separated it from the Caspian, the Sea of Azov has been further
diminished in historic times, although far less than might be supposed
from the local traditions. No doubt Herodotus gives the Palus Mæotis an
equal area to that of the Euxine. But as soon as the Greeks had visited
and founded settlements on this inland sea they discovered how limited
it was compared with the open sea. Nevertheless, fifteen hundred years
ago it was certainly somewhat larger and deeper than at present, the
alluvia of the Don having gradually narrowed its basin and raised its
bed. Its outline also has been completely changed, Strabo’s description
no longer answering to the actual form of its shores.
The town of Tanaïs, founded by the Greeks, at the very mouth of the
Don, and which at the time of Ptolemy was already at some distance
from the coast, has ceased to exist. But the architectural remains and
inscriptions discovered by Leontiyev between Siniavka and the village
of Nedoigovka, show that its site was about six miles from the old
mouth of the Great Don, since changed to a dry bed. The course of the
main stream has been deflected southwards, and here is the town of
Azov, for a time the successor of Tanaïs in strategic and commercial
importance. But where the flow is most abundant, there also the
alluvium encroaches most rapidly, and the delta would increase even
at a still more accelerated rate for the fierce east and north-east
gales prevailing for a great part of the year. The sedimentary matter
brought down, in the proportion of about one to 1,200 of fluid, amounts
altogether to 230,160,000 cubic feet, causing a mean annual advance of
nearly twenty-two feet.
The Gulf of Taganrog, about eighty miles long and forming the
north-east extremity of the sea, may, on the whole, be regarded as a
simple continuation of the Don, as regards both the character of its
water and its current, and the windings of its navigable channel. This
gulf, with a mean depth of from ten to twelve and nowhere exceeding
twenty-four feet, seems to have diminished by nearly two feet since the
first charts, dating from the time of Peter the Great. But a comparison
of the soundings taken at various times is somewhat difficult, as
the exact spots where they were taken and the kind of feet employed
are somewhat doubtful, not to mention the state of the weather, and
especially the direction of the winds during the operations. Under
the influence of the winds the level of the sea may be temporarily
raised or lowered at various points as much as ten or even sixteen or
seventeen feet. The mean depth of the whole sea is about thirty-two
feet, which, for an area of 14,217 square miles, would give an
approximate volume of 13,000 billion cubic feet, or about four times
that of Lake Geneva. The bed, composed, like the surrounding steppes,
of argillaceous sands, unbroken anywhere by a single rock, is covered,
at an extremely low rate of progress, with fresh strata, in which
organic remains are mingled with the sandy detritus of the shores. If
a portion of the sedimentary matter brought down by the Don were not
carried out to the Euxine, the inner sea would be filled up in the
space of 56,500 years.
THE COLUMBIA
J. BODDAM-WHETHAM
The Mackenzie River flows through the plain, and is singularly
beautiful. Great blocks of basalt come sheer down to the water’s edge,
and are divided naturally with great exactitude into huge segments.
Their yellow and brown colours are reflected with wondrous effect on
the surface of the stream. After a few most pleasant days, passed in
the neighbourhood of Eugene City, I went on to Oregon City, and there
remained to visit the Falls of the Willamette.
The river narrows near the town, and the water, rushing very swiftly,
is precipitated down a fall of about fifty feet. The rocks on either
side are of deep black basalt; and these huge walls, when viewed from
the south, are extremely grand. It is only when they are seen from
below that the mind is fully impressed with the magnificence of these
falls. They have been worn into a horseshoe form by the action of the
stream, and the river plunges into the depths below in great curves
and sweeping currents. Masses of broken basalt show their heads amidst
the rush of foaming waters, and altogether there is a noise, mist, and
confusion enough to justify the Oregonians in their pride of their
miniature Niagara. Formerly, these falls were the only obstruction
to the free navigation of the river, but now it is overcome by the
construction of locks, which have been built in the most substantial
manner. The scenery of the river is very picturesque and diversified,
and a lovely panorama of hill and dale, water and forest is continually
passing before the view.
