Geyser tube and in Strokr, gradually rises towards the bottom, and
increases before eruptions. It has actually been found as high as 261°
Fahrenheit, which is 39° above the boiling point. In ordinary
circumstances it would be found equal throughout, or, if a difference
were appreciable, the hottest water, being the lightest, would rise to
the top. Stones have been suspended at the bottom and remained
undisturbed by eruptions, showing that the super-heating process went on
above them in the tube itself; and lastly, M. Donny, of Ghent, has
produced precisely the same effects in miniature; using for the
experiment a brass tube stopped with a cork, and heating it all round
with charcoal fires; one, if we remember rightly, at the bottom of the
pipe, and another half-way up.
This theory would also explain the terrific and destructive water
eruptions of Kötlugjá, provided the water actually does come from the
crater, as is said, and not rather from the great deposits of surface
snow and ice melted by the internal heat of the mountain. One of these
eruptions in 1755—the year of the earthquake at Lisbon—destroyed 50
farms in the low country, with many men and cattle. Of the two
Geyser-theories, Bunsen’s is the more likely to prove the correct one.
After exploring the plain and gazing on the farm of Haukadal, which is
situated on a height about three quarters of a mile to the north of the
Geyser and celebrated as the birth-place of Ari Frodi the earliest
historian of the north and the first compiler of the Landnámabok,
accompanied by Mr. Murray, I ascended the hill behind so as to get a
complete bird’s-eye view of the Geyser ground, and the whole valley of
Haukadal or Hawk-dale. The view of this singular region from thence, is
peculiar, and I shall try to convey an idea of it, even at the risk of
repetition.
Below, a green marshy plain runs nearly north and south; the river,
winding through it, shows here and there little serpentine reaches of
water like bits of mirror; the horizon, on the south and south-east, is
bounded by a low sloping range of purple hills, and several low detached
heights shaped like the Nineveh mounds. On the north and north-east rise
several distant mountains. One of them is a Jökul, with perpetual snow
and ice on its summit, and ribbed with white streaks down its sides. On
the west is the hill-range on which we now stand. It is considerably
higher, rougher, and wilder in character than the heights on the other
side of the valley. Near the foot of the hills, at our feet, are bluff
banks covered with reddish irony mould, not unlike old red sandstone;
these deposits however we afterwards found to be fine clay, containing
iron oxidized by exposure to the air, and very slippery to walk upon.
From these red banks there stretches a gentle slope, mostly covered with
a brown and white silicious stuff like slag, such as is seen on many
garden walks. On this little slope are the Geysers; and all the springs
occur within the small space of about fifty acres.
The great Geyser is the most northern, and lies on our extreme left.
From where we stand, it resembles an artificial mill pond with an
embankment rising all round it and slanting—to compare great things with
small—like the sides of a limpet-shell from which the top or cone has
been struck off. Clouds of white vapour hovered over it, as it lay
gleaming like a silver shield. Near it, is our tent, and a heap of
boxes, saddles, and other gear lying piled on the ground.
A little higher up and nearer us, on the right, lies the tranquil and
beautiful spring of Blesi. More to the right, but lower down, that dark
hole like a well is Strokr. Yet further, in the same direction, the
little Geyser is in full play, sending up numerous jets of water like a
fountain; while volumes of steam are rising from it, and rolling away to
the south. To the right of the little Geyser, and on the slope which
runs down eastward below it, are numerous little round pools, close
together, which reflect the sky, and look as if they were blue eyes
gazing from earth to heaven. Little jets and puffs of white vapour rise
from among them. Several farms are in sight; cattle are grazing on the
plain; tern and snipe are flying athwart the sky; wind-clouds are
gathering in the north; but the hazy veil in the south-east, which
conceals Hekla and other mountains in that direction, has not been
lifted. Instead of being sated with the scene before us, wonder
increases every time we survey it, or dwell on the striking features of
its marvellous phenomena.
It was now between ten and eleven o’clock P.M. We descended leisurely to
the brink of the Geyser, were joined by several of our party, and there
sang several fine old psalm-tunes, such as “York” and the “Old Hundred,”
in full harmony.
