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The Volcanoes of Mars
The Volcanoes of Mars
James R. Zimbelman
Senior Geologist Emeritus, Center for Earth and Planetary Studies,
National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution,
Washington, DC, United States
David A. Crown
Senior Scientist, Planetary Science Institute, Tucson, AZ, United States
Peter J. Mouginis-Mark
Emeritus Researcher, Hawai’i Institute Geophysics and Planetology,
University of Hawai’i, Honolulu, HI, United States
Tracy K.P. Gregg

Associate Professor, Department of Geology, University of Buffalo,
Buffalo, NY, United States
Elsevier
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Notices
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understanding, changes in research methods, professional practices, or medical treatment may become
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ISBN: 978-0-12-822876-0
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About the authors
James R. Zimbelman is a Senior Geologist Emeritus at the Center for Earth and Planetary
Studies in the National Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian Institution, where he
studies planetary geology including the geologic analysis of remote sensing data of Mars,
geologic mapping of Mars and Venus, the study of long lava flows on the terrestrial planets,
and field studies of volcanic, aeolian, and pluvial features. In 2013 he received the Ronald
Greeley Award for Distinguished Service, and in 2020 the G. K. Gilbert Award, both from
the Planetary Geology Division (PGD) of the Geological Society of America (GSA). He is a
fellow of GSA, has served as secretary of the American Geophysical Union’s Planetary
Sciences section, an officer in PGD, and chair of the NASM Center for Earth and Planetary
Studies.
David A. Crown is a Senior Scientist at the Planetary Science Institute (Tucson, AZ),
with professional interests in planetary geology, physical volcanology, remote sensing,
and science education. His research studies focus on understanding the geologic histories
of the rocky planetary bodies in the solar system and include geologic mapping investi-
gations of the surfaces of Mars, Venus, Io, and Ceres, use of spacecraft and airborne remote
sensing data for geologic analyses of planetary surface features, field investigations of vol-
canic deposits, and the development and application of models for geologic flows. He has
published nine geologic maps of Mars to-date, eight of which examined the geology of the
Hellas region. He has conducted field studies of volcanic terrains in the western continen-
tal US, Hawai’i, Mexico, and in the Central Andes of Bolivia.
Peter J. Mouginis-Mark is an Emeritus Researcher at the Hawai’i Institute of Geophys-
ics and Planetology (HIGP), University of Hawai’i (UH). For more than 40 years, he has
studied volcanoes in the solar system and on Earth. He has conducted fieldwork not only
in Hawai’i but also such diverse places as the Galapagos Islands, Reunion Island, Chile,
Java, Iceland, Nicaragua, and the Philippines. He has served as geology program manager
at NASA Headquarters and the director of HIGP and associate dean for Research, College
of Engineering, both at UH. He was principal investigator for an international 14-year
NASA study to use satellites to study active volcanoes on Earth and has been a leader
for 13 NASA week-long planetary volcanology field workshops in Hawai’i. Pete has pub-
lished more than 125 peer-reviewed research papers, of which 35 have focused on Martian
volcanism.
Tracy K.P. Gregg is an Associate Professor in the Department of Geology at the Univer-
sity of Buffalo in Buffalo, NY. Her primary research interest is lava flows, and she is not
particular about where they are or their composition. She has done fieldwork on lava flows
in Idaho, Peru, Iceland, and Hawai’i, as well as studied volcanic morphologies on Mars, the
xi
xii About the authors
Moon, Venus, and Jupiter’s moon Io. She has personally investigated lavas at the East
Pacific Rise and the Galapagos Spreading Center, more than 2500 m below sea level, from
the safety of the submersible Alvin. She supervised the NASA Planetary Geology and Geo-
physics Undergraduate Research Program (PGGURP) for 20 years and is now helping to
run its sequel [Summer Undergraduate Program for Planetary Research (SUPPR)]. Tracy
is a fellow of the Geological Society of America (GSA) and was awarded the Ronald Greeley
Award for Distinguished Service from the GSA Planetary Geology Division.
Preface
The title of this book may sound like a topic for science fiction, but perhaps even more
remarkable is the realization that the information presented here is the result of decades
of detailed scientific studies of the geology of Mars from multiple spacecraft missions. We
are fortunate to be living when robotic spacecraft have provided humanity with its first
knowledge of the incredible diversity within the solar system in general and of the beguil-
ing Red Planet in particular. We are challenged to explain how a planet half the size of
Earth produced several volcanoes that are many times larger than any volcano on Earth.
This book serves as an introduction to the breadth and diversity of volcanism as it has
been expressed throughout Martian history. We want the reader to realize that this effort
represents only some of the reasons why the Martian volcanoes have intrigued, chal-
lenged, “stumped,” and bewitched all of us for decades—and continue to enthrall
humanity.
The book is primarily intended for use by undergraduate-level students, but we have
also striven to make the text accessible to the interested reader in the general public, as
well as a useful review for planetary scientists at the graduate level and above. Descrip-
tions are written primarily for a nonspecialist reader, but some chapters assume more
of a background in geology than others. Terms are shown in bold where first introduced
or described in each chapter. There is extensive citation of the published literature
throughout so that anyone who is intrigued by a particular subject can seek greater detail
from primary sources found in both scientific journals and books, as well as from repu-
table sources on the Internet. Many chapters highlight the importance of geologic
mapping to document the sequence of generation and emplacement of the rocks and
landforms visible from orbit on the Martian volcanoes; geologic mapping is an investiga-
tive tool that has been widely used by the authors. Most chapters are prefaced by an
example of a geologic map for the area of interest. We hope that as one goes through
the chapters, the reader will get a sense of the wonder and excitement stimulated by
the impressive volcanoes that are widely distributed across Mars.
This book could not have happened without the efforts of several people who do not
appear in the author lists for each chapter. Marisa LeFleur approached us to consider the
topic for a possible book project with Elsevier, and Michael Lutz and Ruby Smith helped to
bring the manuscript through the many stages involved in bringing it to a successful con-
clusion. We thank the colleagues who provided input to various versions of the chapters,
especially Hap McSween (University of Tennessee) for his insightful comments on
Chapter 8. We also offer our deep gratitude to Jake Bleacher (NASA) and Brent Garry (NASA
Goddard) who were instrumental in the genesis of this book. Three of us benefited greatly
xiii
xiv Preface
from the knowledge and guidance provided by Ronald Greeley during graduate studies at
Arizona State University. Interactions with friends and colleagues have continued to stim-
ulate a desire to increase our understanding of the forces that produced the remarkable
volcanoes of Mars. As is the case with any book-length project, we could not have com-
pleted the task without the support and forbearance of both our family and friends while
we were often cloistered in our offices.
James R. Zimbelmana,∗
David A. Crownb
Peter J. Mouginis-Markc
Tracy K.P. Greggd
a
Smi thson ian In stitut ion, Wa shi ngton, DC, Unite d Sta tes
b
Planetary Science Institute , T ucson, AZ, Unite d Sta tes
c
U ni ver s i t y of H aw ai ’i , H on olul u, H I, U nite d Sta t es
d
University of Buf falo, B uffalo, N Y, United States
∗Cor respo ndin g Autho r. E -m ai l Addr ess: zim bel man j @si.edu
On the cover
The High Resolution Stereo Camera captured this impressive view of volcanic Mars (looking
obliquely to the southeast) on June 29, 2014, during orbit 13,323 of the Mars Express orbiter.
Olympus Mons, the tallest volcano on Mars, is at lower right. Three slightly smaller Tharsis
Montes volcanoes (Ascraeus Mons, Pavonis Mons, Arsia Mons, left to right) are visible closer
to the horizon. Two other volcanoes (Ulysses Patera and Biblis Patera, left to right) are in
between the four larger volcanoes. The thin Martian atmosphere is visible above the curve
of the limb of Mars (ESA/DLR/FU Berlin/Justin Cowart).
xv
FIG. 1.1 Pre-spacecraft Mars. Portion of a telescope-based map of Mars published shortly before Mariner 4 revealed
the cratered nature of the Martian surface. Map section shown includes many linear dark features associated with
Percival Lowell’s “canals,” plus “Nix Olympica” (now Olympus Mons; see Fig. 1.2). U.S. Air Force (1965)/Lunar and
Planetary Institute.
1
Introduction: Welcome to Mars!
James R. Zimbelmana,*, David A. Crownb, W. Brent Garryc,
and Jacob E. Bleacherc
a
S M I TH S O N IAN IN S T IT UT IO N , WAS HI N G TO N, D C, UN I TE D STA T ES
b
P LANE TARY SCI ENCE INST IT UTE, T UC SON, A Z, UNI TE D STAT ES
c
NASA G ODDARD SPACE FLIGHT CENTER, GR EE NB ELT , MD , UNI TE D STA T ES
*C OR R E S P ON D I N G A U T H OR . E -MAIL ADDRESS: ZIMBELMANJ@SI .EDU
1.1 Introduction
People have watched a red “wandering” object in the night sky for millennia, wondering
what it could be. Its distinctive orange-red (ochre) color (Fig. 1.1) made many cultures
associate this moving “star” with warfare, and Mars is named after the Roman god of
war. Today, we know that all of these “wandering” stars are planets orbiting the Sun just
as Earth does, but Mars continues to be the planet that most often captures our attention
and our imagination (as in the well-known stories by H.G. Wells, E.R. Burroughs, and R.
Bradbury or in countless science fiction movies since the 1930s). Increasingly sophisti-
cated spacecraft have become humanity’s robotic emissaries to the “Red Planet,” taking
our fascination with Mars out of the realm of science fiction into that of science fact. These
spacecraft data have revealed abundant evidence that Mars is home to some of the most
dramatic and amazing volcanoes in our solar system, the subject of this book.
How did a planet half the size of the Earth produce enormous volcanic mountains like
Olympus Mons (Fig. 1.2), something many times the size of the largest volcanoes on Earth?
Why are the Martian volcanoes located where they are? Do volcanoes in close proximity have
the same eruptive histories and were they active at the same time, or were there different erup-
tion styles in the same region in different geologic epochs? Questions such as these are exam-
ples of the many issues currently being investigated under the broad umbrella represented by
the term comparative planetology. Today, we have some understanding of all of the planets in
the solar system, thanks to the many spacecraft missions launched from Earth during the last
half century. These explorations have discovered that volcanism is a ubiquitous geologic pro-
cess across the terrestrial (rocky) planets and even to an extreme on the bizarre moon of Jupi-
ter named Io. In the outer solar system, water takes the place of molten rock, a process called
cryovolcanism. However, among all of these volcanic worlds, the relatively diminutive planet
Mars has some of the largest volcanoes to be seen anywhere. Through this book, we will take
you, the reader, on a fantastic journey of exploration to the many volcanoes of Mars.
The journey begins with a brief review of how scientists and engineers have steadily obtained
increasingly detailed information about Mars. Subsequent chapters will focus on the volcanic
The Volcanoes of Mars. https://doi.org/10.1016/B978-0-12-822876-0.00012-6 3

