minutes to take a last look at the bowers of fairy blossoms. After
reaching Washington’s Hall we noticed that the air was no longer still,
but was flowing fresh and cool in our faces. Stephen observed it also,
and said: “There has been a heavy rain outside.” Entering the pass of
El Ghor again at Martha’s Vineyard, we walked rapidly forward, without
making a halt, to its termination at Silliman’s Avenue. The distance
is reckoned by the guides at a little more than a mile and a half,
and we were just forty minutes in walking it. We several times felt
fatigue, especially when passing the rougher parts of the cave, but
the sensation always passed away in some unaccountable manner, leaving
us fresh and buoyant. The crossing of the rivers was accomplished with
some labour, but without accident. I accompanied Stephen on his return
through the second arch of Echo River. As I sat alone in the silent,
transparent darkness of the mysterious stream, I could hear the tones
of my boatman’s voice gliding down the caverns like a wave, flowing
more and more faintly until its vibrations were too weak to move the
ear. Thus, as he sang, there were frequently three or four notes, each
distinctly audible, floating away at different degrees of remoteness.
At the last arch there was only a space of eighteen inches between the
water and the rock. We lay down on our backs in the muddy bottom of the
boat, and squeezed through to the middle branch of Echo River, where
we found the rest of the party, who had gone round through Purgatory.
After again threading Fat Man’s Misery, passing the Bottomless Pit and
the Deserted Chambers, we at last emerged into the Main Avenue at the
Giant’s Coffin. It was six o’clock, and we had been ten hours in the
cave.
When we heard the tinkling drops of the little cascade over the
entrance, I looked up and saw a patch of deep, tender blue set in the
darkness. In the midst of it twinkled a white star--whiter and more
dazzling than any star I ever saw before. I paused and drank at the
trough under the waterfall, for, like the Fountain of Trevi at Rome, it
may be that those who drink there shall return again. When we ascended
to the level of the upper world we found that a fierce tornado had
passed along during the day; trees had been torn up by the roots and
hurled down in all directions; stunning thunders had jarred the air,
and the wet earth was fairly paved with leaves cut off by the heavy
hail--yet we, buried in the heart of the hills, had heard no sound, nor
felt the slightest tremour in the air.
The stars were all in their places as I walked back to the hotel. I had
been twelve hours under ground, in which I had walked about twenty-four
miles. I had lost a day--a day with its joyous morning, its fervid
noon, its tempest, and its angry sunset of crimson and gold; but I
had gained an age in a strange and hitherto unknown world--an age of
wonderful experience, and an exhaustless store of sublime and lovely
memories.
_At Home and Abroad_ (New York, 1864).
STROMBOLI
(_SICILY_)
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
As we advanced, Stromboli became more and more distinct every moment,
and through the clear evening air we could perceive every detail; this
mountain is formed exactly like a hay-mow, its summit being surmounted
by a peak; it is from this summit that the smoke escapes, and, at
intervals of a quarter of an hour, a flame; during the daytime this
flame does not apparently exist, being lost in the light of the sun;
but when evening comes, and the Orient begins to darken, this flame
becomes visible and you can see it dart forth from the midst of the
smoke which it colours, and fall again in jets of lava.
Towards seven o’clock we reached Stromboli; unfortunately the port is
in the east, and we came from the west; so that we had to coast along
the whole length of the island where the lava descended down a sharp
slope into the sea. For a breadth of twenty paces at its summit and a
hundred and fifty at its base, the mountain at this point is covered
with cinders and all vegetation is burned.
The captain was correct in his predictions: we arrived half an hour
after the port had been closed; all we could say to make them open to
us was lost eloquence.
However, the entire population of Stromboli had run to the shore. Our
_Speronare_ was a frequent visitor to this harbour and our sailors were
well known in the island.... It was in Stromboli that Æolus held bound
the _luctantes ventos tempestatesque sonoras_. Without doubt, at the
time of the song of Æneas, and when Stromboli was called Strongyle,
the island was not known for what it really is, and hid within its
depths the boiling masses and periodical ejaculations which make this
volcano the most obliging one in the world. In sooth, you know what
to expect from Stromboli: it is not like Vesuvius or Etna, which make
the traveller wait sometimes three, five or even ten years for a poor
little eruption. I have been told that this is doubtless owing to the
position they hold in the hierarchy of fire-vomiting mountains, a
hierarchy that permits them to be aristocratic at their own pleasure:
this is true enough; and we must not take it amiss if Stromboli allows
her social position to be assailed an instant, and to have understood
that it is only a little toy volcano to which one would not pay the
slightest attention if it made itself so ridiculous as to put on airs.
