And now man has entered on a new conflict with nature in the gloomy fastnesses of the Alps. The barrier which he had scaled of old he has now undertaken to pierce. And the wwww—bold and daring as it seemed—is three parts finished. (See date of article.)
The Mont Cenis tunnel was sanctioned by the Sardinian Government in 1857, and arrangements were made for fixing the perforating machinery in the years 1858 and 1859. But the work was not actually commenced until November 1860. The tunnel—which will be fully seven and a half miles in length—was to be completed in twenty-five years. The entrance to the tunnel on the side of France is near the little village of Fourneau, and lies 3,946 feet above the level of the sea. The entrance on the side of Italy is in a deep-valley at Bardonèche, and lies 4,380 feet above the sea level. Thus there is a difference of level of 434 feet. But the tunnel will actually rise 445 feet above the level of the French end, attaining this height at a distance of about four miles from that extremity; in the remaining three and three-quarter miles there will be a fall of only ten feet, so that this part of the line will be practically level.
The rocks through which the excavations have been made have been for the most part very difficult to work. Those who imagine that the great mass of our mountain ranges consists of such granite as is made use of in our buildings, and is uniform in texture and hardness, greatly underrate the difficulties with which the engineers of this gigantic work have had to contend. A large part of the rock consists of a crystallised calcareous schist, much broken and contorted; and through this rock run in every direction large masses of pure quartz. It will be conceived how difficult the work has been of piercing through so diversified a substance as this. The perforating machines are calculated to work best when the resistance is uniform; and it has often happened that the unequal resistance offered to the perforators has resulted in injury to the chisels. But before the work of perforating began, enormous difficulties had to be contended with. It will be understood that, in a tunnel of such vast length, it was absolutely necessary that the perforating processes carried on from the two ends should be directed with the most perfect accuracy. It has often happened in short tunnels that a want of perfect coincidence has existed between the two halves of the work, and the tunnellers from one end have sometimes altogether failed to meet those from the other. In a short tunnel this want of coincidence is not very important, because the two interior ends of the tunnellings cannot in any case be far removed from each other. But in the case of the Mont Cenis tunnel any inaccuracy in the direction of the two tunnellings would have been fatal to the success of the work, since when the two ought to meet it might be found that they were laterally separated by two or three hundred yards. Hence it was necessary before the work began to survey the intermediate country, so as to ascertain with the most perfect accuracy the bearings of one end of the tunnel from the other. ‘It was necessary,’ says the narrative of these initial labours, ‘to prepare accurate plans and sections for the determination of the levels, to fix the axis of the tunnel, and to “set it out” on the mountain top; to erect observatories and guiding signals, solid, substantial, and true.’ When we remember the nature of the passes over the Cenis, we can conceive the difficulty of setting out a line of this sort over the Alpine range. The necessity of continually climbing over rocks, ravines, and precipices in passing from station to station involved difficulties which, great as they were, were as nothing when compared with the difficulties resulting from the bitter weather experienced on those rugged mountain heights. The tempests which sweep the Alpine passes—the ever-recurring storms of rain, sleet, and driving snow, are trying to the ordinary traveller. It will be understood, therefore, how terribly they must have interfered with the delicate processes involved in surveying. It often happened that for days together no work of any sort could be done owing to the impossibility of using levels and theodolites when exposed to the stormy weather and bitter cold of these lofty passes. At length, however, the work was completed, and that with such success that the greatest deviation from exactitude was less than a single foot for the whole length of seven and a half miles.
Equally remarkable and extensive were the labours connected with the preparatory works. New and solid roads, bridges, canals, magazines, workshops, forges, furnaces, and machinery had to be constructed; residences had to be built for the men, and offices for the engineers; in fact, at each extremity of the tunnel a complete establishment had to be formed. Those who have traversed Mont Cenis since the works began have been perplexed by the strange appearance and character of the machinery and establishments to be seen at Modane and Fourneau. The mass of pipes and tubes, tanks, reservoirs, and machinery, which would be marvellous anywhere, has a still stranger look in a wild and rugged Alpine pass.
(From the Daily News, 1869.)
TORNADOES.
The inhabitants of the earth are subjected to agencies which—beneficial doubtless in the long run, perhaps necessary to the very existence of terrestrial races—appear, at first sight, energetically destructive. Such are—in order of destructiveness—the hurricane, the earthquake, the volcano, and the thunderstorm. When we read of earthquakes such as those which overthrew Lisbon, Callao, and Riobamba, and learn that one hundred thousand persons fell victims in the great Sicilian earthquake in 1693, and probably three hundred thousand in the two earthquakes which assailed Antioch in the years 526 and 612, we are disposed to assign at once to this devastating phenomenon the foremost place among the agents of destruction. But this judgment must be reversed when we consider that earthquakes—though so fearfully and suddenly destructive both to life and property—yet occur but seldom compared with wind-storms, while the effects of a real hurricane are scarcely less destructive than those of the sharpest shocks of earthquakes. After ordinary storms, long miles of the sea-coast are strewn with the wrecks of many once gallant ships, and with the bodies of their hapless crews. In the spring of 1866 there might be seen at a single view from the heights near Plymouth twenty-two shipwrecked vessels, and this after a storm which, though severe, was but trifling compared with the hurricanes which sweep over the torrid zones, and thence—scarcely diminished in force—as far north sometimes as our own latitudes. It was in such a hurricane that the ‘Royal Charter’ was wrecked, and hundreds of stout ships with her. In the great hurricane of 1780, which commenced at Barbadoes and swept across the whole breadth of the North Atlantic, fifty sails were driven ashore at the Bermudas, two line-of-battle ships went down at sea, and upwards of twenty thousand persons lost their lives on the land. So tremendous was the force of this hurricane (Captain Maury tells us) that ‘the bark was blown from the trees, and the fruits of the earth destroyed; the very bottom and depths of the sea were uprooted—forts and castles were washed away, and their great guns carried in the air like chaff; houses were razed; ships wrecked; and the bodies of men and beasts lifted up in the air and dashed to pieces in the storm’—an account, however, which (though doubtless faithfully rendered by Maury from the authorities he consulted) must perhaps be accepted cum grano, and especially with reference to the great guns carried in the air ‘like chaff.’[12] (If so, it ‘blew great guns,’ indeed.)
In the gale of August, 1782, all the trophies of Lord Rodney’s victory, except the ‘Ardent,’ were destroyed, two British ships-of-the-line foundered at sea, numbers of merchantmen under Admiral Graves’ convoy were wrecked, and at sea alone three thousand lives were lost.
But quite recently a storm far more destructive than these swept over the Bay of Bengal. Most of my readers doubtless remember the great gale of October 1864, in which all the ships in harbour at Calcutta were swept from their anchorage, and driven one upon another in inextricable confusion. Fearful as was the loss of life and property in Calcutta harbour, the destruction on land was greater. A vast wave swept for miles over the surrounding country, embankments were destroyed, and whole villages, with their inhabitants, were swept away. Fifty thousand souls, it is believed, perished in this fearful hurricane.