearing their proud crests almost to the tops of mountains between which they were lodged, and defying the power of the solar beams, were scattered in various directions about the sea-coast and in the adjoining bays. Beds of snow and ice filling extensive hollows, and giving an enamelled coat to adjoining valleys, one of which, commencing at the foot of the mountain where we stood, extended in a continual line towards the north, as far as the eye could reach—mountain rising above mountain, until by distance they dwindled into insignificance, the whole contrasted by a cloudless canopy of deepest azure, and enlightened by the rays of a blazing sun, and the effect, aided by a feeling of danger, seated as we were on the pinnacle of a rock almost surrounded by tremendous precipices—all united to constitute a picture singularly sublime."

One of the glaciers of Spitzbergen is 11 miles in breadth when it reaches the sea-coast, the highest part of the precipitous front adjoining the sea being over 400 feet, and it extends far upwards towards the summit of the mountain. The surface forms an inclined plane of smooth unsullied snow, the beauty and brightness of which render it a conspicuous landmark on that inhospitable shore. From the perpendicular face great masses of ice from time to time break away,

Whose blocks of sapphire seem to mortal eye
Hewn from cærulean quarries of the sky.[65]

Field ice is comparatively flat, though it may be piled up perhaps as much as 50 feet. It is from glaciers that true icebergs, the beauty and brilliance of which Arctic travellers are never tired of describing, take their origin.

The attempts to reach the North Pole have cost many valuable lives; Willoughby and Hudson, Behring and Franklin, and many other brave mariners; but yet there are few expeditions more popular than those to "the Arctic," and we cannot but hope that it is still reserved for the British Navy after so many gallant attempts at length to reach the North Pole.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] Shelley.

[57] Campbell.

[58] Holmes.

[59] Bell.

[60] Hemans.

[61] Gunther, History of Fishes.

[62] Darwin, Coral Reefs.

[63] Abercromby, Seas and Skies in many Latitudes.

[64] A Naturalist's Wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago.

[65] Montgomery.

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