Moreover, it did not keep us waiting. After scarcely five minutes’
expectation, a heavy rumbling was heard, a detonation resembling twenty
cannon fired in succession, and a long jet of flame leaped into the air
and fell again in a shower of lava; a part of this shower fell again
into the crater of the volcano, while the other, rolling down the slope
hurried like a brooklet of flame to extinguish itself, hissing, into
the sea. Ten minutes later the same phenomenon was repeated, and at
every succeeding ten minutes throughout the night.
I admit that this was one of the most curious nights I ever spent in my
life; neither Jadin nor I could tear ourselves away from this terrible
and magnificent spectacle. There were such detonations that the very
atmosphere seemed excited, and you imagined the whole island trembling
like a frightened child; it was only Milord that these fire-works put
into a state of exaltation impossible to describe; he wanted to jump
into the water every moment to devour the burning lava which sometimes
fell ten feet from us, like a meteor precipitating itself into the sea.
As for our boatswain, he was so accustomed to this spectacle, that,
after asking if we needed anything and upon our reply in the negative,
he retired between decks and neither the lightnings that illuminated
the air nor the thunders that shook it had power to disturb his
slumbers.
We stayed here until two o’clock; finally, overcome with fatigue and
sleep, we decided to retire to our cabin. As for Milord, nothing would
persuade him to do as we did and he stayed all night on deck, growling
and barking at the volcano.
We woke in the morning at the first movement of the _Speronare_. With
the return of daylight the mountain lost all its fantastic appearance.
We constantly heard the detonations; but the flame had become
invisible; and that burning lava stream of the night was confused in
the day with the reddish ashes over which it rolls.
Ten minutes more and we were again in port. This time we had no
difficulty in entering. Pietro and Giovanni got off with us; they
wished to accompany us on our ascent.
We entered, not an inn (there are none in Stromboli), but a house whose
proprietors were related to our captain. As it would not have been
prudent to have started on our way fasting, Giovanni asked permission
of our hosts to make breakfast for us while Pietro went to hunt for
guides,--a permission not only accorded to us with much grace but
our host also went out and came back in a few moments with the most
beautiful grapes and figs that he could find.
After we had finished our breakfast, Pietro arrived with two
Stromboliotes who consented, in consideration of half a piastre each,
to serve as guides. It was already nearly eight o’clock: to avoid a
climb in the greatest heat of the day, we started off immediately.
The top of Stromboli is only twelve or fifteen hundred feet above the
level of the sea; but its slope is so sharp that you cannot climb in
a direct manner, but must zigzag eternally. At first, on leaving the
village, the road was easy enough; it rose in the midst of those vines
laden with grapes that make the commerce of the island and from which
the fruit hangs in such great quantity that any one may help himself
to all he wants without asking the permission of the owner; however,
upon leaving the region of the vineyards, we found no more roads, and
we had to walk at random, looking for the best ground and the easiest
slopes. Despite all these precautions, there came a moment when we were
obliged to scramble on all fours: there was nothing to do but climb up;
but this place once passed, I vow that on turning around and seeing
it, jutting almost perpendicularly over the sea, I asked in terror how
we could ever descend; our guides then said that we would come down
by another road: that pacified me a little. Those who like myself are
unhappy enough to have vertigo when they see a chasm below their feet
will understand my question and still more the importance I attached to
it.
This break-neck spot passed, the ascent became easier for a quarter
of an hour; but soon we came to a place which at the first glance
seemed impassable; it was a perfectly sharp-pointed angle that formed
the opening of the first volcano, and part of which was cut out
perpendicularly upon the crater while the other fell with so sharp a
slope to the sea that it seemed to me if I should fall perpendicularly
on the other side I could not help rolling from top to bottom. Even
Jadin, who ordinarily climbs like a chamois without ever troubling
about the difficulties of the ground, stopped short when we came to
this passage, asking if there was not some way to avoid it. As you may
imagine, this was impossible.
The crater of Stromboli is formed like a vast funnel, from the bottom
and the centre of which is an opening through which a man can enter a
little way, and which communicates with the internal furnace of the
mountain; it is through this opening, resembling the mouth of a canon,
that the shower of projectiles darts forth, which, falling again
into the crater, sweeps with it down the inclined slope of stones the
cinders and lava that, rolling to the bottom, block up that funnel.
