“Just in time, sir,” said Zöega; “I’ll make the tea in a minute.”
“Where’s your fire.”
“Oh, we don’t need fire here – the hot water is always ready. There’s the big boiler up yonder!”
I looked where Zöega pointed, and saw, about a hundred yards off, a boiling caldron. This was our grand tea-kettle. Upon a nearer inspection, I found that it consisted of two great holes in the rocks, close together, the larger of which was about thirty feet in circumference, and of great depth. The water was as clear as crystal. It was easy to trace the white stratum of rocks, of which the sides were formed, down to the neck of the great shaft through which the water was ejected. Flakes of steam floated off from the surface of the crystal pool, which was generally placid. Only at occasional intervals did it show any symptoms of internal commotion. By dipping my finger down a little way I found that it was boiling hot. Five minutes immersion would be sufficient to skin and boil an entire man.
Nature has bountifully put these boilers here for the use of travelers. Not a stick or twig of wood grows within a circuit of many miles, and without fuel of course it would be impossible to cook food. Here a leg of mutton submerged in a pot can be beautifully boiled; plum-puddings cooked; eggs, fish, or any thing you please, done to a nicety. All this I knew before, but I had no idea that the water was pure enough for drinking purposes. Such, however, is the fact. No better water ever came out of the earth – in a boiled condition. To make a pot of tea, you simply put your tea in your pot, hold on to the handle, dip the whole concern down into the water, keep it there a while to draw, and your tea is made.
I found it excellent, and did not, as I apprehended, discover any unpleasant flavor in the water. It may be slightly impregnated with sulphur, though that gives it rather a wholesome smack. To me, however, it tasted very much like any other hot water.
When I returned to the tent, and sat down to my frugal repast, and ate my bread and cheese, and quaffed the fragrant tea, Zöega sitting near by respectfully assisting me, something of the old California feeling came over me, and I enjoyed life once more after years of travel through the deserts of civilization in Europe. What a glorious thing it is to be a natural barbarian! This was luxury! this was joy! this was Paradise upon earth! Ah me! where is the country that can equal California? Brightest of the bright lands of sunshine; richest, rarest, loveliest of earth’s beauties! like Phædra to the mistress of his soul, I love you by day and by night, behave in the company of others as if I were absent; want you; dream of you; think of you; wish for you; delight in you – in short, I am wholly yours, body and soul! If ever I leave you again on a wild-goose chase through Europe, may the Elector of Hesse-Cassel appoint me his prime minister, or the Duke of Baden his principal butler!
Very little indication of the time was apparent in the sky. The sun still shone brightly, although it was nearly ten o’clock. I did not feel much inclined to sleep, with so many objects of interest around. Apart from that, there was something in this everlasting light that disturbed my nervous system. It becomes really terrible in the course of a few days. The whole order of nature seems reversed. Night has disappeared altogether. Nothing but day remains – dreary, monotonous, perpetual day. You crave the relief of darkness; your spirits, at first exuberant, go down, and still down, till they are below zero; the novelty wears away, and the very light becomes gloomy.
People must sleep, nevertheless. With me it was a duty I owed to an overtaxed body. Our tent was rather small for two, and Zöega asked permission to sleep with an acquaintance who lived in a cabin about two miles distant. This I readily granted. It was something of a novelty to be left in charge of two such distinguished characters as the Great Geyser and the Strokhr. Possibly they might favor me with some extraordinary freaks of humor, such as no other traveler had yet enjoyed. So, bidding Zöega a kindly farewell for the present, I closed the front of the tent, and tried to persuade myself that it was night.
With the light streaming in through the crevices of the tent, it was no easy matter to imagine that this was an appropriate time to “steep the senses in forgetfulness.” I was badly provided with covering, and the weather, though not absolutely cold, was damp and chilly. In my hurry to get off, I had forgotten even the small outfit with which I originally thought of making the journey. All I now had in the way of bedding was a thin shawl, and an old overall belonging to Captain Andersen, of the steamer. I put one on the ground and the other over my body, and with a bag of hard bread under my head by way of a pillow, strove to banish the notion that it was at all uncomfortable. There was something in this method of sleeping to remind me of my California experience. To be sure there was a lack of blankets, and fire, and pleasant company, and balmy air, and many other luxuries; but the general principle was the same, except that it was impossible to sleep. The idea of being utterly alone, in such an outlandish part of the world, may have had something to do with the singular activity of my nervous system. It seemed to me that somebody was thrusting cambric needles into my skin in a sudden and violent manner, and at the most unexpected places; and strange sounds were continually buzzing in my ears. I began to reflect seriously upon the condition of affairs down underneath my bed. Doubtless it was a very fiery and restless region, or all these smokes and simmering pools would not disfigure the face of the country. How thick was the shell of the earth at this particular spot? It sounded very thin all over – a mere crust, through which one might break at any moment. Here was boiling water fizzing and gurgling all around, and the air was impregnated with strong odors of sulphur. Suppose the whole thing should burst up of a sudden? It was by no means impossible. What would become of my sketches of Iceland in the event of such a catastrophe as that? What sort of a notice would my editorial friends give of the curious manner in which I had disappeared? And what would Zöega think in the morning, when he came down from the farm-house, and saw that his tent and provision-boxes were gone down in a great hole, and that an American gentleman, in whom he had the greatest confidence, had not only carried them with him, but failed to pay his liabilities before starting? Here, too, was the sun only slightly dipped below the horizon at midnight, and the moon shining overhead at the same time. Every thing was twisted inside out and turned upside down. It was truly a strange country.