4 The Volcanoes of Mars
FIG. 1.2 Olympus Mons volcano. Shaded relief renditions of Olympus Mons on Mars (NASA Mars Oribter Laser
Altimeter data) and the Big Island of Hawai’i (upper left; NASA Shuttle Radar Topography Mission data). Both
images are shown at the same scale.
history of the Red Planet by discussing several distinct volcanic provinces, emphasizing both
familiar and unique aspects of each region. The goal is for this compilation of information
to provide a current synthesis of our knowledge of Martian volcanoes and to allow the reader
to compare and contrast Martian volcanoes with the many volcanoes that have been studied in
great detail here on Earth, as well as to volcanoes now known throughout the solar system.
1.2 Learning about Mars

The ancients were keen observers of the night sky. Over 2500 years ago, Babylonian astron-
omers regularly recorded how Mars moved among the seemingly “fixed” stars, and Chi-
nese astronomers documented that Mars occasionally moved in a retrograde direction
(the reverse of its normal motion) for weeks at a time before returning to its more regular
motion (Bakich, 2000, pp. 169–171). Exotic ideas were developed to explain this perplexing
behavior, which both Jupiter and Saturn also exhibited, but to a lesser degree than that
demonstrated by Mars. Careful measurements of Mars by Tycho Brahe allowed Johannes
Kepler to devise his famous three “laws” of planetary motion in 1600, the first of which
states that planets follow elliptical (noncircular) orbits with the sun at one focus of the
ellipse, the first mathematical description of a planetary orbit.
Scientific investigation of Mars began in earnest following Galileo’s 1610 publication
that let the world know that the telescope was a wonderful new tool for exploring the
heavens. Telescopes soon revealed the presence of lighter and darker regions on Mars,
but perhaps even more important, Mars did not exhibit phases similar to those seen
Chapter 1 • Introduction: Welcome to Mars! 5
monthly for Earth’s Moon, unlike what Galileo’s telescope also revealed for Venus. These
early telescopic observations provided observational support for Copernicus’ model of
the sun-centered solar system, with Venus closer to the Sun and Mars further from the
Sun than was the Earth. As telescopes became ever more powerful, Mars showed variations
in its surface features that repeated during the nearly 2 Earth years it takes for Mars to make
one revolution around the Sun. Eventually, bright polar caps were detected on the planet,
including parts that remained year-round, while other polar deposits grew and shrank
throughout the Martian year. In the 1780s Sir William Herschel (the astronomer who dis-
covered the planet Uranus) used such observations to suggest that Mars experienced sea-
sons similar to those of Earth (Bakich, 2000, p. 183). Occasionally the whole globe of Mars
became a uniform ochre color with no surface detail discernable; this was eventually
attributed to massive dust storms that at times obscured the entire surface for many weeks.
Telescopic observations of Mars are best obtained about every 26 Earth months, when
Mars is at opposition (directly opposite from the Sun as viewed from the Earth), but the
apparent size of Mars at these oppositions varies systematically because the orbit of Mars
is more elliptical than the orbit of Earth. The 1877 opposition was a particularly good one,
and Giovanni Schiaparelli made a detailed map of Mars that included numerous straight
dark lines across the bright regions. His map was published in 1890 with the lines labeled
“canali” (meaning a natural channel or groove in Italian), but this word was loosely trans-
lated into English as “canals,” which implied features constructed by intelligent beings
(Bakich, 2000, p. 183). Percival Lowell expanded on the concept of Martian canals in
his 1895 book titled Mars, championing the idea that Martians globally engineered the
planet to bring water from the polar regions to parched equatorial deserts (Fig. 1.3).
FIG. 1.3 Lowell Mars globe. Mars globe (500 diameter) with hand-drawn observations recorded by Percival Lowell
in 1901. Globe was on loan from Lowell Observatory while on display at the National Air and Space Museum.
Until his death in 1916, Lowell used his personal observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona (which
remains an active research center today), to make maps of the extensive Martian canal
system, and he published more books to popularize his interpretation that advanced intel-
ligent life existed on Mars. The canals remained unseen by most other telescopic
observers, but Lowell was undeterred. The possibility of advanced life on Mars remained
popular until the first spacecraft to fly past Mars (Mariner 4, in 1965) returned 22 images of
a mostly cratered surface reminiscent of Earth’s Moon.
Volcanoes entered the Mars story in 1971 when Mariner 9 became the first spacecraft to
orbit another planet. The spacecraft arrived at Mars during the most intense global dust
storm in decades, but commands from Earth kept it from starting its global mapping mis-
sion until the dust began to clear. As the dust pall gradually settled out of the thin Martian
atmosphere, four dark spots appeared in Mariner images taken to monitor the progress of
the dust storm (Fig. 1.4). With continued dust settling, the spots soon resolved into ele-
vated regions each with complex craters at their summits. It did not take scientists long
to deduce that tall mountains with craters at their summits were most likely volcanoes.
Once the atmosphere fully cleared, Mariner 9 mapped the entire Martian surface at a spa-
tial resolution far exceeding what was possible with the largest telescopes on Earth, giving
humanity the first detailed look at the scope of the geology of Mars. This global mapping
effort revealed that the four “spots” were the summits of the largest volcanoes then known,
as well as finding many other volcanic centers scattered across the planet (Mutch et al.,
1976, pp. 36–39). Subsequent spacecraft orbiting and landing on Mars have provided
increasingly detailed information about the Martian surface; this incredible wealth of data
forms the basis for much of what is described in this book.
FIG. 1.4 Mars’ volcanoes revealed. Four “dark spots” (arrowed) were the first surface features seen in Mariner 9
images as the global dust storm of 1971 began to dissipate. The spots are the summits of four enormous
volcanoes. At upper left is Olympus Mons (see Fig. 1.2); the three aligned dark spots are the Tharsis Montes.
Extreme contrast stretching of these images caused the white “echoes” above and below each dark spot. Subtle
dust cloud structures are evident throughout this image mosaic. NASAhttps://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/
SP-4212/ch9-4.html.
1.3 Geology
Interest in volcanoes and volcanism has a long history because many cultures wanted a way
to explain why rivers of molten rock occasionally appeared from the Earth (Macdonald,
1972, pp. 26–41). One of the better known legends involves the Hawai’ian goddess of fire,
Pele, who traveled from island to island (starting at Ni’ihau and moving southeast), even-
tually settling into the Halemaumau crater at the top of Kilauea volcano on the Big Island of
Hawai’i (Beckwith, 1970; Cashman, 2004; Westervelt, 1916; Roberts, 2018). The direction of
Pele’s island migration is consistent with modern dating of volcanic rocks on the different
islands; today, we explain this observation through the motion of Earth’s rocky lithosphere
above a deep-seated “hot spot” (see Section 1.7). However, before delving into modern con-
cepts of volcanism, we should first consider several different types of rocks that are impor-
tant to understanding the story behind volcanoes.
Geology is the science of the Earth, a relative newcomer to general sciences like
physics, chemistry, and biology. For a long period of time, the collection of rocks was con-
sidered to fall within the realm of the hobbyist. In 1669 Nicolas Steno formulated the prin-
ciple of superposition, which stated that rocks were emplaced in a temporal sequence
with the older rocks beneath the younger ones (Press and Siever, 1974, p. 46). James
Hutton, and later Charles Lyell, used the observed sequence of emplacement inferred
from observations of which rocks lie on top of other rocks to deduce that geologic events
occurred “uniformly” through time, which Lyell publicized as the principle of uniformi-
tarianism (Press and Siever, 1974, pp. 61–62). This relationship became inadequate when
it was recognized that some layered rocks, assumed to have originally formed in a hori-
zontal orientation, were today tilted to different degrees, even to the point that some rocks
were turned completely upside down.
When fossils were recognized to be remnants of past life preserved in the rocks, they
became a crucial tool for defining stratigraphic sequences of rocks. Fossil-bearing strata
are a subset of the more general sedimentary rock type. Sediments (fine particles) are
deposited after settling out of either water or air, both mediums that can transport
sediments long distances from their sources. Sedimentary rocks cover about 75% of the sur-
face of the continents on the Earth (Hamblin and Christiansen, 1998, p. 106), so they are
likely the rocks that most people think of first (when they think about rocks at all, a
situation that we hope will be much encouraged by reading this book). The Grand Canyon
(Arizona) is one of the best-known exposures of sedimentary rocks on Earth, where the
upper 800 m of the canyon exposes a stratigraphic sequence representing more than 300
million years of Earth’s history and the lower part of the canyon extends time back nearly
2 billion years, although many of those lower rocks are not sedimentary rocks.
Two important systems affect the Earth to deposit or change the rocks near its surface:
the hydrologic system (a complex cycle through which water moves from the oceans to
the atmosphere to the land and back to the oceans) and the tectonic system (the move-
ment of solid rock near the Earth’s surface) (Hamblin and Christiansen, 1998, pp. 32–42).
Sedimentary rocks result from several different mechanisms working within the
hydrologic system, and the tilting, folding, and faulting of sedimentary strata are the result
of forces acting within the tectonic system. Some tectonic forces can bury rocks to various
depths within the crust where increased heat and pressure, along with changes in the
composition of fluids that may move through those rocks, alter the minerals in the original
rock to generate metamorphic rocks. The third major rock type, igneous, forms from
magma (a molten mixture of liquid rock material, gas, and solid crystals); if magma solid-
ifies while beneath the surface, it forms a plutonic (intrusive) rock; if the magma reaches
the surface, it becomes a volcanic (extrusive) rock, the primary focus of this book. Tectonic
forces can open cracks and fissures within the crust through which magma reaches the
surface to produce volcanic rock. Igneous rocks represent a fundamental component
of the Earth’s crust as the volcanic origin of most of the ocean floor rocks became known.
When subjected to weathering and erosion, igneous rocks contribute particles that sub-
sequently become included in both sedimentary and metamorphic rocks.
1.4 Volcanism
When rock within Earth’s interior is hotter than the melting temperature of its compo-
nents, this liquid rock becomes the source material for igneous rocks (magma). Magma
tends to rise within the crust because it is less dense (more buoyant) in comparison with
the surrounding rock. Changing temperature and pressure conditions beneath the Earth’s
surface can alter the chemistry of magma as both solids (crystals that solidify out of the
cooling melt) and gases (volatiles originally dissolved in the liquid) escape from the evolv-
ing liquid. A sequence of specific minerals forms as the temperature of the magma drops,
with minerals heavier (more dense) than the magma settling to the bottom of the magma
pool and minerals lighter (less dense) than the magma rising to the top of the magma pool.
The departing minerals remove elements from the magma through the process of frac-
tional crystallization, the basic mechanism for changing the chemistry of the magma.
As fractional crystallization progresses, it produces different kinds of igneous rocks.
The major rock types generated from evolving magma through this fractionation pro-
cess are, in order of decreasing temperature, volcanic rocks that range from komatiite,
basalt, andesite, dacite, to rhyolite and their intrusive equivalents range from peridotite,
gabbro, diorite, granodiorite, to granite (see Section 8.2). The dominant minerals within
each volcanic type, in decreasing order of abundance, are olivine and pyroxene in koma-
tiite; plagioclase, pyroxene, and olivine in basalt; plagioclase, pyroxene, and amphibole in
andesite; and potassium feldspar, plagioclase, quartz, and biotite in dacite and rhyolite
(see Fig. 8.2). Variations in the order of the crystallization and the relative abundance
of mineral components occur within the intrusive equivalents of each volcanic rock, as
prolonged conditions at depth allow for diverse chemical separations to take place. The
aforementioned is a greatly simplified rendering of a complex sequence of events; inter-
ested readers are referred to Hamblin and Christiansen (1998, pp. 77–100) for a very read-
able elaboration on the generation of volcanic rocks. Seismic studies have shown that the
uppermost part of the Earth is divided between an outer crust (consisting of both dense
FIG. 1.5 Lava textures on Hawai’ian basalt flows. (A) Smooth, glassy pahoehoe, with a 50-cm-wide sheet flow
extruding beneath the cooled crust of an earlier flow. The newly exposed lava rapidly chills, forming a growing
glassy crust. Portion of the PKK flow on Kilauea, Feb. 20, 2005; USGS/HVO photo 20050220-0584_CCH. (B) Clinkery
’a’a flow margin emplaced on an earlier pahoehoe flow, with the hot interior core exposed. Heating of the
atmosphere distorts the image focus above the flow. East branch of the PKK flow on Kilauea at Pulama Pali,
scene width 8 m, Feb. 25, 2005; USGS/HVO photo 20050225-0786_TO.
oceanic [basaltic] and lighter continental [granitic] rock), all overlying the upper part of
Earth’s partially molten mantle (Press and Siever, 1974, p. 24).
When volcanic rocks are erupted onto the surface, that eruption can take place either
effusively or explosively. Effusive eruptions form lava, with different volcanic landforms
resulting from the differing chemistry and the related viscosity (the “stickiness” of the
flowing liquid) of the source magma. Within lava flows, the solidified rock provides clues
to the condition of the magma when it was erupted. In Hawai’i, it is possible to watch
active lava flows during their emplacement. Consequently, Hawai’ian words describe
the two dominant flow surface textures used in the volcanic literature. Pahoehoe lava
has a smooth, glassy crust produced by low-viscosity molten rock that is slowly extruded
onto the surface (Fig. 1.5A). ’A‘a lava has a rough surface produced by countless “clinkers,”
each with fine glass spines or shards covering their exteriors (this sharp glass rapidly
chews up hiking boots!); at their fronts, ’a‘a’flows (Fig. 1.5B) move faster than pahoehoe
flows. Differences between ’a‘a and pahoehoe derive from the rate of eruption of the lava,
with pahoehoe associated with low volume per second eruptions and a‘a higher volume
per second (Rowland and Walker, 1990). The two texture types represented by the Hawai’-
ian terms have their equivalents in other cultures living on volcanic terrain (e.g., in Iceland
“helluhraun” and “apalhraun” are the equivalent of pahoehoe and a‘a, respectively;
Gudmundsson, 1996). Flows of more viscous andesitic or rhyolitic lavas can form blocky
flows, where the lava is broken into angular blocks ranging from many tens of centimeters
to meters in size with thicker flows and a more domical flow shape due to the higher vis-
cosity. As with the chemistry summarized earlier, there are many variations on the basic
flow textures just described; the interested reader is referred to Macdonald (1972, pp.
71–98) and Gregg (2017) for more detail.
FIG. 1.6 Volcanic constructs. Profiles of a composite volcano (stratovolcano), a (small) caldera on a volcano, a shield
volcano, and four examples of pyroclastic cones, all shown at 2 vertical exaggeration. Modified from
Siebert, L., Simkin, T., Kimberly, P., 2010. Volcanoes of the World, 3rd ed. University of California Press.
Lava flows build up into constructs around their source vent, some of which can attain
enormous dimensions. Komatiites are quite rare on Earth, but where they are found, their
products were extremely fluid, forming long thin flows rather than large near-vent con-
structs. Basalts are the most abundant volcanic rock on the Earth (ocean floors are primar-
ily basalt, covered by mud), forming long topographic ridges on ocean floors, as well as
basaltic lava flows and many volcanoes on Earth’s continents. When basalts erupt at
the surface from a long-active source vent, they can produce a broad mountain around
the central vent with flank slopes generally <5° and with an overall shape similar to that
of an old Viking shield, hence the name shield volcano (Fig. 1.6). The Hawai’ian and Gala-
pagos Islands formed from coalescing shield volcanoes, making them among the largest
volcanoes on Earth, but both island complexes are dwarfed by the enormous bulk of the
Olympus Mons shield volcano on Mars (Fig. 1.2).
Shield volcanoes represent one type of large volcanic construct (one that is well
expressed on Mars), but there are other volcanoes that also enter into the discussion of
the volcanoes on Mars. On Earth, if the erupting lava is more chemically evolved than
basalt (a composition called andesite) and the flows are intermixed with pyroclastic
deposits, the volcano has steep slopes (around 10°), steeper than the slopes on a shield
volcano, producing the conical shape that most people associate with volcanoes. This type
of construct results from more viscous extruded lava flows combined with explosive erup-
tions that generate an abundance of volcanic particles of various sizes (including fine-
grained ash); the result is a composite volcano, also called a stratovolcano (Fig. 1.6). While
smaller in volume than shield volcanoes, some of the best-known volcanoes on Earth,
such as Fuji in Japan and Vesuvius in Italy, are composite volcanoes. In the following,
we will see that these volcanoes occur at geologic settings that are not common on Mars.
If the magma chamber feeding eruptions at the summit of the volcano becomes suf-
ficiently emptied, the surface of the volcano can collapse to form a large, generally circular
depression called a caldera (Fig. 1.6). Large calderas can also be produced because of very
large explosive eruptions, often from magmas more silicic than the source of basalt flows;
see Francis (1993, pp. 291–321) for more detail about the complexities of calderas and gen-
eral information about explosive volcanism. When the magma becomes chemically
evolved (and also contains more volatiles) beyond what produces an andesitic composite
volcano, massive explosive eruptions can produce thick sheets of rhyolitic pyroclastic (see
next paragraph) deposits around large (>10 km diameter) calderas, deposits that are so
large that they do not have much relief outside of the caldera. Such explosive eruptions
cause some of the most voluminous volcanic deposits on Earth, like those associated with
the Toba eruption in Sumatra, Indonesia (Zielinski et al., 1996). There is continuing debate
as to the role that such large-volume explosive eruptions played on Mars (see Section 7.4).
Before the advent of spacecraft missions to Mars, some researchers used telescopic obser-
vations to suggest that the shapes and seasonal changes to the dark (low albedo) regions of
Mars were the result of windblown volcanic ash (McLaughlin, 1955). If andesite or rhyolite
lava does not erupt in large explosions, then a volcanic dome composed of thick
sequences of high-viscosity lava can result.
When the volume of erupted material is less than that associated with shield or compos-
ite volcanoes (which form over a multitude of eruptive cycles), small volcanic constructs are
generated. Small volcanic constructs can occur in isolated settings, on caldera floors, on
volcano flanks, or in groups associated with lava flows. The product of explosive eruptions,
regardless of the composition of the source magma, is called a pyroclastic (“fire-broken”)
deposit; these can be emplaced as a coherent flow over the surface or via ballistic emplace-
ment from or through settling of particles out of the atmosphere.
The most common type of small volcano is a scoria cone (Fig. 1.6), (also referred to as a
cinder cone) where a single eruption spreads volcanic scoria (typically ranging from
gravel to cobble size) around the eruptive vent; the erupted scoria follows ballistic trajec-
tories while flying through the air and after landing piles up along a slope close to the angle
of repose (the angle above which granular particles cascade downslope). Consolidated
pyroclastic deposits are called tuff (Macdonald, 1972, p. 134). When erupting lava inter-
acts with near-surface groundwater without excavating into the bedrock, a cinder-
cone-like tuff cone or a broad low-profile tuff ring results (Fig. 1.6), depending on how
much water gets mixed in with the erupting lava (Francis, 1993, pp. 342–345). If such
an eruption occurs along a coastline, where ocean water interacts with the erupting lava,
the result is a littoral cone. When lava interacts with groundwater, the resulting steam
built up generates a localized volcanic explosion ring called a maar, which often excavates
into the rock underlying the explosive deposit (Fig. 1.6) (Francis, 1993, pp. 341–347). When
lava flows over wet ground, such as around the margin of a lake, a pseudocrater can result,
a low-profile “rootless vent,” so named because the explosions occur where the steam is
generated beneath the flow rather than at the vent where lava reached the surface (Francis,
1993, pp. 151–152).
1.5 Plate tectonics