Then the volcano seems to gather its forces together for several
minutes, compressed as it is by the stoppage of its valve; but after a
moment its smoke trembles like a breath; you hear a deep roaring run
through the hollow sides of the mountain; then the cannonade bursts
forth again, throwing up two hundred feet above the summit new stones
and new lava, which, falling back and closing the orifice of the
passage anew, prepare for a new outburst.
Seen from where we were, that is from top to bottom, this spectacle was
superb and terrifying; at each internal convulsion that the mountain
essayed, you felt it tremble beneath you, and it seemed as if it would
burst asunder; then came the explosion, similar to a gigantic tree of
flame and smoke that shook its leaves of lava.
Finally, we reached the extremity of this new lake of Sodom, and we
found ourselves in an oasis of vines, pomegranates and olives. We had
not the courage to go any farther. We lay down in the grass, and our
guides brought us an armful of grapes and a hatful of figs.
It was marvellous to us; but there was not the smallest drop of water
for our poor Milord to drink, and we perceived him devouring the skin
of the figs and grapes. We gave him part of our repast, and for the
first, and probably for the last, time in his life he dined off figs
and grapes.
I have often a desire to put myself in the place of Milord and write
his memoirs as Hoffmann wrote those of his cat, Murr. I am convinced
that he must have had, seen from the canine point of view, (I beg the
Académie’s pardon for the expression) extremely new impressions of the
people and countries that he has visited.
A quarter of an hour after this halt we were in the village, writing
upon our tablets this judicious observation--that the volcanoes follow
but do not resemble each other: we were nearly frozen when ascending
Etna, and we were nearly roasted when descending Stromboli.
Jadin and I each extended a hand towards the mountain and swore
that notwithstanding Vesuvius, Stromboli was the last volcano whose
acquaintance we would make.
_Le Capitaine Aréna: Impressions de Voyage_ (Paris, 1836).
THE HIGH WOODS
(_SOUTH AMERICA_)
CHARLES KINGSLEY
In the primeval forest, looking upon that which my teachers and
masters, Humboldt, Spix, Martius, Schomburgk, Waterton, Bates, Wallace,
Gosse, and the rest, had looked already, with far wiser eyes than mine,
comprehending somewhat at least of its wonders, while I could only
stare in ignorance. There was actually, then, such a sight to be seen
on earth; and it was not less, but far more wonderful than they had
said.
My first feeling on entering the high woods was helplessness,
confusion, awe, all but terror. One is afraid at first to venture in
fifty yards. Without a compass or the landmark of some opening to or
from which he can look, a man must be lost in the first ten minutes,
such a sameness is there in the infinite variety. That sameness and
variety make it impossible to give any general sketch of a forest.
Once inside, “you cannot see the woods for the trees.” You can only
wander on as far as you dare, letting each object impress itself on
your mind as it may, and carrying away a confused recollection of
innumerable perpendicular lines, all straining upwards, in fierce
competition, towards the light-food far above; and next on a green
cloud, or rather mist, which hovers round your head, and rises,
thickening and thickening to an unknown height. The upward lines
are of every possible thickness, and of almost every possible hue;
what leaves they bear, being for most part on the tips of the twigs,
give a scattered, mist-like appearance to the under-foliage. For the
first moment, therefore, the forest seems more open than an English
wood. But try to walk through it, and ten steps undeceive you. Around
your knees are probably Mamures, with creeping stems and fan-shaped
leaves, something like those of a young cocoanut palm. You try to brush
among them, and are caught up instantly by a string or wire belonging
to some other plant. You look up and round: and then you find that
the air is full of wires--that you are hung up in a network of fine
branches belonging to half-a-dozen different sorts of young trees, and
intertwined with as many different species of slender creepers. You
thought at your first glance among the tree-stems that you were looking
through open air; you find that you are looking through a labyrinth of
wire-rigging, and must use the cutlass right and left at every five
steps. You push on into a bed of strong sedge-like Sclerias, with
cutting edges to their leaves. It is well for you if they are only
three, and not six feet high. In the midst of them you run against
a horizontal stick, triangular, rounded, smooth, green. You take a
glance along it right and left, and see no end to it either way, but
gradually discover that it is the leaf-stalk of a young Cocorite palm.
