DESERT JOURNEYS. 329 



with strangely-shaped cones, abrupt precipitous walls, deeply-riven 

 gorges, sharp-angled ridges, and wondrous towering domes. Over 

 these the ceaselessly-blowing wind drifts the sand, now filling up 

 hollows, now emptying them again, but always grinding, polishing, 

 hollowing out, sharpening, and pointing. Black masses of sandstone, 

 granite, or syenite, more rarely of limestone or slate, and here and 

 there of volcanic rock glow in the sun, and rise in expressively- 

 outlined ranges. ' On one side the wind robs these of every covering, 

 driving the fine sand uninterruptedly over their summits, com- 

 pletely enveloping them in a veil in times of storm, and leaving no 

 particle of sand at rest until it has been blown across the ridge. 

 On the lee side, protected from the wind, lie golden yellow beds of 

 the finest rolled sand, which form terraces one above another, each 

 about a yard in height. But they also are in ceaseless movement, 

 continually displacing one another from above downwards, and 

 being renewed from the other side of the range. Strikingly con- 

 trasted with the black walls of the exposed side, these terraces of 

 sand are visible from afar, and in certain lights they sparkle like 

 broad golden ribbons on the hills. We may venture to call such 

 ranges the regalia of the desert. No one unacquainted with the 

 glowing South can picture the marvellous wealth of colour, the 

 splendour and glamour, and the infinite charm which the overflow- 

 ing sunlight can create on the dreariest and wildest mountains of 

 the desert. Their sides are never clothed with the welcome green 

 of woodland, at most the highest peaks bear a scant covering of 

 bushes, to which the precipitation of vapour at this height allows a 

 bare subsistence and a stunted growth. One misses the whispering 

 of the beeches, and the rustling of the firs and pines; there is none 

 of the familiar murmuring, or joyous chatter, or echoing roar of 

 running water, which lays silver ribbons on our mountains at home, 

 fringing them here with verdure, while in another place the sun 

 shining upon rushing waterfall and whirlpool enhaloes them with 

 rainbow colours; there is no mantle of ice and snow which the sun 

 can transfigure into purple at dawn and sunset, or into glowing 

 brightness at noon; and there is no fresh green from any mead. 

 In short, all the witchery and charm of Northern mountain scenery 