Our understanding of Earth history underwent a huge “paradigm shift” in the 1960s when
geological and geophysical information from many different sources could finally be
placed within a broad conceptual framework that today is known as the theory of plate
tectonics (Press and Siever, 1974, pp. 24–31). The development of this theory is a complex
story (see Hamblin and Christiansen, 1998, pp. 442–469, for details), but it emerged from
an earlier concept that met with great resistance from the scientific establishment, an idea
termed “continental drift.” Almost as soon as mapping techniques became precise enough
to accurately show the outline of the world’s coastlines, many early natural historians (the
science of geology did not yet exist) noted that the Atlantic coasts of Africa and South
America had very similar shapes. A few went so far as to suggest that these two continents
were joined at some point in the past.
The German meteorologist Alfred Wegener published (in 1915) an exhaustive collec-
tion of data to support the idea that continents were previously joined, including several
in addition to Africa and South America, but nobody (including Wegener) proposed a via-
ble mechanism to explain how the continents could be moved. This situation changed
quite suddenly when abundant evidence from multiple disciplines, including paleontol-
ogy (the study of ancient life), geology (the distribution of rock types and structures), gla-
ciology (deposits from multiple episodes of continental glaciation), paleoclimatology (the
record of past climates preserved in rocks and sediments), seismology (the structure of
Earth’s interior obtained from earthquake records), oceanography (the first systematic
mapping of the ocean floors), and paleomagnetism (orientations of Earth’s magnetic field
preserved in rocks of diverse ages), could best be explained by the movement of broad
sections of Earth’s crust as coherent packages called plates, consisting of both the chem-
ically distinct crust and the rigid upper portion of the mantle (together called the litho-
sphere). The mechanism behind this crustal movement finally could be explained as
the interaction between the slow circulation within the partially molten mantle and the
lithosphere riding along on top of these broad internal circulation patterns.
Crucial new evidence for the movement of large crustal plates came from mapping the
pattern of polarity (indicated by the direction toward magnetic north) preserved in the
rocks on both sides of enormous mountain ridges discovered on the floor of several ocean
basins, including the longest mid-ocean ridge located in the Atlantic Ocean basin. Careful
mapping of the magnetic polarity preserved in rock sections from several continents
clearly demonstrated that Earth’s magnetic field reversed its polarity many times in tem-
porally variable but geographically consistent ways; this same polarity pattern was pre-
served symmetrically on both sides of mid-ocean ridges. The ages of the ocean floor
rocks were also shown to steadily increase symmetrically away from the ridges on both
sides. The most reasonable explanation for all these observed patterns is that new crust
formed at the mid-ocean ridges and then progressively moved away from them.
If new crust was being formed at mid-ocean ridges, crust had to disappear somewhere
else to preserve Earth’s mass and volume. Deep ocean trenches were discovered near the
margins of several plates, with composite volcanoes often found 60–100 km away from the
trenches, on the side of the trench away from the nearest mid-ocean ridge. The areas near
the trenches became known as convergent margins where a crustal plate disappeared into
the mantle at a subduction zone, while the mid-ocean ridge spreading centers were called
divergent margins. In some places the plates slipped past each other within zones of
FIG. 1.7 Volcanoes and plate tectonics. Volcanoes resulting from differing plate tectonic settings. Modified from a US
Geological Survey diagram in Simkin, T., Tilling, R.I., Vogt, P.R., Kirby, S.H., Kimberly, P., Stewart, D.B., 2006. This
dynamic planet: world map of volcanoes, earthquakes, impact craters, and plate tectonics. U.S. Geol. Surv. Map
I-2800, scale 1:30,000,000. https://volcano.si.edu/learn_dynamicplanet.cfm.
enhanced seismic activity, such as along the San Andreas fault in southern California;
these locations were called transcurrent (or strike-slip) fault margins where neither crust
growth nor crust destruction was taking place. The margins of the crustal plates corre-
spond closely to the majority of seismically active zones identified around the planet,
as do most of the world’s active (or recently active) volcanoes. Plate tectonics can therefore
explain much of what had previously seemed to be unrelated geologic features scattered
around the planet, particularly the association of many volcanoes with plate tectonic
settings (Fig. 1.7).
Neither subduction zones nor spreading center ridges are confined to the edges of con-
tinents. Where two oceanic plates (lacking continental crust) collide, a subduction zone
occurs near an arc of volcanic islands, leading to the name island arc. The volcanoes asso-
ciated with island arcs, such as the Aleutian Islands southwest of Alaska, are typically
andesite composite cones, much like the chain of active volcanoes comprising the Cas-
cades in western North America and the Andes along the western edge of South America.
Spreading centers can sometimes occur on continents, such as along the East African Rift
Valley, where volcanism is abundant.
Not all active volcanoes occur along plate margins. In particular, some volcanic centers
show a clear age progression along one direction. With increased precision in the tracking
of plate motions, these seemingly isolated volcanic centers were shown to be expressions
of the plates moving above a hot spot whose location was stable relative to the deep inte-
rior of the planet (Fig. 1.7). Both the Hawai’ian Islands (with the associated Hawai’ian-
Emperor seamount chain) and the Galapagos Islands are examples of hot spot volcanic
systems where the most recent volcanic activity occurs closest to the deep-seated source
of the hot spot (Poland, 2014). Hot spot volcanoes also can occur on continents, such as
the progressively younger volcanism leading to the Yellowstone volcanic center, with its
abundant geothermal geysers. Iceland represents a unique situation where a hot spot
happens to be located beneath a mid-ocean ridge; it is the only place we know of where
mid-ocean ridge volcanism occurs above sea level and can be easily documented
(Gudmundsson, 1996).
Plate tectonics forms a unifying theory for Earth, but does it relate to volcanism on
Mars? Evidence for plate boundaries was searched for as Mars geology was revealed
through steadily improving global imaging, but no compelling case could be made for
widespread plate tectonics having taken place on Mars. An exception is the artful inter-
pretation of volcanism and tectonism in and around the low northern plains of Mars,
which was interpreted to indicate old plate tectonic processes (Sleep, 1994), but this
hypothesis has not been validated by subsequent researchers. Gravity measurements
for Mars, obtained from orbiting spacecraft with steadily improved radio tracking capa-
bilities, provided a robust indication of the crustal thickness across the planet; the north-
ern lowlands do have some of the thinnest crust on Mars, but it is still tens of kilometers
thick there, and crustal thickness elsewhere is >80 km (Zuber, 2001; Neumann et al., 2004).
At half the diameter of Earth, Mars lost its heat much faster than did our home planet;
unlike Mars, Earth had sufficient internal heat resources to support active plate tectonics
for billions of years. Mars can be viewed as a “single plate planet,” with a geophysical set-
ting that is far different from that of the active Earth. The ongoing InSight mission to Mars
seeks to identify whether Mars is still tectonically active via the placement of an extremely
sensitive seismometer on to the surface of Mars (Banerdt, 2020).
1.6 Samples from Mars