[Illustration: THE COLUMBIA]
Portland had lately been nearly destroyed by fire, consequently I
had not a good opportunity of judging of the town. It is, however,
beautifully situated on the Willamette River, and is surrounded by
magnificent forests. There are some delightful drives through the
woods, one especially to a place called the White House, through a
succession of glades and glens full of splendid trees and sweet-scented
shrubs, and with views of peculiar quiet loveliness.
The Willamette runs into the Columbia River about twelve miles below
Portland; so, taking the morning steamer, I prepared to ascend that
river, which for grandeur of scenery is not surpassed by any river
(with the exception, perhaps, of the Fraser) on the American continent.
We started so early that a grey fog swallowed up everything, and the
only objects visible were the paddle-boxes and the funnel.
We steamed very slowly and cautiously down the Willamette, and as
we approached the junction of that river with the Columbia the mist
lifted. As it slowly crept back to the shores and up the hills and away
to the north, mountains, sky and river came out with intense brilliancy
and colour under the rays of the rising sun.
Wonderful forests extended from the far distance down to the very edge
of the river. Beeches, oaks, pines, and firs of enormous size formed
a sombre background, against which the maple and ash flamed out in
their early autumn tints. On the north, the four stately snow-crowned
mountains, Rainier, St. Helen’s, Jefferson, and Adams lifted
themselves, rose-flushed, high up in the heavens; the great river
flowed rapidly and smoothly between mountain shores, from a mile to a
mile and a quarter apart, and the bold rocky heights towered thousands
of feet in the air.
The mountains line the river for miles. When occasionally a deep ravine
opens you catch a glimpse of distant levels, bounded, in their turn, by
the never-ending chain of mountains.
There is a rare combination, too, of beauty about these mountains;
vegetation and great variety of colour heightening the picturesque
effect of the huge masses of bold bare rock. Now and then the cliffs
impeded the flow of the river, which then ran, disturbed and dangerous,
between rocky islands and sand-bars. Often the agitated waters became
gradually calm and formed long narrow lakes, without any apparent
outlet, until a sudden turn showed a passage through the lofty walls
into another link of the water-chain.
Sometimes a cataract of marvellous beauty came leaping down the rocks
from a height of 200 and 300 feet.
The Multanomah Falls in particular are most beautiful, possessing both
the swift resistless rush of the downpour of water and that broken
picturesque outline which is the principal charm of a fall.
Castle Rock, a huge boulder with basaltic columns like those of Staffa,
stands out grandly and alone from a feathery mass of cotton-wood, whose
golden splendour rivals in beauty that of the spreading dark green
boughs of the pines, whilst the contrast of colour heightens the effect
of each brilliant hue.
On the crest of the rock a fringe of pine trees, growing out of the
bare stone and dwarfed to insignificance, shows the vast height of this
rifted dome.
And now we are approaching Cape Horn, whose ramparts rise sheer and
straight, like a columnar wall, 800 feet high.
This majestic portal forms a worthy entrance to the cascades. Fierce,
seething rapids extend for six miles up the river, and the track of the
“portage” runs near the water’s edge for the entire distance. The river
is narrowed here by lofty heights of trap rock, and the bed itself is
nothing but sharp gigantic rocks, sometimes hidden by the water and
sometimes forming small islands, between which the foaming torrent
rushes with tremendous uproar.
Near where the “portage” begins, a relic of Indian warfare, in the
shape of an old block-house, stands under the fir-trees.
A small party of white men held a very large body of Indians at bay for
several days in 1856; and as the provisions ran short, a grand attack
was made on the red men, who were totally routed with great slaughter.
The scene in this gorge is wild in the extreme. Passing Rooster Rock,
the mountain-sides approach each other, and the river flows faster and
fiercer; the pillared walls rise sometimes to a height of nearly 3,000
feet, and the wind roaring through the ravine beats up huge waves and
adds to the wild grandeur of the view. Whenever the mountains recede
to the south, Mount Hood fills the horizon. Rising 14,000 feet, its
snow-covered head shines out magnificently against the blue sky, with
unvarying grandeur and a strangely attractive form.
