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land which may not have been brought about by the working of those slow every-day processes which are in progress now.
There can be no dispute regarding the abundance of the upheavals, subsidences, and dislocations which the crust of the earth bas undergone; but that our valleys and ravines are not mere cracks, would seem to be put beyond dispute by the fact that for one valley which happens to run along the line of a dislocation, there MoreI dare say, fifty or a hundred which do not.* are, over, it can be shown that out of every valley and glen a great mass of solid rock has been carried bodily away, and that even the highest mountain-tops have suffered a similar loss. If we could restore the missing material, we should, in truth, be able to fill up the glens and valleys again, so that the mountainous parts of the country would thus be turned into rolling table-lands.
But perhaps the most evident argument against the doctrine of fracture and convulsion, and in favour of the Huttonian theory of erosion, is to be found in the very grouping of the valleys themselves. It appears to me hard to see how a thoughtful survey of the configuration of a land-surface can lead to any other conclu'sion, than that "the mountains have been formed by the hollowing out of the valleys, and the valleys have been hollowed out by the attrition of hard materials coming from the mountains.”
Did the reader ever stand on a flat shore and watch how the water, which had soaked into the sand just below the upper limit of the tide, trickled down the seaward slope towards the pools and shallows on the lower part of the beach? He could hardly find a better illustration of the drainage of a country. The water that oozes out from below high-tide mark, begins by degrees to gather into tiny runnels; these gain size and speed as they descend, often flowing into each other, and thus with their united torrent cutting narrow and sometimes tortuous channels for themselves out of the sand. If the locality be a favourable one, these miniature rivers may be seen undermining their banks, and sweeping the debris away to sea. Thus the sand which wore, perhaps, a
There is no point which the detailed investigations of the Geological Survey have made clearer than this.
perfectly smooth surface when the tide left it a few hours before, is now channelled and worn into diminutive valleys, gorges, and ravines, with narrow ridges and broader plateaux between them. It might then be taken as a kind of relief model of the drainage of one side of a country. As the process of erosion goes on, the likeness of the beach to a series of river-systems grows every minute more marked. But at last the turned tide comes back and levels the whole; thus illustrating what geologists call "a plain of marine denudation." Yet again this levelled surface, when the tide retires, is once more exposed, the same system of water-carving goes on as before, and a new system of valleys, ravines, watercourses, ridges, and table-lands makes its appearance.
Now it is, I believe, in this kind of way that a great riversystem is excavated. The process is then, of course, an infinitely longer one, calling in, as we shall see, the agency of rain, springs, streams, and ice, and making these all work together for the accomplishment of the general end; but in either case the ultimate result is achieved by denudation. Water seeking its way seaward cuts a net-work of paths for itself: an hour or two is enough to channel the sandy beach-millions of years may be needed to cut down a mass of high ground into mountain and glen; but in the long lapse of geological time the one result is, doubtless, as sure as the other.
The conclusion, therefore, to which an attentive examination of the present surface of the country points is, that although the rocks have unquestionably suffered much from subterranean commotion, it is not to that cause that their present external forms are chiefly to be traced; that the mountains exist, not because they have been upheaved as such above the valleys, but because their flanks having been deeply cut away they have been left standing out in relief; and that the valleys are there, not by virtue of old rents and subsidences, but because moving water, with its help-mates frost and ice, has carved them out of the solid rock. GEIKIE'S Scenery of Scotland.
A Public Place.
Enter, in procession, with music, CESAR, BRUTUS, and CASSIUS, a great crowd following; among them a Soothsayer.
Met. Most high, most mighty, and most
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat
Cæs. Who is it in the press that calls Might fire the blood of ordinary men,
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Sooth. Beware the ides of March!
And turn pre-ordinance and first decree,
To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood
Low-crooked court'sies, and base spaniel-
Cæs. Set him before me; let me see his Thy brother by decree is banished: face.
If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him,
Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. look upon Cæsar.
Caes. What say'st thou to me now?
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Cæs. He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.
[Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS. [CASSIUS persuades BRUTUS to join in a conspiracy against CESAR.]
SCENE. The Capitol. The Senate sitting.
Cas. [To the Soothsayer] The ides of
Sooth. Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.
Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let
him go, And presently prefer his suit to Cæsar. Bru. He is addressed: press near, and second him.
Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.
Cæs. Are we all ready? what is now amiss That Cæsar and his senate must redress?
Know, Cæsar doth not wrong; nor without
Will he be satisfied.
Met. Is there no voice more worthy than
To sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear,
Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery,
Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may
Cas. Pardon, Cæsar; Cæsar, pardon:
If I could pray to move, prayers would
But I am constant as the northern star,
They are all fire, and every one doth shine,
So in the world; 'tis furnished well with Of half that worth as those your swords, men, made rich And men are flesh and blood, and appre- With the most noble blood of all this
Yet in the number I do know but one
And constant do remain to keep him so.
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,
Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand
I shall not find myself so apt to die:
Cæs. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus? As here by Cæsar, and by you cut off,
Cœs. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?
[CASCA stabs CESAR in the neck.
Cæs. Et tu Brute! Then fall, Cæsar.
Cin. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry out,
"Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!" Bru. People, and senators! be not affrighted;
Fly not; stand still: ambition's debt is
Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
Bru. Where's Publius?
The choice and master spirits of this age.
Though now we must appear bloody and
As, by our hands, and this our present act,
Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful!
To you our swords have leaden points,
Our arms, in strength of malice, and our
Of brothers' temper, do receive you in
Cas. Your voice shall be as strong as
And Cassius too. In the disposing of new dignities.
Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.
The multitude, beside themselves with
And then we will deliver you the cause,
Have thus proceeded.
Ant. That I did love thee, Cæsar, 0,
If then thy spirit look upon us now,
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee To see thy Antony making his peace,
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:
If I myself, there is no hour so fit
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,
As Cæsar's death hour, nor no instrument It would become me better than to close
In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius ! . . . .
Cas. Mark Antony,Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius: Friends am I with you all, and love you all;
Upon this hope, that you shall give me
Why and wherein Cæsar was dangerous. Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle: Our reasons are so full of good regard, That were you, Antony, the son of Cæsar, You should be satisfied.
That's all I seek: And am moreover suitor, that I may Produce his body to the market-place; And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral. Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. Cas. Brutus, a word with you. [Aside to Bru.] You know not what you do: do not consent
That Antony speak in his funeral: Know you how much the people may be moved
By that which he will utter?
Bru. By your pardon;I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Cæsar's death: What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission, And that we are contented Cæsar shall Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. Cas. I know not what may fall; I like it not.
Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,