These, associated as they ever are in our minds with the language of
Scripture, lost none of their impressive grandeur, thus heard by waters
that are not always still, in the land of destroying mountains, burnt
mountains, earthquakes, and storms. Where we have Geysers—gushers or
pourers forth—as in the valley of Siddim; indeed, there is a valley with
the very same name, rendered in Icelandic instead of Hebrew, viz.
Geysadal, a little to the north-west of Krabla. Places with parched
ground, waste and desolate; a wilderness wherein there is no man. A land
where red-hot pumice or ashes, fire and brimstone, shot up into the air
by volcanoes, have oft-times been rained from heaven; and, on every side
the once molten lava flood—which is graphically described by Job as
overtaking and arresting mortals, carrying their substance away and
devouring their riches by fire—may be observed crossing the ancient
track.
Where, excepting for a few months in the year, hoar-frost is scattered
like ashes, and the treasures of the snow or of the hail are not hid;
and the face of the deep itself is often frozen. Again, He causeth His
wind to blow and the waters flow.
Where spring comes with the small rain on the tender herb; valleys are
watered by springs; grass grows for the cattle, and the pastures are
clothed with flocks. Where we encounter nomades pitching their tents,
and many old eastern customs that remind us of the dwellers in
Mesopotamia. Where we behold the eagle mounting on high and spreading
abroad her wings, and hear the young ravens which cry. The swan too, and
other migratory birds may be seen stretching their wings towards the
south. Around its shores leviathans play in the deep; and there too go
the ships.
Here in an especial manner we are reminded, at every step, of the
wondrous works of Him who looketh on the earth and it trembleth; He
toucheth the hills and they smoke: the mountains quake at Him and the
hills melt, and the earth is burnt at His presence. His fury is poured
out like fire, and the rocks are thrown down by Him. The earth shook and
trembled, the foundations of the hills moved and were shaken. Truly
wonderful are His works, who maketh His angels spirits, His ministers a
flaming fire!
Such were some of our thoughts as we stood, at midnight, singing these
grand old psalm tunes, by the side of the Geyser; reminded, in a
peculiar manner, that the whole surface of the globe is after all but a
thin crust, cooled down and caked over the great molten central mass of
liquid fire which constitutes our planet; and how easily, were latent
forces called forth, or even were those powers which are already
developed only roused into more energetic action, the whole might
explode[10] like a shell filled with molten iron—the myriad scattered
fragments then “spinning down the ringing grooves of change” as a shower
of asteroids—nor could the orphaned moon survive the dire catastrophe!
[Illustration: THE GREAT GEYSER.]
Although midnight is spoken of, it was quite light, and I sketched for
nearly an hour and a half, beginning at a quarter-past 12 o’clock.
Before Professor Chadbourne left for the night-quarters which Zöga had
secured for him at the neighbouring farm, we two stood together on the
brink of the Great Geyser, filled our glasses with its hot water—pure,
and, as soon as it cooled down below the scalding point, drank to absent
friends on both sides of the Atlantic; this toast having special
reference to our own distant homes. Then four separate Geyser-bumpers
were devoted respectively to Longfellow, William and Mary Howitt, Dr.
Laurence Edmondston of Shetland, and Gísli Brynjúlfsson the Icelandic
poet.
Properly speaking there was no night at all; only a slight dim towards
two o’clock in the morning, which I took as a hint to get quietly under
the canvas of our tent. The wind rose, increasing to a gale; our
tent-lining came down and the sides flapped up, fluttering in the wind
with a noise like platoon firing. For me, sleep was impossible; but as I
was very tired and things could not well be much worse, I patiently lay
still till five o’clock in the morning, when we all rose, and Zöga
struck the tent. The wind blowing from the north-coast, on which many
icebergs were at present stranded, was piercingly cold, and reminded us
of the Duke’s allusion, in the forest of Arden, to
“The icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smite and say,
This is no flattery.”
As breakfast would not be ready for a couple of hours, I took some
brandy and hot water at the Geyser, literally to stop my teeth from
chattering, and descended into the gully behind to examine the banks of
coloured clay. These lie, just under the Geyser, on the north-west side.
Steam may be observed escaping from many little clay holes, and the
sound of boiling may be heard inside at places where there are no holes.