Most people do not realize that we have >260 samples from Mars, none of which were
obtained as a result of a spacecraft mission (see Section 8.6). A unique group of meteorites
is named after three individual meteorite falls that represent distinct chemical and tex-
tural subsets of the group: Shergotty, Nakhla, and Chassigny; hence the term SNC is
applied to the entire group (McSween, 1994). How do we know that the SNC meteorites
came from Mars? Innovative measurements made on one of these rocks, EETA 79001, a
shergottite collected from Antarctica in 1979 (Fig. 1.8), demonstrated that gases trapped
within glassy portions of the rock were unlike anything obtained from other meteorites,
nor like the atmosphere of Earth, nor similar to any gases derived from rocks or soils col-
lected on the Moon, but the liberated gases from the meteorite were exactly like what the
Viking landers measured in the atmosphere of Mars (Becker and Pepin, 1984).
The shergottite members of the SNCs are basaltic in chemistry and volcanic in texture,
similar to something you might find on a lava flow in Hawai’i (Hartmann and Neukum,
2001), except that the SNCs mostly range in age from 0.17 to 1.4 Ga, less than a third
the age of essentially all other meteorites (McSween, 1994, 2008; Nyquist et al., 2001). This
was a key piece of evidence along with the trapped gases, because most other potential
sources for meteorites would not have been volcanically active at this “recent” time in
the history of the solar system. The SNCs also lack something present in many other
FIG. 1.8 Martian meteorite. Sawed face of a basaltic shergottite meteorite, the first meteorite identified having
Martian atmosphere trapped inside the glassy portions of the meteorite. 1 cm cube, at lower left. Recovered from
Elephant Moraine in Antarctica during the 1979 collecting season. NASA photo S80-37631.
common meteorites: small round features called chondrules, among the oldest materials
available from the early solar system (Norton, 2002, pp. 166–174). The unique trapped vol-
atile chemistry convinced the science community that the SNCs did come from Mars, but
we do not know for sure where on the planet they came from.
Possible impact craters as potential sources for some of the SNC group have been iden-
tified using orbital data (e.g., Tornabene et al., 2006; Werner et al., 2014), but these data
cannot yet confirm a link to specific meteorites (see Section 3.8). The Opportunity rover
studied one rock (Bounce Rock) that is chemically very similar to the lithology B part of
EETA 79001 as well as to QUE 94201, both collected from Antarctica (Zipfel et al., 2011).
Unfortunately, Bounce Rock is not in place (i.e., it was ejected from somewhere else on
Mars); 19-km-diameter crater Bopolu is 75 km southeast of where Bounce Rock was exam-
ined, but definitive connection of Bopolu properties to both Bounce Rock and to the
Martian meteorites similar to it remains elusive (Zipfel et al., 2011).
One SNC is distinct from the others in the group and deserves brief discussion. ALH
84001 is an orthopyroxenite cumulate rock, meaning that it is composed of crystals that
accumulated in a magma body that solidified within the near-surface crust. It is the oldest
of the SNC meteorites at 4.5 Ga, making it a sample from the ancient Martian crust
(Nyquist et al., 2001). This rock gained worldwide notoriety with the publication of a paper
saying that the meteorite contained possible fossilized evidence of microbial life on Mars
(McKay et al., 1996). This conclusion was controversial for many years; today, most
researchers do not consider the evidence supportive of ancient Martian life (Sawyer,
2006; Treiman, 2004). In spite of this, carbonate veins in ALH 84001, where the putative
microbial features were found, are definitive evidence that liquid water flowed through
cracks in the ancient Martian crust.
1.7 Chronology
How does one determine the “age” of a rock? On Earth, fossils in the rocks themselves, as
well as in surrounding rock layers, provide a robust means to constrain the age of rocks
that were deposited since the time that multicellular life forms left macroscopic evidence
of their existence, but this is not possible for Martian rocks (as far as we know). Relative
age can be determined from how adjacent rock units are in contact; if local vertical can be
established for when the rocks were emplaced, then superposition indicates younger
rocks on top of older ones; where faults are present, crosscutting relationships can often
be determined, revealing a relative age sequence; erosional degradation can provide an
indication of how long the rocks have been exposed to the eroding environment. None
of these relative ages tell us about the absolute age, the quantified time since formation
(in years). The nucleus of radioactive elements emits particles like protons and neutrons,
altering the atomic weight and thus the composition of the host atoms, with different time
scales for the various decay paths. Precise measurement of the abundance of parent and
offspring materials allows a rock to be dated through this process, something called geo-
chronology (Press and Siever, 1974, pp. 68–77). Making use of good rock ages requires that
we know precisely where the sampled rock came from, and so far, we do not have that
information for any available Martian samples.
Lacking radiometric ages from well-documented samples, scientists constrain ages by
counting impact craters on planetary surfaces; the longer the surface has been exposed,
the more craters (per unit area) are present (Mutch et al., 1976, pp. 123–138). Models for
the rate and size distribution of impacting objects hitting Mars allow crater records to be
related to absolute ages (Hartmann and Neukum, 2001; Neukum et al., 2001), but even so,
such ages will remain “model ages” until documented samples from Mars can calibrate
the model cratering curves. A first step toward that goal occurred when the Curiosity rover
used its mass spectrometer to determine the radiometric age (4.21 0.35 Ga) of a mud-
stone (sedimentary) rock that the rover sampled on the floor of Gale crater (Farley
et al., 2014). Martian ages cited throughout this book should be taken as the best estimate
currently available until many radiometric ages for documented Martian samples can
calibrate the Martian cratering record.
1.8 Outline of the book