Soon we pass an Indian burial-ground called Caffin Rock, a more
desolate slope, covered with rude monuments of rock and circular heaps
of piled grey stones.
Dalles City, where we now arrive, ranks as the second place of
importance in Oregon. It takes its name from the “dales” or rough
flag-stones, which impede the river, making narrow crooked channels,
and thereby causing another “portage” for a distance of fifteen
miles. Above the town the scene changes; the cliffs disappear, and
from splendid forests and mountains we pass into a region of sand and
desert. One tall pillar of red rock, overlooking the sandy waste,
stands up forlorn and battered, as if it were the last fragment of a
giant peak; and numbers of birds hovering over it seem to regard it as
their special observatory.
Hot white sand is everywhere, and the wind scatters it about in a most
uncomfortable manner, covering the track and half-stifling you in
its blinding showers. The river scenery is very fine all along this
passage, the Dalles being a succession of rapids, falls, and eddying
currents.
Although it was late in the season hundreds of salmon were still
ascending, and on the flat shore-rocks were several Indian lodges;
their occupants busily engaged in spearing and catching the fish.
Their usual mode of catching salmon is by means of nets fastened to
long handles. They erect wooden scaffolds by the riverside among the
rocks, and there await the arrival of the fish--scooping up thirty or
forty per hour. They are also very skilful at spearing them; rarely
missing a fair mark.
At one of the falls we saw a most treacherous contrivance. A large tree
with all its branches lopped off had been brought to the edge of the
river and there fastened, with its smaller end overhanging the foaming
fall. A large willow basket, about ten feet deep and over twenty feet
in circumference, was suspended at the end. The salmon in its efforts
to leap the fall would tumble in the basket, and an Indian seated in it
would then knock the fish on the head with a club and throw it on shore.
This mode requires relays of men, as they soon get almost drowned by
the quantity of spray and water. Very often, between two and three
hundred salmon are caught in a day in this manner. We saw about twenty,
averaging in weight from five to twenty pounds, caught in the hour
during which we watched the process. But the hook-nosed salmon--coarse,
nasty fish--were the most abundant. They always appear in the autumn,
and are found everywhere. The salmon are in their greatest perfection
in the Columbia River towards the end of June. The best variety is
called the “chinook,” and weighs from twenty to forty pounds. This
species is generally accompanied in its ascent by a smaller variety,
weighing on an average about ten pounds, and which is also extremely
good eating. Gradually as the salmon go higher and higher up the river,
their flesh changes from a bright red to a paler colour until it
becomes quite white. There are such enormous quantities of them that
they can be easily jerked on shore with a stick, and they actually
jostle each other out of the water. It is estimated that over 500,000
salmon were taken out of the Columbia River during the year 1872. There
is a perfectly true story of a traveller who, when riding, had to cross
a stream running from the Cascade Mountains, at a spot where the fish
were toiling up in thousands; and so quickly were they packed as to
impede the progress of the horse, which became so frightened as almost
to unseat his rider.
When the salmon are caught, the squaws cure them by splitting them and
drying the pieces upon wickerwork scaffoldings. Afterwards they smoke
them over fires of fir branches. The wanton destruction and waste of
these fish is terrible. In the season the Indians will only take the
fish in the highest condition, and those that do not satisfy their
fastidious tastes are thrown back mutilated and dying into the water.
Even when they have killed sufficient to last them for years, they
still go to the falls and catch and spear all they can, leaving the
beautiful silvery salmon to rot on the stones. Salmon ought certainly
to have “Excelsior” for a motto. Always moving higher and higher, they
are never content, but continue the ascent of the river as far as
possible. They go on till they drop, or become so weak and torn from
rubbing against the rocks and against one another, that they are pushed
into shallows by the stronger ones and die from want of water. Out of
the hosts that ascend the rivers, it is generally supposed that a very
small proportion indeed ever find their way back to the sea.