The leaf is five-and-twenty feet long, and springs from a huge ostrich
plume, which is sprawling out of the ground and up above your head a
few yards off. You cut the leaf-stalk through right and left, and walk
on, to be stopped suddenly (for you get so confused by the multitude
of objects that you never see anything till you run against it) by a
grey lichen-covered bar, as thick as your ankle. You follow it up with
your eye, and find it entwine itself with three or four other bars, and
roll over with them in great knots and festoons and loops twenty feet
high, and then go up with them into the green cloud over your head, and
vanish, as if a giant had thrown a ship’s cable into the tree-tops. One
of them, so grand that its form strikes even the Negro and the Indian,
is a Liantasse. You see that at once by the form of its cable--six or
eight inches across in one direction, and three or four in another,
furbelowed all down the middle into regular knots, and looking like a
chain cable between two flexible iron bars. At another of the loops,
about as thick as your arm, your companion, if you have a forester
with you, will spring joyfully. With a few blows of his cutlass he
will sever it as high up as he can reach, and again below, some three
feet down; and, while you are wondering at this seemingly wanton
destruction, he lifts the bar on high, throws his head back, and pours
down his thirsty throat a pint or more of pure cold water. This hidden
treasure is, strange as it may seem, the ascending sap, or rather the
ascending pure rain-water which has been taken up by the roots, and
is hurrying aloft, to be elaborated into sap, and leaf, and flower,
and fruit, and fresh tissue for the very stem up which it originally
climbed; and therefore it is that the woodman cuts the Watervine
through first at the top of the piece which he wants, and not at the
bottom; for so rapid is the ascent of the sap that if he cut the stem
below, the water would have all fled upwards before he could cut it
off above. Meanwhile, the old story of Jack and the Bean-stalk comes
into your mind. In such a forest was the old dame’s hut; and up such a
bean-stalk Jack climbed, to find a giant and a castle high above. Why
not? What may not be up there? You look up into the green cloud, and
long for a moment to be a monkey. There may be monkeys up there over
your head, burly red Howler, or tiny peevish Sapajou, peering down at
you; but you cannot peer up at them. The monkeys, and the parrots,
and the humming-birds, and the flowers, and all the beauty, are
upstairs--up above the green cloud. You are in “the empty nave of the
cathedral,” and “the service is being celebrated aloft in the blazing
roof.”
[Illustration: THE HIGH WOODS.]
We will hope that as you look up, you have not been careless enough
to walk on; for if you have you will be tripped up at once: nor to
put your hand out incautiously to rest it against a tree, or what
not, for fear of sharp thorns, ants, and wasps’ nests. If you are all
safe, your next steps, probably, as you struggle through the bush
between the tree-trunks of every possible size, will bring you face to
face with huge upright walls of seeming boards, whose rounded edges
slope upward till, as your eye follows them, you will find them enter
an enormous stem, perhaps round, like one of the Norman pillars of
Durham nave, and just as huge; perhaps fluted, like one of William of
Wykeham’s columns at Winchester. There is the stem: but where is the
tree? Above the green cloud. You struggle up to it, between two of
the broad walls, but find it not so easy to reach. Between you and
it, are a half-a-dozen tough strings which you had not noticed at
first--the eye cannot focus itself rapidly enough in this confusion
of distances--which have to be cut through ere you can pass. Some of
them are rooted in the ground, straight and tense; some of them dangle
and wave in the wind at every height. What are they? Air-roots of
wild Pines, or of Matapalos, or of Figs, or of Seguines, or of some
other parasite? Probably: but you cannot see. All you can see is, as
you put your chin close against the trunk of the tree and look up, as
if you were looking up against the side of a great ship set on end,
that some sixty or eighty feet up in the green cloud, arms as big as
English forest trees branch off; and that out of their forks a whole
green garden of vegetation has tumbled down twenty or thirty feet, and
half climbed up again. You scramble round the tree to find whence this
aërial garden has sprung: you cannot tell. The tree-trunk is smooth and
free from climbers; and that mass of verdure may belong possibly to
the very cables which you meet ascending into the green cloud twenty
or thirty yards back, or to that impenetrable tangle, a dozen yards
on, which has climbed a small tree, and then a taller one again, and
then a taller still, till it has climbed out of sight and possibly into
the lower branches of the big tree. And what are their species? What
are their families? Who knows? Not even the most experienced woodman
or botanist can tell you the names of plants of which he only sees
the stems. The leaves, the flowers, the fruit, can only be examined
by felling the tree; and not even always then, for sometimes the tree
when cut refuses to fall, linked as it is by chains of liane to all the
trees around. Even that wonderful water-vine which we cut through just
now may be one of three or even four different plants.