The remainder of this book will lead the reader through a discussion of our current under-
standing of the volcanic history of Mars. Each chapter can stand on its own, but each
includes many references to sections in other chapters. The volcanoes are described using
a regional approach to place individual volcanoes within the regional context of each vol-
canic province; this approach differs from a more traditional treatment of volcanoes based
on a grouping of construct type, but the unique setting of each Martian volcanic province
led to the organizational plan adopted here. Following are brief descriptions of the sub-
sequent chapters to show the reader where we are headed:
Chapter 2: Areography. The geography of Mars (replacing “geo” for Earth with “areo”
for Mars), with particular emphasis on describing the regional setting for the volcanic
provinces.
Chapter 3: The Tharsis Province. The province covering the greatest area and having
the largest central volcanoes, along with many smaller volcanic constructs.
Chapter 4: The Elysium Province. The second largest volcanic province on Mars,
which includes some constructs steeper than the Tharsis volcanoes, and thus likely
with different composition or eruptive history.
Chapter 5: The Circum-Hellas Province. The oldest volcanic province, with volcanoes
very different in shape, and therefore emplacement conditions, from those found in
Tharsis and Elysium.
Chapter 6: The Syrtis Major/Highlands Province. One of the largest volcanoes by
surface area (and in the region of the Mars 2020 landing site), plus isolated volcanic
vents scattered throughout the Martian highlands.
Chapter 7: The Medusae Fossae formation. An enormous deposit subject to intense
wind erosion, potentially a result of voluminous pyroclastic eruptions (although this
hypothesis remains unconfirmed).
Chapter 8: Igneous Composition. Information about Martian rocks obtained from the
rovers and the study of Martian meteorites, with ongoing modeling efforts to put this
information into a global context.
Chapter 9: Volcanic “Cousins.” Comparison of Martian volcanoes with volcanic
features observed on other planets and moons throughout the solar system.
Chapter 10: The future. What’s next? Implications of what we have learned so far for
what we should learn in the near future from various missions to Mars.
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Zuber, M.T., 2001. The crust and mantle of Mars. Nature 412, 220–227.
FIG. 2.1 Topography of Mars. (A) Global topography (color hillshade) of Mars from Mars Orbiter Laser Altimeter
(MOLA). Equatorial region in Mercator projection and poles in stereographic projection. NASA/JPL/GSFC (NASA
Photojournal PIA02031). (B) MOLA color hillshade showing topography of Martian surface in orthographic
projection. Spatial resolution is 15 km at the equator and vertical accuracy is <5 m. Image at left shows the
Tharsis Volcanic Province and image at right shows area extending from the Hellas basin (lower left) to the
Elysium Volcanic Province (upper right). NASA/JPL/GSFC (NASA Photojournal PIA02820).
2
Areography
David A. Crowna,∗ and James R. Zimbelmanb
a
P LANE TARY SCI ENCE INST IT UTE, T UC SON, A Z, UNI TE D STAT ES
b
S M I TH S O N IAN IN S T IT UT IO N , WAS HI N G TO N, D C, UN I TE D STA T ES
∗CORRESPONDING AUTHOR . E -MAIL ADDRESS: CROWN @P S I .EDU
2.1 Introduction
In this chapter, we provide a basic introduction to the geography of Mars, or areography
(Ares is the Greek god of war; Mars is the Roman god of war), so that the reader can under-
stand the context of the volcanic terrains discussed in the chapters that follow (Fig. 2.1).
This book presents the current state of knowledge on volcanoes on Mars from a geo-
graphic perspective, building on studies of Martian volcanic landforms from a vast array
of orbital datasets acquired by numerous spacecraft. Imaging and topographic datasets
are the foundation for characterizing Martian volcanoes. Images of the Martian surface
now show details at the submeter scale, and visible, near-infrared, and thermal infrared
wavelengths provide complementary information on surface properties. This book draws
upon geologic maps that have been generated for various parts of the Martian surface.
Geologic mapping has provided valuable syntheses of our knowledge of volcanic terrains
over the five decades of intense exploration of the surface of the Red Planet (Fig. 2.2).
2.2 Physiography
From a global perspective, Mars has two main physiographic regions separated by 5 km
in relief. The southern cratered highlands dominate the southern hemisphere and exhibit
landscapes largely formed by impact craters ranging in size from the limits of image res-
olution to the 2000-km-across Hellas basin (see Chapter 5). The topographic and mor-
phologic expressions of impact craters vary considerably from well preserved to highly
degraded forms. The modified nature of pristine crater morphology that was observed
by early spacecraft, and that distinguishes Mars from other rocky planets, remains to this
day a critical observation for understanding Martian geologic and climate histories (e.g.,
Squyres et al., 1992; Howard, 2007).
The northern lowland plains form a vast expanse of relatively smooth and less densely cra-
tered terrain that surround the north polar ice cap. The northern lowland-southern highland
boundary is referred to as the Martian crustal dichotomy boundary. The shape, size, and
topographic depression of the Martian northern lowlands are most commonly attributed
to the occurrence of one or more gigantic impact events early in Martian history that removed
The Volcanoes of Mars. https://doi.org/10.1016/B978-0-12-822876-0.00004-7 21

FIG. 2.2 Geologic map of Mars. (A) Global geologic map of Mars by Tanaka et al. (2014a,b). See pubs.er.usgs.gov/
publication/sim3292 for full map sheet and explanatory information. (B) Volcanic units from global geologic map of
Mars by Tanaka et al. (2014a,b) displayed over MOLA grayscale hillshade (16 pixels/degree) in simple cylindrical
projection (center longitude ¼ 0). Labels refer to volcanic features discussed herein and indicate the locations of
US and Russian landing sites (through 2017). Note: The Medusae Fossae Formation (MFF) is mapped as a transition
unit by Tanaka et al. (2014a,b).
Chapter 2 • Areography 23
ancient cratered terrain and thinned the crust, although there is still scientific disagreement
over precisely how the crustal dichotomy formed. The dichotomy boundary includes areas of
cratered terrain that have undergone partial collapse (e.g., Arabia Terra) and younger basin
filling materials deposited into degraded basins along the margin of the northern lowlands
(e.g., Chryse and Isidis), but is largely overprinted by extensive volcanic deposits, including
those of the Tharsis Volcanic Province (see Chapter 3), the Elysium Volcanic Province (see
Chapter 4), and the Medusae Fossae Formation (see Chapter 7).
The Tharsis Volcanic Province (see Chapter 3) is the largest volcanic province on Mars. It
contains some of the largest shield volcanoes in the solar system (including Olympus Mons),
an array of interesting smaller volcanic edifices, and widespread plains formed by vast lava
flow fields surrounding the high-standing volcanic edifices (see cover image). The Elysium
Volcanic Province (Chapter 4) is the second largest and most prominent concentration of vol-
canic landforms on the Martian surface and also occurs near the highland–lowland bound-
ary. The steep flanks of Elysium Mons are an intriguing contrast to the Tharsis shields; the
Elysium Volcanic Province also includes Albor Tholus and Hecates Tholus and numerous
lava flows that form a large apron surrounding Elysium Mons. Along the southeast margin
of the province, volcanic and fluvial activity are comingled, and some of the most recent erup-
tive products on Mars appear to have emanated from Cerberus Fossae (e.g., Berman and
Hartmann, 2002; Plescia, 2003; Jaeger et al., 2007; Platz and Michael, 2011).
A series of ancient, relatively flat highland volcanoes (classified initially as highland
paterae) have been identified in the terrains surrounding the Hellas impact basin. These com-
prise the Circum-Hellas Volcanic Province (see Chapter 5), the oldest volcanic province on
Mars. Syrtis Major (Chapter 6) is a large, broad shield that exhibits one of the largest planform
areas of any Martian volcano (along with Alba Mons). Its summit region includes a distinctive
caldera complex that contains olivine-rich basaltic sand dunes. The Medusae Fossae Forma-
tion (Chapter 7), one of the most voluminous and areally extensive geologic formations on
Mars, is located between the Tharsis and Elysium volcanic provinces along the dichotomy
boundary. Although its origin is still controversial, it is most often attributed to the results
of enormous explosive volcanic eruptions whose deposits have been reshaped by the wind.
2.3 Background: Martian volcanoes

Spacecraft exploration of Mars began in the 1960s with a series of Mariner flyby missions
(see Chapter 1) that acquired images of cratered surfaces on Mars and close-up views of
the albedo features that had long been observed and studied from Earth. The Mariner 9
mission that arrived at Mars in 1971 was an orbiter (the first spacecraft to orbit another
planet) that initiated the modern era of intense geological exploration of Mars that con-
tinues to this day. One of the early results of the Mariner 9 mission was to “discover” vol-
canoes on Mars, as they revealed themselves above a global dust storm that obscured the
surface in the early days of the mission. Four dark spots in the Tharsis region were the
summit regions of the massive Tharsis shield volcanoes (see Fig. 1.4). These observations
of Tharsis volcanoes distinguished Mars as a geologically diverse planet and started the
quest to understand Martian volcanology.
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being present. I remember, though vaguely, David, Kalliwoda, Hiller;
I doubt whether Schumann and Clara Wieck were present. Well,
Liszt appeared in his Hungarian costume, wild and magnificent. He
told Mendelssohn that he had written something special for him. He
sat down, and swaying right and left on his music-stool, played first a
Hungarian melody, and then three or four variations, one more
incredible than the other.
We stood amazed, and after everybody had paid his compliments
to the hero of the day, some of Mendelssohn’s friends gathered
round him, and said: “Ah, Felix, now we can pack up (‘jetzt können
wir einpacken’). No one can do that; it is over with us!” Mendelssohn
smiled; and when Liszt came up to him asking him to play something
in turn, he laughed and said that he never played now; and this, to a
certain extent, was true. He did not give much time to practising
then, but worked chiefly at composing and directing his concerts.
However, Liszt would take no refusal, and so at last little
Mendelssohn, with his own charming playfulness, said: “Well, I’ll
play, but you must promise me not to be angry.” And what did he
play? He sat down and played first of all Liszt’s Hungarian Melody,
and then one variation after another, so that no one but Liszt himself
could have told the difference. We all trembled lest Liszt should be
offended, for Mendelssohn could not keep himself from slightly
imitating Liszt’s movements and raptures. However, Mendelssohn
managed never to offend man, woman, or child. Liszt laughed and
applauded, and admitted that no one, not he himself, could have
performed such a bravura. Many years after I saw Liszt once more,
at the last visit he paid to London. He came to the Lyceum to see
Irving and Ellen Terry act in “Faust.” The whole theatre rose when
the old, bent Maestro appeared in the dress circle. When the play
was over, I received an invitation from Mr., now Sir Henry, Irving to
join a supper party in honour of Liszt. I could not resist, though I was
staying with friends in London and had no latch-key. It was a
brilliant affair. Rooms had been fitted up on purpose with old
armour, splendid pictures, gorgeous curtains. We sat down, about
thirty people; I knew hardly anybody, though they were all known to
fame, and not to know them was to profess oneself unknown.
However, I was placed next to Liszt, and I reminded him of those
early Leipzig days. He was not in good spirits; he would not speak
English, though Ellen Terry sat on his right side, and, as she would
not speak German or French, I had to interpret as well as I could,
and it was not always easy. At last Miss Ellen Terry turned to me and
said: “Tell Liszt that I can speak German,” and when he turned to
listen, she said in her girlish, bell-like voice: “Lieber Liszt, ich liebe
Dich.” I hope I am not betraying secrets; anyhow, as I have been
indiscreet once, I may as well say what happened to me afterwards. It
was nearly 3 A.M. when I reached my friend’s house. With great
difficulty I was able to rouse a servant to let me in, and when the next
morning I was asked where I had been, great was the dismay when I
said that I had had supper at the Lyceum. Liszt had promised to
come to stay with me at Oxford, but the day when I expected him, the
following note arrived from Amsterdam, probably one of the last he
ever wrote:—
A few weeks after, I saw his death announced in the papers.