Just below the Great Salmon Falls the whole volume of the stream rushes
through a channel hardly one hundred and fifty feet in width. At the
falls themselves the river is nearly a mile across, and pours over a
rocky wall stretching from shore to shore and about twenty feet high.
It is fascinating in the extreme to watch the determined creatures as
they shoot up the rapids with wonderful agility. They care neither for
the seething torrent nor for the deep still pools, and with a rush--and
with clenched teeth, perhaps--they dart up like a silver arrow, and
defying rock and fall, are at length safe in the smooth haven above.
THE PO
GEORGE G. CHISHOLM
The northern plain of Italy, whose area is estimated at about 16,450
square miles, or about half that of Scotland, is a geographical unit
of the most unmistakable kind. It is, indeed, made up of many river
basins, but these are all of one character and without marked lines of
delimitation. By far the greater part of the area belongs to the basin
of the Po, and the rivers that do not belong to that basin present a
general parallelism to the tributaries of the Po. The general slope of
the plain is that indicated by the course of its main river, from west
to east, but there is also a slope from north to south, and another
from south to north, determining the general direction of at least the
upper portions of the numerous affluents descending from the Alps and
the Apennines. But before reaching the main stream, these affluents
are affected in their general direction by the general easterly slope
of the plain; that is to say, their course changes more or less to
south-easterly (Dora Baltea, Sesia, Ticino, Adda, Oglio, Mincio), or
north-easterly (Tanaro, Scrivia, Trebbia, Taro, Secchia, Panaro), and
the farthest east they are the larger is the proportion of the entire
course deflected in this manner. In the most easterly portion of the
plain, lying west of the Adriatic, so marked is this effect that the
rivers (Adige, Brenta, Piave, Livenza) are carried to the sea before
reaching the Po. North of the Adriatic the slope and the general
direction of the rivers (Tagliamento, Stella, Cormor) become wholly
southerly.
Since ancient times the Po has been recognized as rising to the height
of 6,400 feet in the marshy valley of Piano del Re at the foot of
Monte Viso, the ancient Vesulus, and after a course of only twenty-one
miles and a fall of 5,250 feet, it enters the plain at the bridge
of Revello, where its middle course may be said to commence. Fed by
the “aged snows” of the Alps, and by the heavy rains of the Alps and
Apennines, it is already at Turin, where it receives from the west the
Dora Riparia, a navigable stream with a width of 525 feet. At the mouth
of the Ticino, the outlet of the Lago Maggiore, its lower course may be
said to commence. Thence onwards it winds sluggishly across the great
plains of
Fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant garden of great Italy,
with a mean depth of about six and one-half to fifteen and one-half
feet, and a fall not exceeding 0.3:1,000, so that the waters could
hardly move onwards were it not for the impetus imparted by the
numerous mountain torrents which it receives at an acute angle. At
last, charged thick with sediment, it passes onwards through the mouths
that intersect its muddy delta into the Adriatic.
[Illustration: THE PO]
In this part of its course, artificial embankments have been found
necessary to protect the surrounding country from inundation, and
from Cremona onwards these dykes, in part of unknown antiquity, are
continuous. After receiving the Mincio, the last tributary on the
north, the Po assumes a south-easterly direction, which in ancient
times and during the Middle Ages down to about 1150, it maintained
to its mouths, passing Ferrara on the south, and then dividing into
two main arms, the Po di Volano to the north, and the Po di Primaro to
the south of the Valli di Comacchio. But about that date, it is said,
the people of Ficarolo cut the dyke on the north side at Stellata, and
thus gave rise to a new mouth, known first as the Po di Venezia, now
as the Po della Maestra, by which the entire volume of the river now
runs eastwards, till it breaks up into several small branches at the
delta. Since then the arm of the Po between Stulata and Ferrara has
become silted up. Since 1577 the Panaro which formerly entered this arm
at Ferrara has gradually moved its mouth backwards till it enters the
main stream just below Stellata. The Po di Volano, which in the Second
Century B. C. was the most accessible mouth for shipping and afterwards
the main mouth, has now become wholly detached from the Po, and merely
serves as a drainage canal for the surrounding marshes, while the Po
di Primaro has been utilized since 1770 as the mouth for the regulated
Remo.
