The cedar of Atlas constitutes, if not a species, at least a distinct variety from the cedar of Lebanon. The latter is now very rare on the mountain which is regarded as its native habitat. The prophet Ezekiel describes it in all its glory: “A cedar with fair branches, and with a shadowing shroud, and of a high stature ... his height was exalted above all the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, because of the multitude of waters, when he shot forth” (Ezek. xxxi. 3, 5). But those immense green forests which once stood out in dark deep shadow against the radiant sky are now reduced to a single scanty grove—a grove containing, according to Dr. Hooker, but four hundred trees, and of these four hundred only twelve of the ancient majestic race. They are situated high up on the western slope of the mountain-range, two hours south-east from Tripoli, and at an elevation above the sea-level of 6172 feet. Most of the Lebanon patriarchs are about 50 feet in height, and of nearly the same girth. One, however, measures 63 feet in circumference.
The cedar was introduced into England towards the close of the seventeenth century, and has become permanently naturalized. It is even found in a flourishing condition as far north as Inverness. It does not, however, attain such gigantic dimensions here as on the slopes of Lebanon. There is one at Goodwood, in Sussex, 25 feet in circumference; and another at Peperharrow, in Surrey, 15 feet. In the Jardin des Plantes a celebrated tree, whose terminal shoot was struck by a chance shot during the siege of the Bastile, boasts of the following proportions:-Ten feet girth at three feet from the ground, and ten feet and a half on a level with the soil. Its horizontal branches extend fully forty-five to fifty feet in length, and cover, consequently, a surface of upwards of 300 feet in circuit.
If we would now pass in review the complete series of Zones of Vegetation, it is to the north of Hindostan, in the Himalaya, or to South America and the Cordillera of the Andes, that we must transport ourselves. On the first steps, or lowest terraces, of these immense chains, we shall see the tropical Flora revealing all its wealth and its puissance; there, between 3500 and 6900 feet above the sea-level, we meet with nearly all the plants peculiar to temperate climes, and those which only belong to the northern lands. On the Himalayan slopes, the pine and the cedar flourish at an elevation of 7500 feet. Advancing from this limit, we soon encounter a great variety of Rhododendrons, a shrub now well known in our European gardens, and highly prized for its ever green foliage and rich full bloom. It thrives at the height of 12,000 feet; a few species even battle with the elements at an altitude of 15,000 feet, but they are then only stunted and crawling plants. With these are associated, at about 10,000 feet, the alder, the birch, and the willow. The plains are covered, at the same time, with a prodigious host of Ranunculaceæ, Compositæ, Saxifrages, and Pinnalaceæ, to which succeeds all the army of Lichens. Thus, then, it appears that the same laws determine always and everywhere the orographic distribution of plants. Only the influence of elevation is counterbalanced here by that of climate; whence it results that the arborescent species endure at a far greater height than on our European mountains.
In the same manner that the Himalaya “resumes,” so to speak, the Flora of all the climates of the Old World, does the Cordillera of the Andes, and, notably, that portion of the chain situated between Peru and Venezuela, present all the vegetable types of the New World, disposed upon its plateaux and its slopes as upon a gigantic flight of steps. In the lower region, the plants of Tropical America, favoured by a marshy soil, deck themselves out in their most gorgeous attire. At an elevation of between 1800 and 3500 feet, the vegetation is neither so brilliant nor so varied, but it has not yet thrown off its original character. We remark here a constant abundance of Myrtaceæ, Laurenaciæ, and Bignoniaceæ, as well as numerous epiphytous plants—Orchidaceæ, Ferns, Bromeliaceæ. From 3500 to 9000 feet we mark the successive appearance of plants belonging to the colder countries of North America: Escallionæ, Magnoliaceæ, Vacciniaceæ, and Solanaceæ. Here and there a few Bromeliaceæ and some other epiphytes display themselves. We encounter also in this zone a small number of Palmaceæ; among others, the Ceroxylon and the Diplothenium. But soon the arborescent vegetation almost wholly disappears, and only a few stunted bushes remain, similar to those which, in the Alps, succeed the larch. Then come meadows almost entirely formed of Compositæ, Umbelliferæ, and Saxifrages; and, finally, the Lichens, the last plants-the last forms of vegetable life—lingering on the frontiers of the region of eternal snow.
If the law which presides over the orographic distribution of plants were applicable to the animal kingdom, we should meet on the frozen crests of the mountains with the same species as, or, at least, with analogous species to, those we have seen in the vicinity of the Pole. But it is not so. Plants flourish wherever they can find, with an endurable climate, a soil in which their roots can develop themselves and imbibe the juices needful for their support; but the conditions which render a country inhabitable for animals—I mean the higher animals more particularly—are wholly different and more complex. A facility for removing from place to place in search of food is one of these conditions, and assuredly one of the most essential. But the number of terrestrial animals capable of climbing the scarped flanks, of traversing the narrow ridges, and leaping across the precipitous chasms of the mountains, is extremely limited. However, a few Herbivora excel in these perilous exercises. They are Ruminants of small size, with tiny limbs, and small ungulated hoofs; Moufflons, wild Goats, Chamois, Kids, which seek on inaccessible heights a refuge against the attacks of man and the Carnaria, and bound, with marvellous agility and precision, from rock to rock, from icy crag to crag, over the most formidable gulfs, and up the most precipitous steeps.
The Moufflons, or Wild Sheep, erroneously regarded by some naturalists as the ancestors of our domestic sheep, form a genus whose species are distributed in Asia, America, and Northern Africa, and in the mountainous islands of the Mediterranean. The Musmon Moufflon, which inhabits the mountains of Corsica, of Sardinia, of Cyprus, and of Candia, is nearly the size of a sheep, but far more robust. His hair, which is only wool properly so called, is a reddish-brown over nearly the whole of his body, and whitish under the belly and the legs. His horns are of great size, transversely crumpled, with a simple curve, and a sharp extremity. Among the Asiatic species the largest is the Masimon argali, which inhabits the Altaï and the mountains of Kamtschatka, and approaches the ass in size. His skin is a yellowish-brown, with some white on the fore-feet. His horns describe an almost complete circle. The American species is the Musimon montanus, which we find in the Rocky Mountains. Finally, the region of the Atlas and of the Aurès Mountains is the country of the Ruffled Moufflon (Moufflon à Manchettes), so named on account of his long hairs, which fall from his shoulders upon the extremity of his anterior legs. His neck is also supplied with a thick mane.