A fascinating, achromatic sketch of the Geysers of Iceland, those
wonderful hydraulic volcanoes, which would readily he considered objects
of the greatest natural grandeur, if the hotels in the neighborhood were
only a little better kept and more judiciously advertised. Before these
stupendous hot-water works the spectator stands aghast, and boils his
egg in fourteen seconds, by a stop-watch.
It would seem as though the poet's invocation,
"Come, gentle spring! ethereal mildness, come,"
were somewhat rudely answered, for the spring comes with a noise like
thunder, bringing with it "ethereal mildness" at the rate of ten
thousand gallons a minute. It has been calculated that there is thrown
out annually water enough to supply all the hot whiskey punches that are
required during that time in the State of Maine alone. Old sailors say
it reminds them of a whale fastened alongside their ship--it is a
Seething Tide.
These vast wreaths, which the painter's art has so beautifully revealed
to us at the top of the canvas, are steam. It runs no machinery, bursts
no boilers, does nothing, in fact, that is useful, but only hangs round.
Yet these volcanoes are full of instruction to those who live by them,
impressing upon each and every one the mournful, yet scientific truth,
that his life is but a vapor.