And thus Liszt left the stage. I saw his entrance and his exit, and
when I asked myself, What has he left behind? I could only think of
the new school of brilliant executionists of which he may truly be
called the founder and life-long apostle. I confess that, though I feel
dazzled at the impossibilities which he and his pupils perform with
their ten fingers, I often sigh for an Allegro or an Andante by Haydn
and Mozart as they were played in my young days with simplicity and
purity on very imperfect instruments. Players now seem to think of
themselves only, not of the musical poets whose works they are to
render. Mendelssohn, Clara Wieck (Madame Schumann) even
Moscheles and Hummel acted as faithful interpreters. On listening to
them, exquisite as their execution was, one thought far more of what
they played than how they played. That time is gone, and no one has
now, or will ever have again, the courage to bring it back. If one
wants to enjoy a sonata of Haydn one has to play it oneself or hum it,
because the old fingers will not do their work any longer.
And Mendelssohn also, whom I had known as a young man, said
good-bye to me for the last time in London. It was after the first
performance of his “Elijah” in 1847. He too said he would come again
next year, and then came the news of his sudden death. I saw him
last at Bunsen’s house, where he played at a matinée musicale always
ready to please and oblige his friends, always amiable and charming,
even under great provocation. Only once I remember seeing him
almost beside himself with anger, and well he might be. He
possessed a most valuable album, with letters, poems, pictures,
compositions of the most illustrious men of the age, such as Goethe
and others. The binding had somewhat suffered, so it was sent to be
mended, and I was present when it came back. It was at his sister’s
house, Fanny Hensel’s, at Berlin. Mendelssohn opened the album,
jumped up and screamed. The binder had cut off the blue skies and
tree-tops of all the Italian sketches, and the signatures of most of the
poems and letters. This was too much for Felix, he was for once
infelix. Still, happy and serene as his life certainly was, for he had
everything a man of his talents could desire, there were bitter drops
in it of which the world knew little, and need not know anything now.
There are things we know, important things which the world would
be glad to know. But we bury them; they are to be as if they had
never been, like letters that are reduced to ashes and can never be
produced again by friends or enemies.
He was devoted to his sister Fanny, who was married to Hensel the
painter, an intimate friend of my father. When I was a student at
Berlin, I was much in their house in the Leipziger Strasse, and heard
many a private concert given in the large room looking out on the
garden. Mendelssohn played almost every instrument in the
orchestra, and had generally to play the instrument which he was
supposed to play worst. When he played the pianoforte, he was
handicapped by being made to play with his arms crossed. All the
celebrities of Berlin (and Berlin was then rich in celebrities) were
present at those musical gatherings, and Mendelssohn was the life of
the whole. He was never quiet for a moment, moving from chair to
chair and conversing with everybody.
Boeckh, the great Greek scholar, lived in the same house, and
Mendelssohn had received so good a classical education that he
could hold his own when discussing with the old master the choruses
of the Antigone. Mendelssohn was, in fact, a man teres et rotundus.
He was at home in classical literature, he spoke French and English,
he was an exquisite draughtsman, and had seen the greatest works of
the greatest painters, ancient and modern. His father, a rich banker
in Berlin, had done all he could for the education of his children. He
was the son of Mendelssohn the philosopher, and when his son Felix
had become known to fame, he used to say with his slightly Jewish
accent: “When I was young I was called the son of the great
Mendelssohn; now that I am old I am called the father of the great
Mendelssohn; then, what am I?” Well, he found the wherewithal that
enabled his son, and his other children too, to become what they
were, all worthy of their great grandfather, all worthy of the name of
Mendelssohn.
Die glückliche Fischerin.
Felix was attached to both his sisters, Fanny and Rebekah