Having tossed and tumbled about for an indefinite length of time, I must have fallen into an uneasy doze. During the day I had been thinking of the rebellion at home, and now gloomy visions disturbed my mind. I thought I saw moving crowds dressed in black, and heard wailing sounds. Funerals passed before me, and women and children wept for the dead. The scene changed, and I saw hosts of men on the battle-field, rushing upon each other and falling in deadly strife. A dreary horror came over me. It was like some dreadful play, in which the stake was human life. Blood was upon the faces of the dying and the dead. In the effort to disentangle the right from the wrong – to seek out a cause for the calamity which had fallen upon us – a racking anguish tortured me, and I vainly strove to regain my scattered senses. Then, in the midst of this confused dream, I heard the booming of cannon – at first far down in the earth, but gradually growing nearer, till, with a start, I awoke. Still the guns boomed! Surely the sounds were real. I could not be deceived. Starting to my feet, I listened. Splashing and surging waters, and dull, heavy reports, sounded in the air. I dashed aside the lining of the tent and looked out. Never shall I forget that sight – the Great Geyser in full eruption! A tremendous volume of water stood in bold relief against the sky, like a tall weeping willow in winter swaying before the wind, and shaking the white frost from its drooping branches. Whirling vapors and white wreaths floated off toward the valley. All was clear overhead. A spectral light, which was neither of day nor of night, shone upon the dark, lava-covered earth. The rush and plashing of the fountain and the booming of the subterranean guns fell with a startling distinctness upon the solitude. Streams of glittering white water swept the surface of the great basin on all sides, and dashed hissing and steaming into the encircling fissures. A feathery spray sparkled through the air. The earth trembled, and sudden gusts of wind whirled down with a moaning sound from the wild gorges of the Langarfjal.
It did not appear to me that the height of the fountain was so great as it is generally represented. So far as I could judge, the greatest altitude at any time from the commencement of the eruption was not over sixty feet. Its volume, however, greatly exceeded my expectations, and the beauty of its form surpassed all description. I had never before seen, and never again expect to see, any thing equal to it. This magnificent display lasted, altogether, about ten minutes. The eruption was somewhat spasmodic in its operation, increasing or diminishing in force at each moment, till, with a sudden dash, all the water that remained was ejected, and then, after a few gurgling throes, all was silent.
I no longer attempted to sleep. My mind was bewildered with the wonders of the scene I had just witnessed. All I could do was to make a cup of tea at the big boiler on the slope above my tent, and walk about, after drinking it, to keep my feet warm. Soon the sun’s rays appeared upon the distant mountains. A strange time of the night for the sun to be getting up – only half past one – when people in most other parts of the world are snug in bed, and don’t expect to see a streak of sunshine for at least four or five hours. How different from any thing I had ever before seen was the sunrise in Iceland! No crowing of the cock; no singing of the birds; no merry plow-boys whistling up the horses in the barn-yard; no cherry-cheeked milk-maids singing love-ditties as they tripped the green with their pails upon their heads. All was grim, silent, and death-like. And yet surely, for all that, the delicate tints of the snow-capped mountains, the peaks of which were now steeped in the rays of the rising sun, the broad valley slumbering in the shade, the clear, sparkling atmosphere, and the exquisite coloring of the Langarfjal – the mighty crag that towers over the Geysers – were beauties enough to redeem the solitude and imbue the deserts with a celestial glory.
