The first district to which I may refer where ancient volcanic rocks are well developed is that of Devonshire. The story of the Devonian volcanoes will be told in some detail in later chapters, when it will be shown that the eruptions were again and again renewed during a long course of ages. Yet, abundant as the intercalated lavas and tuffs are, they can hardly be said to have had any marked effect on the scenery, though here and there a harder or larger mass of diabase rises into a prominent knoll or isolated hill. When the amount of volcanic material in this region is considered, we may feel some surprise at the trifling influence which it has exerted in the general denudation of the surface.
To one who wanders over the rich champaign of southern Devonshire, and surveys from some higher prominence the undulating tree-crowned ridges that slope down into orchard-filled hollows, and the green uplands that sweep in successive waves of verdure to the distant blue tors of Dartmoor, the scene appears as a type of all that is most peaceful, varied and fertile in English landscape. In the trim luxuriance that meets the eye on every side, the hand of man is apparent, though from many a point of vantage no sound may be heard for a time to show that he himself is anywhere near us. Yet ever and anon from the deep lanes, hidden out of sight under their canopy of foliage, there will come the creak of the groaning waggon and the crack of the waggoner's whip, as evidence that there are roads and human traffic through this bosky silent country.
Amid so much quiet beauty, where every feature seems to be eloquent of long generations of undisturbed repose, it must surely stir the imagination to be told that underneath these orchards, meadows and woodlands lie the mouldering remnants of once active and long-lived volcanoes. Yet we have only to descend into one of the deep lanes to find the crumbling lavas and ashes of the old eruptions. The landscape has, in truth, been carved out of these volcanic rocks, and their decomposition has furnished the rich loam that nourishes so luxuriant a vegetation.
Not less impressive is the contrast presented between the present and former condition of the broad pastoral uplands of the south of Scotland. Nowhere in the British Islands can the feeling of mere loneliness be more perfectly experienced than among these elevated tracts of bare moorland. They have nothing of the grandeur of outline peculiar to mountain tracts. Sometimes, for miles around one of their conspicuous summits, we may see no projecting knob or pinnacle. The rocks have been gently rounded off into broad featureless hills, which sink into winding valleys, each with its thread of streamlet and its farms along the bottom, and its scattered remnants of birch-wood or alder-copse along its slopes and dingles. Across miles of heathy pasture and moorland, on the summits of this great tableland, we may perchance see no sign of man or his handiwork, though the bleating of the sheep and the far-off barking of the collie tell that we are here within the quiet domain of the south-country shepherd.
In this pastoral territory, also, though they hardly affect the scenery, volcanic rocks come to the surface where the foldings of the earth's crust have brought up the oldest formations. Their appearance extends over so wide an area as to show that a large part of these uplands lies on a deeply-buried volcanic floor. A whole series of submarine volcanoes, extending over an area of many hundreds of square miles, and still in great part overlain with the accumulated sands and silts of the sea-bottom, now hardened into stone, underlies these quiet hills and lonely valleys.
A contrast of another type meets us in the broad midland valley of Scotland. Around the city of Edinburgh, for instance, the landscape is diversified by many hills and crags which show where harder rocks project from amidst the sediments of the Carboniferous system. On some of these crags the forts of the early races, the towers of Celt and Saxon, and the feudal castles of the middle ages were successively planted, and round their base clustered for protection the cots of the peasants and the earliest homesteads of the future city. Beneath these crags many of the most notable events in the stormy annals of the country were transacted. Under their shadow, and not without inspiration from their local form and colour, literature, art and science have arisen and flourished. Nowhere, in short, within the compass of the British Isles has the political and intellectual progress of the people been more plainly affected by the environment than in this central district of Scotland.
When now we inquire into the origin and history of the topography which has so influenced the population around it, we find that its prominences are relics of ancient volcanoes. The feudal towers are based on sills and dykes and necks. The fields and gardens, monuments and roadways, overlie sheets of lava or beds of volcanic ashes. Not only is every conspicuous eminence immediately around of volcanic origin, but even the ranges of blue hills that close in the distant view to south and north and east and west are mainly built up of lavas and tuffs. The eruptions of which these heights are memorials belong to a vast range of geological ages, the latest of them having passed away long before the advent of man. But they have left their traces deeply engraven in the rocky framework of the landscape. While human history, stormy or peaceful, has been slowly evolving itself during the progress of the centuries in these fertile lowlands, the crags and heights have remained as memorials of an earlier history when Central Scotland continued for many ages to be the theatre of vigorous volcanic activity.
As a final illustration of the influence of volcanic rocks in scenery, and of the contrast between their origin and their present condition, I may cite the more prominent groups of hills in the Inner Hebrides. In the singularly varied landscapes of that region three distinct types of topography attract the eye of the traveller. These are best combined and most fully developed in the island of Skye. Throughout the northern half of that picturesque island, the ground rises into a rolling tableland, deeply penetrated by arms of the sea, into which it slopes in green declivities, while along its outer borders it plunges in ranges of precipice into the Atlantic. Everywhere, alike on the cliffs and the inland slopes, long parallel lines of rock-terrace meet the eye. These mount one above another from the shores up to the flat tops of the highest hills, presenting level or gently-inclined bars of dark crag that rise above slopes of debris, green sward and bracken. It is these parallel, sharply-defined bars of rock, with their intervening strips of verdure, that give its distinctive character to the scenery of northern Skye. On hillside after hillside and in valley after valley, they reappear with the same almost artificial monotony. And far beyond the limits of Skye they are repeated in one island after another, all down the chain of the Inner Hebrides.
In striking contrast to this scenery, and abruptly bounding it on the south, rise the Red Hills of Skye—a singular group of connected cones. Alike in form and in colour, these hills stand apart from everything around them. The verdure of the northern terraced tableland here entirely disappears. The slopes are sheets of angular debris,—huge blocks of naked stone and trails of sand, amidst which hardly any vegetation finds a footing. The decay of the rock gives it a pale yellowish-grey hue, which after rain deepens into russet, so that in favourable lights these strange cones gleam with a warm glow as if they, in some special way, could catch and reflect the radiance of the sky.
Immediately to the west of these pale smooth-sloped cones, the dark mass of the Cuillin Hills completes the interruption of the northern tableland. In almost every topographical feature these hills present a contrast to the other two kinds of scenery. Their forms are more rugged than those of any other hill-group in Britain ([Fig. 331]). Every declivity among them is an irregular pile of crags, every crest is notched like a saw, every peak is sharpened into a pinnacle. Instead of being buried under vast sheets of their own debris, these hills show everywhere their naked rock, which seems to brave the elements as few other rocks can do. Unlike the pale Red Hills, they are dark, almost black in tone, though when canopied with cloud they assume a hue of deepest violet.