(Dirichlet), but he was more particularly devoted to Fanny (Hensel).
They had been educated together. She knew Greek and Latin like her
brother, she played perfectly, and composed so well that her brother
published several of her compositions under his own name. They
were one spirit and one soul, and at that time ladies still shrank from
publicity. Everybody knew which songs were hers (I remember, for
instance, “Schöner und Schöner schmückt sich die Flur”), and it was
only later in life that she began to publish under her own name. I
give the beginning of a song which she wrote for my mother. The
words are my father’s, the little vignette was drawn by her husband,
who was an eminent artist at Berlin.
The struggles which many, if not most men of genius, more
particularly musicians, have had to pass through were unknown to
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. Some people go so far as to say that
they miss the traces of those struggles in his character and in his
music. And yet those who knew him best know that his soul, too,
knew its own bitterness. His happiest years were no doubt spent at
Leipzig, where I saw much of him while I was at school and at the
University. He was loved and admired by everybody; he was
undisputed master in the realm of music. He was at first unmarried,
and many were the rumours as to who should be his bride. News had
reached his friends that his heart had been won by a young lady at
Frankfurt; but nobody, not even his most intimate friends, knew for
certain. However, one evening he had just returned from Frankfurt,
and had to conduct one of the Gewandhaus Concerts. The last piece
was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I had sung in the chorus, and
found myself on the orchestra when the concert was over, the room
nearly empty, except his personal friends, who surrounded him and
teased him about his approaching engagement. His beaming face
betrayed him, but he would say nothing to anybody, till at last he sat
down and extemporised on the pianoforte. And what was the theme
of his fantasy? It was the passage of the chorus, “Wer ein holdes
Weib errungen, mische seinen Jubel ein.” That was his confession to
his friends, and then we all knew. And she was indeed “ein holdes
Weib” when she arrived at Leipzig. One thing only she lacked—she
could not express all she felt. She was soon called the “Goddess of
Silence” by the side of her devoted husband, who never could be
silent, but was always bubbling over like champagne in a small glass.
They were a devoted couple, not a whisper was ever heard about
either of them, though Mendelssohn had many friends, the greatest
of all being his sister Fanny. With her he could speak and exchange
whatever was uppermost or deepest in his heart. I have heard them
extemporise together on the pianoforte, one holding with his little
finger the little finger of the other. Her death was the heaviest loss he
ever suffered in life. He was so unaccustomed to suffering and
distress that he could never recover from this unexpected blow. Nor
did he survive her long. She died on the 14th of May, 1847; he
followed her on the 4th of November of the same year.
During most of the time when Mendelssohn celebrated his
triumphs as director of the Gewandhaus Concerts, young Robert
Schumann was at Leipzig, but he was little seen. Mendelssohn, so
bright and happy himself, wished to see the whole world around him
bright and happy, and was kind to everybody. The idea of jealousy
was impossible at that time in Mendelssohn’s heart. Neither could
Schumann, as a young and rising musician, have thought himself
then to be in any sense an equal or rival of Mendelssohn. But there
are natures which like to be left alone, or with a very few intimate
friends only, and which shrink from the too demonstrative happiness
of others. It is not envy, it often is modesty; but in any case it is not
pleasant. Schumann was conscious of his own strength, but he was
still struggling for recognition, and he was also struggling against
that adversity of fortune which seems to decree poverty to be the lot
of genius. There was another struggle going on, a struggle which is
generally fought out in private, but which in his case was carried on
before the eyes of the world, at least the musical world of Leipzig. He
was devoted to a young pianoforte player, Clara Wieck. But her
father, a great teacher of music, would not allow the marriage. He
had devoted years of his life to the musical education of his daughter,
and then, as she was just beginning to earn applause for herself and
her master, as well as the pecuniary reward for their combined
labours, a young musician, poor, and not yet recognised, wished to
carry her off. Parents have flinty hearts, and the father said “No.”
Many a time have I watched young Schumann walking alone in the
neighbourhood of Leipzig, being unexpectedly met by a young lady,
both looking not so happy as I thought that under the circumstances
they ought. This went on for some time, till at last, as usual, the
severe or flinty-hearted father had to give way, and allow a marriage
which certainly for many years was the realisation of the most perfect
happiness, till it ended in a terrible tragedy. There was the seed of
madness in the genius of Schumann as in that of so many really great
men, and in an access of mania he sought and found rest where
Ophelia sought and found it.
I did not see much of Schumann, nor of Madame Schumann, in
later life, though in concerts in London I often admired her exquisite
rendering of her husband’s compositions. I only recollect Schumann
as a young man sitting generally in a corner of the orchestra, and
listening to one of his works being performed under Mendelssohn’s
direction. I remember his very large head, his drooping eyes; I hardly
ever remember a smile on his face. And yet the man must have been
satisfied, if not happy, who could write such music as his, who could
write, “Wohlauf noch getrunken den funklenden Wein!” and he lived
to see his own creations admired more even than those of
Mendelssohn. He lived to see his critics turned into admirers; in fact
he educated his public, and gained a place for that thoughtful,
wistful, fairy-like music which is peculiarly his own.
Many celebrated musicians stayed at Leipzig during
Mendelssohn’s reign. I remember Moscheles, Thalberg, Sterndale
Bennett, Clara Novello, young and fascinating, and many more.
Another friend of Mendelssohn who stayed some time at Leipzig was
Ferdinand Hiller. We heard several of his compositions, symphonies
and all the rest, performed at the Gewandhaus Concerts under
Mendelssohn’s direction. In his life there was, perhaps, too little of
the dira necessitas that has given birth to so many of the
masterpieces of genius. He might, no doubt, have produced much
more than he did; but that he was striving to the very end of his life
was proved to me by an interesting letter I received from him about a
year before his death. His idea was to write a great oratorio, and he
wanted me to supply him with a text. It was a colossal plan, and I
confess it seemed to me beyond the power of any musician, nay, of
any poet. It was to be a historical drama, representing first of all the
great religions of the world, each by itself. We were to have the
hymns of the Veda, the Gâthas of the Avesta, the Psalms of the Old
Testament, the Sermons and Dialogues of Buddha, the trumpet-calls
of Mohammed, and, lastly, the Sermon on the Mount, all of them
together forming one mighty symphony in which no theme was lost,
yet all became in the end an accompaniment of one sweet song of
love dominating the full chorus of the ancient religions of the world.
It was a grand idea, but was it possible to realise it? I was ready to
help, but before a year was over I received the news of Hiller’s death,
and who is the musician to take his place, always supposing that he
could have achieved such a World Oratorio?
It was in the last year of his life that Mendelssohn paid his last visit
to England to conduct his last oratorio, the “Elijah.” It had to be
performed at Exeter Hall, then the best place for sacred music. Most
of the musicians, however, were not professionals, and they had only
bound themselves to attend a certain number of rehearsals. Excellent
as they were in such oratorios as the “Messiah,” which they knew by
heart, a new oratorio, such as the “Elijah,” was too much for them;
and I well remember Mendelssohn, in the afternoon before the
performance, declaring he would not conduct.
“Oh, these tailors and shoemakers,” he said, “they cannot do it,
and they will not practise! I shall not go.” However, a message
arrived that the Queen and Prince Albert were to be present, so
nothing remained but to go. I was present, the place was crowded.
Mendelssohn conducted, and now and then made a face, but no one
else detected what was wrong. It was a great success and a great
triumph for Mendelssohn. If he could have heard it performed as it
was performed at Exeter Hall in later years, when his tailors and
shoemakers knew it by heart, he would not have made a face.
It was at Bunsen’s house, at a matinée musicale, that I saw him
last. He took the liveliest interest in my work, the edition of the Rig
Veda, the Sacred Hymns of the Brâhmans. A great friend of his,
Friedrich Rosen, had begun the same work, but had died before the
first volume was finished. He was a brother of the wife of
Mendelssohn’s great friend, Klingemann, then Hanoverian Chargé
d’Affaires in London, a poet many of whose poems were set to music
by Mendelssohn. So Mendelssohn knew all about the Sacred Hymns
of the Brâhmans, and talked very intelligently about the Veda. He
was, however, subjected to a very severe trial of patience soon after.
The room was crowded with what is called the best society of
London, and Mendelssohn being asked to play, never refused. He
played several things, and at last Beethoven’s so-called “Moonlight
Sonata.” All was silence and delight; no one moved, no one breathed
aloud. Suddenly in the middle of the Adagio, a stately dowager sitting
in the front row was so carried away by the rhythm, rather than by
anything else, of Beethoven’s music, that she began to play with her
fan, and accompanied the music by letting it open and shut with each
bar. Everybody stared at her, but it took time before she perceived
her atrocity, and at last allowed her fan to collapse. Mendelssohn in
the meantime kept perfectly quiet, and played on; but, when he could
stand it no longer, he simply repeated the last bar in arpeggios again
and again, following the movements of her fan; and when at last the
fan stopped, he went on playing as if nothing had happened. I dare
say that when the old dowager thanked him for the great treat he had
given her, he bowed without moving a muscle of his inspired face.
How different from another player who, when disturbed by some
noise in the audience, got up in a rage and declared that either she or
the talker must leave the room.
And yet I have no doubt the old lady enjoyed the music in her own
way, for there are many ways of enjoying music. I have known people
who could not play a single instrument, who could not sing “God
save the Queen” to save their life, in eloquent raptures about
Mendelssohn, nay, about Beethoven and Bach. I believe they are
perfectly honest in their admiration, though how it is done I cannot
tell. I began by saying that people who have no music in them need
not be traitors, and I alluded to my dear friend Stanley. He actually
suffered from listening to music, and whenever he could, he walked
out of the room where there was music. He never disguised his
weakness, he never professed any love or admiration for music, and
yet Jenny Lind once told me he paid her the highest compliment she
had ever received. Stanley was very fond of Jenny Lind, but when she
stayed at his father’s palace at Norwich he always left the room when
she sang. One evening Jenny Lind had been singing Händel’s “I
know that my Redeemer liveth.” Stanley, as usual, had left the room,
but he came back after the music was over, and went shyly up to
Jenny Lind. “You know,” he said, “I dislike music; I don’t know what
people mean by admiring it. I am very stupid, tone-deaf, as others
are colourblind. But,” he said with some warmth, “to-night, when
from a distance I heard you singing that song, I had an inkling of
what people mean by music. Something came over me which I had
never felt before; or, yes, I had felt it once before in my life.” Jenny
Lind was all attention. “Some years ago,” he continued, “I was at
Vienna, and one evening there was a tattoo before the palace
performed by four hundred drummers. I felt shaken, and to-night
while listening to your singing, the same feeling came over me; I felt
deeply moved.” “Dear man,” she added, “I know he meant it, and a
more honest compliment I never received in all my life.”
However, unmusical as Stanley’s house was, Jenny Lind, or Mrs.
Goldschmidt as she was then, often came to stay there. “It is so nice,”
she said; “no one talks music, there is not even a pianoforte in the
house.” This did not last long however. A few days after she said to
me: “I hear you have a pianoforte in your rooms at All Souls’. Would
you mind my practising a little?” And practise she did, and delightful
it was. She even came to dine in College, and after dinner she said in
the most charming way: “Do you think your friends would like me to
sing?” Of course, I could not have asked her to sing, but there was no
necessity for asking my friends. In fact, not only my friends listened
with delight to her singing, but the whole quadrangle of All Souls’
was black with uninvited listeners, and the applause after each song
was immense, both inside and outside the walls of the College.
Stanley’s feeling about music reminds me of another music-hater
at Oxford, the late Dr. Gaisford, the famous Dean of Christ Church. It
was he who put my name on the books of “The House,” a very great
honour to an unknown German scholar on whom the University, at
his suggestion, had just conferred the degree of M.A. What the
Dean’s idea of music was may best be judged from his constantly
appointing old scouts or servants who were too old to do their work
any longer as bedmakers to be singing men in the Cathedral choir.
The Dean’s stall was under the organ, and one day in every month,
when “The voice of Thy thunder was heard round about, and the
lightnings shone upon the ground, and the earth was moved and
shook withal,” a certain key in the organ made the seat on which the
Dean sat vibrate under him. On that day, before he left the Cathedral,
he invariably thanked the organist, Dr. Corfe, for the nice tune he
had played.
Music, in fact, was at a very low ebb at Oxford when I arrived
there. The young men would have considered it almost infra
dignitatem to play any instrument; the utmost they would do was
now and then to sing a song. Yet there was much love of music, and
many of my young and old friends were delighted when I would play
to them. There was only one other person at Oxford then who was a
real musician and who played well, Professor Donkin, a great
mathematician, and altogether a man sui generis. He was a great
invalid; in fact, he was dying all the years I knew him, and was fully
aware of it. It seemed to be quite admissible, therefore, that he, being
an invalid, and I, being a German, should “make music” at evening
parties; but to ask a head of a house or a professor, or even a senior
tutor, to play would have been considered almost an insult. And yet I
feel certain there is more love, more honest enjoyment of music in
England than anywhere else.
And how has the musical tide risen at Oxford since those days!
Some of the young men now come up to college as very good
performers on the pianoforte and other instruments. I never know
how they learn it, considering the superior claims which cricket,
football, the river, nay, the classics and mathematics also have on
their time at school. There are musical clubs now at Oxford where
the very best classical music may be heard performed by
undergraduates with the assistance of some professional players
from London. All this is due to the influence of Sir F. Ouseley, and
still more of Sir John Stainer, both professors of Music at Oxford.
They have made music not only respectable, but really admired and
loved among the undergraduates. Sir John Stainer has been
indefatigable, and the lectures which he gives both on the science
and history of music are crowded by young and old. They are real
concerts, in which he is able to illustrate all he has to say with the
help of a well-trained choir of Oxford amateurs. As to myself, I have
long become a mere listener. One learns the lesson, whether one
likes it or not, that there is a time for everything. Old fingers grow
stiff and will no longer obey, and if one knows how a sonata of
Beethoven ought to be played, it is most painful to play it badly. So at
last I said: “Farewell!” The sun has set, though the clouds are roseate
still with reflected rays. It may be that I have given too much time to
music, but what would life have been without it? I do not like to
exaggerate, or say anything that is not quite true. Musical ears grow
sensitive to anything false, whether sharp or flat. But let us be quite
honest, quite plain. Is there not in music, and in music alone of all
the arts, something that is not entirely of this earth? Harmony and
rhythm may be under settled laws; and in that sense mathematicians
may be right when they call mathematics silent music. But whence
comes melody? Surely not from what we hear in the street, or in the
woods, or on the sea-shore, not from anything that we hear with our
outward ears, and are able to imitate, to improve, or to sublimise.
Neither history nor evolution will help us to account for Schubert’s
“Trockne Blumen.” Here, if anywhere, we see the golden stairs on
which angels descend from heaven to earth, and whisper sweet
sounds into the ears of those who have ears to hear. Words cannot be
so inspired, for words, we know, are of the earth earthy. Melodies,
however, are not of this earth, and the greatest of musical poets has
truly said:—
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS
I
I am the son of a poet, and I have tried very hard all my life not to
be a poet myself, if poet means a man who tries to make his thoughts
dance gracefully in the chains of metre and rhyme. In my own very
prosaic work I have had to suffer all my life from suppressed poetry,
as one suffers from suppressed gout. Poets will, no doubt, protest
most emphatically against so low a view of their art. They assure us
that they never feel their chains, and that they are perfectly free in
giving expression to their thoughts in rhyme and metre. Some of the
more honest among them have even gone so far as to confess that
their best thoughts had often been suggested to them by the rhyme.
Platen may be quite right when he says:
Was stets und aller Orten sich ewig jung erweist
Ist in gebundenen Worten ein ungebundener Geist.
(What proves itself eternal in every place and time