There are various theories concerning the cause of these eruptions of water in Iceland. That of Lyell, the geologist, seems the most reasonable. The earth, as it is well known, increases in heat at a certain ratio corresponding with the depth from the surface. There are cavities in many parts of it, arising from subterranean disturbances, into which the water percolates from the upper strata. In Iceland the probability is that these cavities are both numerous and extensive, owing to volcanic causes, and form large receivers for the water of the surrounding neighborhood. Wherever there is a natural outlet, as at the Geysers, this water, which is boiled by the heat of the earth, is forced to the surface by compression of steam, and remains at the mouth of the pipe, or shaft, until an accumulation of compressed steam drives it up in the form of a fountain. The periodical occurrence of these eruptions in some of the hot-springs and not in others may arise from a difference in the depth of the receiver, or more probably from the existence of several outlets for the escape of steam in some, and only one in others. A good illustration of this theory is presented in the boiling of an ordinary tea-kettle. When the compression of steam is great, the cover is lifted up and the water shoots from the spout, by which means the pressure is relieved and the water subsides. The same thing is repeated until the space within the kettle becomes sufficiently large to admit of a more rapid condensation of the steam. The action of the Strokhr, which, as I have shown, differs from that of the Great Geyser, may be accounted for on the same general principle. The foreign substances thrown in on top of the boiling water stops the escape of steam, which, under ordinary circumstances, is sufficiently great not to require the periodical relief of an eruption. An accumulation of compressed steam takes place in the reservoir below, and this continues until the obstruction is ejected.
This, I believe, is substantially Lyell’s theory; though, having no books by me at present, I quote entirely from memory, and it is possible I may be mistaken in some of the details. The preceding diagrams will enable the reader to understand more clearly the whole process by which these eruptions are produced.
Six long hours remained till ordinary breakfast-time. What was to be done? It was getting terribly lonesome. I felt like one who had been to a theatre and seen all the performances. Zöega had promised to be back by eight o’clock; but eight o’clock in Iceland, on the 21st of June, is a late hour of the day. A treatise on trigonometry might be written between sunrise and that unapproachable hour. The only thing I could do was to make some more tea and eat a preliminary breakfast. When that was done nothing remained but to go to work in front of my little tent and finish up my rough sketches. This is a very absorbing business, as every body knows who has tried it, and I was deeply into it when Zöega made his appearance.
“Well, sir,” said he, “what success? Did he erupt?”
“Of course he erupted, Zöega. You didn’t suppose a Great Geyser would keep a gentleman all the way from California waiting here an entire night without showing him what he could do?”
“No, sir; but he sometimes disappoints travelers. How do you like it? Does he compare with your California Geysers?”
“Well, Zöega, he throws up more hot water, to be sure, because our Geysers don’t erupt at all; but here is the grand difference. We Californians are a moral people; we don’t live so near to (I pointed down below) as you do in Iceland.”
“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Zöega, with a puzzled expression.
I called him over and whispered in his ear, “Zöega, I hope you’re a good man. Do you say your prayers regularly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are all right. Let us be going. I don’t like this neighborhood.”
“Whenever you wish, sir. The horses are all ready.”
And Zöega proceeded to strike the tent and pack the animals, muttering to himself and shaking his head gravely, as if he thought the Californians were a very peculiar race of men, to say the least of them.
Another cup of tea and a few biscuits served to brace us up for the journey, and we mounted our horses and turned their heads homeward. Brusa was so delighted at the idea of being en route once more that he signalized our departure by giving chase to a flock of sheep, which he dispersed in a most miraculous manner, and then, of course, received the customary punishment.
CHAPTER LI.
THE ENGLISH SPORTS IN TROUBLE
Our ride back to Thingvalla was over the same trail which we had traveled on the preceding day, with the exception of a short cut to the right of the Tintron rock. We made very good speed, and reached the Parsonage early in the afternoon.
During our absence a young Englishman had arrived from the North, where he had been living for a year. I found him in the travelers’ room, surrounded by a confused medley of boxes, bags, books, and Icelandic curiosities, which he was endeavoring to reduce to some kind of order. Had I not been told he was an Englishman I should never have suspected it, either from his appearance or manner. When I entered the room he stood up and looked at me, and I must say, without intending him the slightest disrespect, that he was the most extraordinary looking man I ever saw in all my life, not excepting a tattooed African chief that I once met at Zanzibar. Whether he was young or old it was impossible to say – he might be twenty-five or just as likely fifty. Dirty and discolored with travel, his face was generally dark, though it was somewhat relieved by spots of yellow. His features were regular, and of almost feminine softness; his eyes were dark brown; and his hair, which was nearly black, hung down over his shoulders in lank straight locks, sunburnt or frostbitten at the ends. On his head he wore a tall, conical green wool hat, with a broad brim, and a brown band tied in a true lover’s knot at one side. The remainder of his costume consisted of a black cloth roundabout, threadbare and dirty; a pair of black casimere pantaloons, very tight about the legs and burst open in several places; and a pair of moccasins on his feet, adorned with beads and patches of red flannel. If he wore a shirt it was not conspicuous for whiteness, for I failed to discover it. When he saw that a stranger stood before him, he looked quite overwhelmed with astonishment, and gasped out some inarticulate words, consisting principally of Icelandic interjections.