This hot clay is deposited in horizontal layers, red, purple, violet,
white, light blue, and pale green. These colours occur by themselves,
and are also occasionally found mixed together, mottled and variegated
like a cake of fancy soap or a sheet of marble paper. Judging by the
taste, the clay seems impregnated with sulphuric acid; and, to the
touch, it is of a very fine consistency, having no grit whatever. I
secured specimens of the finest colours, cutting them like butter with a
table knife, and filled several empty preserved-meat cans to take home
for analysis. The colours are most beautiful, but, apparently caused by
oxydized iron, would, I fear, be useless as pigments. If this fine clay
could be put to any use in the potteries, thousands of tons might be
obtained here and also at Krisuvik.
What leads me to suppose that the colouring matter of the alumina
chiefly consists of iron, is the fact that, excepting where the layers
were evidently freshly laid bare to view by water or by some other
mechanical means, the banks, however beautifully variegated beneath,
invariably exhibited no colour but red on the surface; or, in other
words, the iron was uniformly oxydized by exposure to the air.[11]
Further down the gully, we came upon large rough slabs of whitish stone,
beautifully variegated with tints of violet, red, and yellow, dashed
with blue. These were in compact laminae, and each colour about the
fourth of an inch in thickness. In several instances however the
colours, as in the clays, were mixed. I broke up several masses, and
secured a number of the most characteristic and beautiful specimens. We
also obtained chalcedony and agate, at times approaching to opal; these
and cornelian being only varieties of silex, colour making the chief
difference.
Before filling some bottles with Geyser water, as the wind was fresh, I
set one of them afloat to be carried across the basin before it. When
the half of its venturous voyage was accomplished and it had reached the
tube in the centre, a little eruption came on, by which the bottle was
thrown up, and floated over the outer edge of the basin. I succeeded in
getting hold of it uninjured, arrested in a little pool amid the boiling
water which was flowing down the sides, and afterwards filled it,
marking it specially for Dr. R. Angus Smith;—“one whose name,” in a
different sense however from that in which Keats used the expression,
“is writ in water,” and let me add, in _air_ too; for, in connection
with sanatory matters and the supply or purification of these two
health-giving elements to towns, no man in Europe has analyzed more
water; nor was there any known index of local atmospheric insalubrity
but the mortality bills, till he made his great discovery—the Air-test.
On all such subjects there is no higher scientific authority.
Wandering, once more to bid farewell to the other springs, we could not
but remark that the whole slope is a thin crust, with innumerable
caldrons below; these each preserve their individuality, although the
central heat be common to all, for the various eruptions seem to be
quite independent of each other. Blesi was quite tranquil during the
eruption of its neighbour the great Geyser; and the other springs take
as little notice of the Little Geyser’s activity as it does of Strokr.
Wonder ever increases, although the ground has been gone over so often
as to be already quite familiar to us.
Breakfast waits and is soon despatched with keen relish. Packing done,
horses ready, and a guide left to find three that have strayed, we start
on our return journey to Thingvalla and Reykjavik at a quarter to eight
A.M. Truly, as Shakspere hath it,
“Nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions!”
The wind was still from the north and bitterly chill. On rounding the
shoulder of the hill, we picked up the Professor, at the farm house. The
room he slept in had been all carefully washed out on purpose to receive
him, the earthen floor as well, so that it was very damp. He was
assisted to undress by the hostess, till he called a halt, and insisted
on retaining some portion of his under-clothing. Then, after he lay
down, a basin of milk was brought and placed at his bed-side. Had he
looked under the pillow, he would probably have discovered a bottle of
brandy deposited there for his own especial use; but, as the worthy
Professor would have left it precisely as he found it, no “sense of
loss” dawned upon him when the probability was hinted at.
Rector Jonson subsequently explained to me the rationale of the hostess,
or her daughter, attending to guests. Among the Icelanders, wet feet and
thorough drenchings are incident to locomotion. It is the universally
acknowledged duty of the female department to render the way-worn
traveller such assistance as he may require, taking away his wet
stockings and mud-soaked garments at night, and returning them to him,
dry and comfortable, in the morning. This simple old custom, which is
also to be met with in various parts of Norway and Sweden, will give the
key to many funny exaggerations on the subject, where the art of putting
things has been employed chiefly in the direction of the ludicrous.