Is an unfettered spirit, free in the chains of rhyme.)
True, very true. You may get that now and then, but in our modern
languages it is but seldom that thought soars up quite free on the
wings of rhyme. Many and many a thought sinks down because of
the weight of the rhyme, many and many a thought remains
altogether unspoken because it will not submit to the strait jacket of
the rhyme; many and many a poor thought is due entirely to an
irrepressible rhyme; and if some brilliant thoughts have really been
suggested by the rhyme, would it not be better if they had been
suggested by something else, whether you call it mind or soul? The
greatest masters of rhyme, such as Browning in English or Rückert in
German, and even H. Heine, often fall victims to their own mastery.
They spoil their poems in order to show that they can find a rhyme
for anything and everything, however grotesque the rhyme may be. I
remember once being bold enough to ask Tennyson what was the use
or excuse of rhyme. He was not offended, but was quite ready with
his answer: “Rhyme helps the memory,” he said—and that answer
was as honest as it was true. But what is useful for one purpose, for
the purpose of recollecting, may be anything but useful for other
purposes, it may be even hurtful, and in our case it has certainly
proved hurtful again and again to the natural flow and expression of
thought and feeling.
Nor should I venture to say a word against Platen’s gebundene
Worte. It was only the very necessity of finding a word to answer to
time which led me to speak of chains of rhyme. Gebundene Worte
are not necessarily rhymed words, they are measured words, and
these are no doubt quite natural and quite right for poetry. Metre is
measure, and metrical utterance, in that sense, was not only more
natural for the expression of the highest thoughts, but was probably
everywhere more ancient also than prose. In every literature, as far
as we know, poetry came first, prose second. Inspired utterance
requires, nay produces, rhythmic movements not only of the voice
(song and prosodia), but of the body also (dance). In Greek, chorus
means dance, measured movement, and the Greek choruses were
originally dances; nay, it can be proved that these dancing
movements formed really the first metres of true poetry. Hence, it
was quite natural that David should have danced before the Lord
with all his might. Language itself bears witness to the fact that the
oldest metres were the steps and movements of dancers. As the old
dances consisted of steps, the ancient metres consisted of feet. Even
we ourselves still speak of feet, not because we understand what it
means, but simply because the Greeks and Romans spoke of feet,
and they said so because originally the feet really marked the metre.
The ancient poets of the Veda also speak of feet, and they seem to
have been quite aware why they spoke of metrical feet, for in the
names of some of their metres we still find clear traces of the steps of
the dances which accompanied their poems. Trishtubh, one of their
ancient metres, meant three-step; Anushtubh, the later Sloka, meant
by-step[1] or Reigen. The last syllables or steps of each line were
called the Vritta, or the turn, originally the turn of the dancers, who
seem to have been allowed to move more freely till they came to the
end of one movement. Then, before they turned, or while they
turned, they marked the steps more sharply and audibly, either as
iambic or as trochaic, and afterwards marched back again with
greater freedom. Hence in ancient Sanskrit the end or turn of each
line was under stricter rules as to long and short steps, or long and
short syllables, whereas greater freedom was allowed for the rest of a
line. Thus Sanskrit Vritta, the turn, came to mean the metre of the
whole line, just as in Latin we have the same word versus, literally
the turn, then verse, and this turn became the name for verse, and
remained so to the present day. There is no break in our history, and
language is the chain that holds it together. A strophe also was
originally a turning, to be followed by the antistrophe or the return,
all ideas derived from dancing. The ancient Sanskrit name for metre
and metrical or measured speed was Khandas. The verb Khand
would correspond phonetically to Latin scandere, in the sense of
marching, as in a-scendere, to march upward, to mount, and de-
scendere, to march downward, all expressing the same idea of
measured movement, but not of rhyme or jingle. These movements
were free and natural in the beginning; they became artificial when
they became traditional, and we find in such works as the Sanskrit
Vritta-ratnâkara, “the treasury of verse,” every kind of monstrosity
which was perpetrated by Hindu poets of the Renaissance period,
and perpetrated, it must be confessed, with wonderful adroitness.
But I must not tire my friends with these metrical mysteries. What
I want them to know is that in the most ancient Aryan poetry which
we possess there is no trace of rhyme, except here and there by
accident, and that everywhere in the history of the poetry of the
Âryas, rhyme, as essential to poetry, is a very late invention. It is the
same in Semitic languages, though in Semitic as well as in Aryan
speech, in fact, wherever grammatical forms are expressed chiefly by
means of terminations, rhyme even in prose is almost inevitable. And
this was no doubt the origin of rhyme. In languages where
terminations of declension and conjugation and most derivative
suffixes have retained a full-bodied and sonorous form, it was
difficult to avoid the jingle of rhyme. In Latin, which abounds in such
constantly recurring endings as orum, arum, ibus, amus, atis, amini,
tatem, tatibus, inibus, etc., good prose writers had actually to be
warned against allowing their sentences to rhyme, while poets found
it very easy to add these ornamental tails to their measured lines.
There can be little doubt that it was the rhymed Latin poetry, as
used in the services of the Roman Catholic Church, which suggested
to the German converts the idea of rhymed verses. The pagan poetry
of the Teutonic races had no rhymes. It was what is called
alliterative. In the German dialects the accent remained mostly on
the radical syllable of words, and thus served to shorten the
terminations. Hence we find fewer full-bodied terminations in
Gothic than in Latin, while in later Teutonic dialects, in English as
well as in German, these terminations dwindled away more and
more. Thus, we say Di’ chter when the Romans would have
Dicta’ tor, Pre’ diger for prœdica’ tor, cha’ ncel for cance’ lla. In
order to bind their poetical lines together the German poets had
recourse to initial letters, which had to be the same in certain places
of each verse, and which, if pronounced with strong stress or strain,
left the impression of the words being knitted together and belonging
together. Here is a specimen which will show that the rules of
alliteration were very strictly observed by the old German poets, far
more strictly than by their modern imitators. The old rule was that in
a line of eight arses there should be two words in the first and one in
the second half beginning with the same letter, consonant or vowel,
and always in syllables that had the accent. Here is a line from the
old “Song of Hildebrand,” dating from the eighth century:—
Hiltibraht joh Hadhubrant Hiltibraht and Hadhubrant

Untar harjum tuâm, etc. Between hosts twain, etc.
Rückert has imitated this alliterating poetry in his poem of

“Roland”:—
Roland der Ries
Im Rathhaus zu Bremen
Steht er im Standbild
Standhaft und wacht.
Kingsley has attempted something like it in his “Longbeard’s

Saga,” but with much greater freedom, not to say licence:—
Scaring the wolf cub,
Scaring the horn-owl,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down from the pine boughs.
But to return to our modern poetry and to the poets whom I have
known, and of whom I have something to tell, does it not show the
power of tradition if we see them everywhere forcing their feet into
the same small slippers of rhyme? And who would deny that they
have achieved, and still are achieving, wonderful feats?—tours de
force, it is true, but so cleverly performed that one hardly sees a trace
of the force employed. No doubt much is lost in this process of
beating, and hammering, and welding words together (a poet is
called a Reimeschmied, a smith of rhymes, in German); much has to
be thrown away because it will not rhyme at all (silver has been very
badly treated in English poetry, because it rhymes with nothing, at
present not even with gold), but what remains is often very beautiful,
and, as Tennyson said, it sticks to the memory. One wishes one could
add that the difficulty of rhyme serves to reduce the number of
unnecessary poets that spring up every year. But rhyme does not
strangle these numerous children of the Muses, and it is left to our
ill-paid critics to perform every day, or every week, this murder of
the innocents.
It may not seem very filial for the son of a poet thus to blaspheme
against poetry, or rather, against rhyme. Well, I can admire rhymed
poetry, just as I can admire champagne, though if the wine is really
good I think it is a pity to make it mousseux.
H. Heine, who certainly was never at a loss for a rhyme, writes, at
the end of one of his maddest poems, “Die Liebe”: “O Phœbus
Apollo, if these verses are bad, I know thou wilt forgive me, for thou
art an all-knowing god, and knowest quite well why for years I could
not trouble myself any longer with measuring and rhyming words!”
And he adds: “I might, of course, have said all this very well in good
prose.” He ought to know, but there will not be many of his admirers
to agree with him.[2]
I hardly remember having ever seen my father, and I came to know
him chiefly through his poetry. He belonged to the post-Goethe
period, though Goethe (died 1832) survived him. He was born in
1794, and died in 1827, and yet in that short time he established a
lasting reputation not only as a scholar, but as a most popular poet.
His best known poems are the “Griechenlieder,” the Greek songs
which he wrote during the Greek war of independence. Alas! in those
days battles were won by bravery and the sword, now by discipline
and repeating guns. These Greek songs, in which his love of the
ancient Greeks is mingled with his admiration for heroes such as
Kanaris, Mark Bozzaris, and others who helped to shake off the
Turkish yoke, produced a deep impression all over Germany,
perhaps because they breathed the spirit of freedom and patriotism,
which was then systematically repressed in Germany itself. The
Greeks never forgot the services rendered by him in Germany, as by
Lord Byron in England, in rousing a feeling of indignation against
the Turk, and as the marble for Lord Byron’s monument in London
was sent by some Greek admirers of the great poet, the Greek
Parliament voted a shipload of Pentelican marble for the national
monument erected to my father in Dessau.
My father’s lyrical poems also are well known all over Germany,
particularly the cycles of the “Schöne Müllerin” and the
“Winterreise,” both so marvellously set to music by Schubert and
others. He certainly had caught the true tone of the poetry of the
German people, and many of his poems have become national
property, being sung by thousands who do not even know whose
poems they are singing. As a specimen showing the highest point
reached by his poetry, I like to quote his poem on Vineta, the old
town overwhelmed by the sea on the Baltic coast. The English
translation was made for me by my old, now departed, friend, J. A.
Froude:—
VINETA.
I. I.
Aus des Meeres tiefem, tiefem Grunde From the sea’s deep hollow faintly
pealing,
Klingen Abendglocken dumpf und Far-off evening bells come sad and
matt, slow;
Uns zu geben wunderbare Kunde Faintly rise, the wondrous tale
revealing
Von der schönen alten Wunderstadt. Of the old enchanted town below.
II. II.
In der Fluthen Schoss hinabgesunken On the bosom of the flood reclining

Bleiben unten ihre Trümmer stehn, Ruined arch and broken spire,
Ihre Zinnen lassen goldne Funken Down beneath the watery mirror
shining
Wiederscheinend auf dem Spiegel Gleam and flash in flakes of golden
sehn. fire.
III. III.
Und der Schiffer, der den And the boatman who at twilight hour
Zauberschimmer
Einmal sah im hellen Abendroth, Once that magic vision shall have
seen,
Nach derselben Stelle schifft er Heedless how the crags may round
immer, him lour,
Ob auch rings umher die Klippe Evermore will haunt the charmèd
droht. scene.
IV. IV.
Aus des Herzens tiefem, tiefem From the heart’s deep hollow faintly
Grunde pealing,
Klingt es mir, wie Glocken, dumpf Far I hear them, bell-notes sad and
und matt: slow,
Ach! sie geben wunderbare Kunde Ah! a wild and wondrous tale revealing
Von der Liebe, die geliebt es hat. Of the drownèd wreck of love below.
V. V.
Eine schöne Welt is da versunken. There a world in loveliness decaying,

Ihre Trümmer bleiben unten stehn, Lingers yet in beauty ere it die;
Lassen sich als goldne Phantom forms across my senses
Himmelsfunken playing,
Oft im Spiegel meiner Träume sehn. Flash like golden fire-flakes from the
sky.
VI. VI.
Und dann möcht’ ich tauchen in die Lights are gleaming, fairy bells are
Tiefen, ringing,
Mich versenken in den Wiederschein, And I long to plunge and wander free
Und mir ist als ob mich Engel riefen Where I hear those angel-voices
singing
In die alte Wunderstadt herein. In those ancient towers below the sea.
That the poet did not consider rhyme an essential element of

poetry, he has shown in some of his assonantic poems, such as:
Alle Winde schlafen
Auf dem Spiegel der Flut;
Kühle Schatten des Abends
Decken die Müden zu.
Luna hängt sich Schleier

Ueber ihr Gesicht,
Schwebt in dämmernden Träumen
Ueber die Wasser hin.
Alles, alles stille

Auf dem weiten Meer,—
Nur mein Herz will nimmer
Mit zur Ruhe gehn.

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The Volcanoes of Mars. https://doi.org/10.1016/B978-0-12-822876-0.00012-6 3

1.2 Learning about Mars

1.5 Plate tectonics

1.6 Samples from Mars

1.8 Outline of the book

The Volcanoes of Mars. https://doi.org/10.1016/B978-0-12-822876-0.00004-7 21

2.3 Background: Martian volcanoes

A few weeks after, I saw his death announced in the papers.

Felix was attached to both his sisters, Fanny and Rebekah

(What proves itself eternal in every place and time

Hiltibraht joh Hadhubrant Hiltibraht and Hadhubrant

Rückert has imitated this alliterating poetry in his poem of

Kingsley has attempted something like it in his “Longbeard’s

In der Fluthen Schoss hinabgesunken On the bosom of the flood reclining

Eine schöne Welt is da versunken. There a world in loveliness decaying,

That the poet did not consider rhyme an essential element of

Luna hängt sich Schleier

Alles, alles stille

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