“How do you do, sir?” said I, in the usual California style. “I’m glad to meet an Englishman in this wild country!”
“Ye’ow-w-w!” (a prolonged exclamation.)
“Just arrived, sir?”
“Nay-y-y!” (a prolonged negative.)
“You speak English, I believe, sir?”
“Oh-h-h! Ya-a-a-s. Are – you – an – Englishman?”
“No, sir. An American, from California.”
“De-e-e-a-r-r m-e-e!”
Here there was a pause, for I really did not know what to make of the man. He looked at the ceiling, and at the floor, and out of the window, and started a remark several times, but always stopped before he got under way, or lost it in a prolonged “Oh-o-o-a!” Again and again he attempted to speak, never getting beyond a word or two. It seemed as if some new idea were continually crossing his mind and depriving him of his breath: he labored under a chronic astonishment. At first I supposed it might be the natural result of a year’s absence in the interior of Iceland, but subsequent acquaintance with him satisfied me that it was constitutional. He was astonished all the way from Reykjavik to Scotland. When it rained he opened his eyes as if they would burst; looked up in the sky, and cried “Oh-h-h!” When it blew he tumbled into his berth, covered himself up in the blankets, peeped out in the most profound amazement, and ejaculated “Ah-h-h! Oh-h-h! Hay-y-y! Ye’ow-w-w!” When the weather was fine he came up on deck, peered over the bulwarks, up at the rigging, down into the engine-room, and was perfectly astounded at each object, exclaiming alternately “Oh-h-o-o-a-a-h!” “Ah-ha!” “H-a-y!” and “Ye’ow-w-w-w!” At Thingvalla his main food was curds and black bread, yet he had an abundance of the best provisions. He was a thorough Icelandic scholar, and spoke the language with ease and grace, only when interrupted by the novel ideas that so often struck him in the head. With all his oddity, he was a gentleman by birth and education, and was very amiable in his disposition. He had evidently spent much of his life over books; his knowledge of the world scarcely equaled that of a child. From all that I could gather of his winter’s experiences in North Iceland, the climate was not very severe, except at occasional intervals when there was a press of ice-fields along the coast. The mean temperature was quite moderate. He suffered no inconvenience at all from the weather. At times it was very pleasant. He had the misfortune to break his leg in climbing over some lava-bergs, which crippled him for some weeks, but he was now getting all right again. This account of his experiences, which I obtained from him during the evening, took many divergences into the “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” and was really both instructive and entertaining. When he came to the breaking of his leg, I expressed my astonishment at the equanimity with which he bore it, which so astonished him, when he came to think of it in that light, that he cried “Oh-h-a-a! ya-a-s! It – was – very – bad!” as if he had entirely forgotten how bad it was, and now made a new and most singular discovery.
As there was only the one small room we had to sleep at pretty close quarters, the Englishman on the sofa and I in the bed, which for some reason was awarded to me by the good pastor. Having no preference, I offered to exchange; but this only astonished my eccentric neighbor, and set him off into a labyrinth of interjections. Our heads were placed pretty close together, and it was some time before I could settle myself to sleep, owing to a variety of peculiar sounds he made in whispering to himself. He seemed to be telling himself some interminable story from one of the Sagas. Several times I dozed off, and was awakened by some extraordinary ejaculation.
“I beg your pardon,” said I, at length, rising up, and looking in the face of my neighbor, who was lying on his back, with his eyes wide open, “I beg your pardon, sir; did you speak to me?”
“Oh-h-h-a!” shouted the Englishman, jumping up as if touched with a streak of electricity. “Dear me! ha – oh-o-o! How very odd!”
“Sir?”
“Eh?”
“Good-night, sir!” I said, and lay down again. The Englishman also composed himself to rest, but presently rose up, and looking over at me, exclaimed “Oh-o-o-ah!”
This was all. Then we both composed ourselves to sleep. Tired as I was after my ride from the Geysers and the bad night I had passed there, it was no wonder I soon lost all consciousness of the proximity of my eccentric room-mate, and the probability is I would have gotten well through the night but for another singular and unexpected interruption.
“Hello! What the devil! Who’s here? By Jove, this is jolly! I say! Where the dooce is our American friend? Down, Bowser! Down! Blawst the dog! Ho! ho! Look there, Tompkins! I say! Here’s a go!”
There was a tramping of feet, a knocking about of loose things in the room, and a chorus of familiar voices in the adjoining passage. It is needless to say that the party of sporting Englishmen had arrived from Reykjavik.
“Oh-h-a! Ye-o-w!” exclaimed my room-mate, starting up, and gazing wildly at the lively young gentleman with the dog. “Oh-o-o! How very odd!”