Long before the historic period, tens of thousands of years ago, but
which geologists call recent, the great valley was an arm of the sea;
for beneath the gravels and alluvia that form the soils of Piedmont
and Lombardy, sea-shells of living species are found in well-known
unconsolidated strata at no great depth. At this period the lakes of
Como, Maggiore, and Garda may have been fiords, though much less deep
than now. Later still, the Alpine valleys through which the affluents
of the Po run were full to the brim with the huge old glaciers already
referred to.
When we consider the vast size of the moraines shed from the ancient
glaciers that fed the Po, it is evident that at all times, but
especially during floods, vast havoc must often have occurred among
the masses of loose _débris_. Stones, sand, and mud, rolled along the
bottom and borne on in suspension, must have been scattered across the
plains by the swollen waters.
It will thus be easily understood how the vast plains that bound the
Po and its tributaries were gradually formed by the constant annual
increase of river gravels and finer alluvia, and how these sediments
rose in height by the overflow of the waters, and steadily encroached
upon the sea by the growth of the delta. The fact that the drainage
line of the plain lies not in the middle but farther from the Alps
than the Apennines, shows that in this process the loftier range on
the north has contributed more than the lower one to the south. And
this process, begun thousands of years before history began, has
largely altered the face of the country within historic times, and is
powerfully in action at the present day.
It has been estimated by Sir Archibald Geikie that the area drained
by the Po is on an average being lowered one foot in 729 years, and a
corresponding amount of sediment carried away by the river.
It is hard to get at the historical records of the river more than two
thousand years ago, though we may form a good guess as to its earlier
geological history. Within the historical period extensive lakes and
marshes (some of them probably old sea lagoons) lay within its plains,
since gradually filled with sediment by periodical floods. The great
lines of dykes that have been erected to guard against those floods
have introduced an element that modifies this process. The result has
been that the alluvial flats on either side of the river outside the
dykes have long received but little addition of surface sediment, and
their level is nearly stationary. It thus happens that most of the
sediment that in old times would have been spread by overflows across
the land is now hurried along towards the Adriatic, there, with the
help of the Adige, steadily to advance the far-spreading alluvial
flats that form the delta of the two rivers. But the confined river,
unable by annual floods to dispose of part of its sediment, just as
the dykes were increased in height, gradually raised its bottom by the
deposition there of a portion of the transported material, so that the
risk of occasional floods is again renewed. All these dangers have been
increased by the wanton destruction of the forests of the Alps and
Apennines, for when the shelter of the wood is gone, the heavy rains of
summer easily wash the soil from the slopes down into the rivers, and
many an upland pasture has by this process been turned into bare rock.
In this way it happens that during the historical period the quantity
of detritus borne onwards by the Po has much increased; and whereas
between the years 1200 and 1600 the delta advanced on an average only
about twenty-five yards a year, from 1600 to 1800 the annual advance
has been more than seventy-five yards. Between 1823 and 1893 the
deposits at the Po di Maestra and the Po di Goro advanced on an average
260 feet yearly, those of the Po di Tolle 315 feet, and those of the Po
della Gnocca 110 feet. The area of the Po delta has increased within
that time by twenty and one-half square miles, and that of the whole
coast from 44° 20′ to the Austrian frontier by 29.8 square miles.
Besides the Po and some of its chief tributaries, the Adige is the only
river in the northern plain of Italy of importance as a waterway; and
even it, though navigable for vessels of considerable size, as high as
Trent in the Tirol, where there is a depth of from thirteen to sixteen
feet, is navigable only with great difficulty in consequence of the
great rapidity of its course. Boats can descend from Trent to Verona
(fifty miles) in twenty-four hours, but for the ascent require from
five to seven days. The country on the banks of this river is much
subject to inundations, protection against which is afforded, as on the
Po, by dykes, which begin about twelve miles below Verona.
THE MENAM
MRS. UNSWORTH