We see on the way many lovely wild flowers, which confirm our previous
observation that they are larger in the petals, but smaller in the
leaves and stems than the same kinds at home; the aroma is also less.
This is caused by their receiving more light and less heat, in the short
Icelandic summer, than in more southern climes.
Graceful white sea-swallows are darting about; curlews are very tame,
flying within a few yards of us or sitting unconcerned on stones till we
ride past them, noting their beautifully speckled breasts, long bent
bills, and plaintive tremulous whistle.
[Illustration: SKAPTÁR JÖKUL.]
The atmosphere was now much clearer, and many distant snow-covered
mountains were visible on our left. Zöga pointed out one of a peculiar
shape, which he informed us was Skaptár Jökul, the most destructive
volcano in the island. Of this, however, again.
A bird, with a red breast, perched on a block of lava near us; this, the
Professor told me, was the American robin. It seemed as large as our
blackbird.
[Illustration: MOUNT HEKLA.]
Retracing our steps, we crossed the Bruará, ascended the heights, and at
length got into the green level plain, halting at the same spot where we
had rested in coming along. Here we obtained a magnificent view of
Hekla, and made a number of sketches. The prospect varies but little, as
we ride along skirting the hills and at length ascend them on the other
side of the plain. From this point, Hekla still appears dome-shaped; the
three peaks being scarcely perceptible from the distance—about thirty
miles—at which we stand, and only indicated by very slight dints in its
rounded outline. The mountain, covered with snow and mottled here and
there with black patches, rises beyond a low range of purple hills and
towers high above them, in shape and colour not unlike Mont Blanc as
seen from the banks of the Arve below Geneva, if we could only imagine
the monarch of mountains deprived of his surrounding Aiguilles, and left
standing alone over the vale of Chamouni.
The bird’s-eye view of the great flat green plain, with rivers
meandering through it, which stretches from the low range of purple
hills over which Hekla rises to the foot of the heights on which we now
ride, is both striking and picturesque.
About twenty volcanoes have been in action in Iceland for the last 1000
years. Of these the eruptions of Hekla have been the most frequent,
although by no means so destructive as many of the others. Only
attaining a height of about 5000 feet, it owes its celebrity to the
frequency of its eruptions; to its rising from a plain, being visible
from a frequented part of the island, and quite accessible; and also to
the fact of its being well seen, from the sea, by vessels sailing to
Greenland and North America. Four and twenty eruptions, of lava, sand or
pumice, are recorded; the last having occurred in 1846. The intervals
between these eruptions vary from six to seventy-six years, the average
period being thirty-five; but some of them have lasted as long as six
years at a time.
We give an account of one of these eruptions, selecting that of 1766,
which was remarkable for its violence. “Four years before it took place,
when Olafsen and Povelsen were there, some of the people were flattering
themselves with the belief, that as there had been no outbreak from the
principal crater for upwards of seventy years, its energies were
completely exhausted. Others on the contrary, thought that there was on
this account only more reason to expect that it would soon again
commence. The preceding winter was remarkably mild, so that the lakes
and rivers in the vicinity seldom froze, and were much diminished,
probably from the internal heat. On the 4th April 1766, there were some
slight shocks of an earthquake; and early next morning a pillar of sand,
mingled with fire and red hot stones, burst with a loud thundering noise
from its summit. Masses of pumice, six feet in circumference, were
thrown to the distance of ten or fifteen miles, together with heavy
magnetic stones, one of which, eight pounds weight, fell fourteen miles
off, and sank into the ground though still hardened by the frost. The
sand was carried towards the north-west, covering the land, one hundred
and fifty miles round, four inches deep; impeding the fishing boats
along the coast, and darkening the air, so that at Thingore, 140 miles
distant, it was impossible to know whether a sheet of paper was white or
black. At Holum, 155 miles to the north, some persons thought they saw
the stars shining through the sand-cloud. About mid-day, the wind
veering round to the south-east, conveyed the dust into the central
desert, and prevented it from totally destroying the pastures. On the
9th April the lava first appeared, spreading about five miles towards
the south-west, and on the 23d May, a column of water was seen shooting
up in the midst of the sand. The last violent eruption was on the 5th
July, the mountains in the interval often ceasing to eject any matter;
and the large stones thrown into the air were compared to a swarm of
bees clustering round the mountain-top; the noise was heard like loud
thunder forty miles distant, and the accompanying earthquakes were more
severe at Krisuvik, eighty miles westward, than at half the distance on
the opposite side. The eruptions are said to be in general more violent
during a north or west wind than when it blows from the south or east,
and on this occasion more matter was thrown out in mild than in stormy
weather. Where the ashes were not too thick, it was observed that they
increased the fertility of the grass fields, and some of them were
carried even to the Orkney islands, the inhabitants of which were at
first terrified by what they considered showers of “black snow.”[12]
This mountain, with its pits of burning sulphur and mud, and openings
from whence issue smoke and flames, is associated with the old
superstitions of the Icelanders as the entrance to the dark abode of
Hela, and those gloomy regions of woe where the souls of the wicked are
tormented with fire. Nor are these ideas to be wondered at in connection
with the terrible phenomena of such an Inferno.
As Hekla lay gleaming peacefully in the sunshine, with a heavier mantle
of snow, we are told, than usual, I bade adieu to it by attempting yet
another sketch from the pony’s back, pulling the rein for five minutes,
and then galloping on after my companions.
Having rounded the shoulder of the hill, we now lost sight of Hekla and
the greater part of the plain. In a region where some brushwood and a
few flowers grew among dark coloured rocks, we came upon a fine example
of ropy looking lava, curiously wrinkled in cooling, and all corrugated
in wavy lines. Soon afterwards we saw a sloping mass of rock, some sixty
feet square, inclined at an angle of 25°, polished smooth by the
ice-drift, and deeply abraded in grooves, all running southwards. The
marks were not to be mistaken, and were more distinct than those we had
observed in coming.
Here I gathered specimens of geraniums and other flowers, placing them
between the leaves of my pocket Wordsworth. Coming to a glade of dwarf
willows, we observed bees feeding on the flowers of the flossy species,
and were forthwith, even in this northern region, reminded of Mount
Hybla, recalling Virgil’s line,
“Hyblæis apibus florem depastâ salicti.”
[Illustration: LAKE OF THINGVALLA.]
The Professor, Mr. Murray, and I, riding together, now reached and
descended the Hrafnagjá or Raven’s Chasm, which has already been
described. It was steeper than a stair, full of breaks and irregular
turns. At some places, the ponies drew up their hind legs and slid down.
It seems more perilous to descend than to climb such places, but the
ponies are very sure-footed. On a bosky slope, I pulled the bridle and
made a sketch of the lake of Thingvalla, the waters of which were
intensely blue.
Crossing the plain of Thingvalla, we reached our rendezvous—the Pastor’s
house—about nine o’clock at night, after a splendid day’s ride; some of
us, much to our own surprise, being not only in excellent spirits, but
fresh and in good physical condition; rough-riding feats and prolonged
fatigues notwithstanding. We dined on trout, soup, &c.; and at 20
minutes to 11 P.M. I wandered out, alone, to the Althing to sketch and
gather flowers.
The three lost ponies, that strayed from the Geysers, have just come in.
I see them now scampering before the guide and passing the waterfall of
the Oxerá, which thunders over the black rock-wall, about half a mile
from the descent into the Almannagjá. The fall looks like a square sheet
of burnished silver from the sacred Lögberg or Hill of Laws, on which I
now sit writing, entrenched and moated round with deep volcanic chasms
about two-thirds filled with clear water.
Skialdbreid—or Broadshield—Jökul, to the north-west, is mottled towards
its base with black patches, but its summit and flanks are lit up with
pure roseate light. Armannsfell, one of a range nearer and more to the
north, is of a dark rich venetian red colour touched with bronze and
exhibits a living glow, an effect I have never elsewhere seen equalled
or even approached. Whereever the light falls, all is transfigured and
glorious beyond description; yet there is no approach to hardness,
either of line or tint, but an atmosphere of subduing softness,
transparency, and purity, magically invests everything with an etherial
spiritual beauty: such effects are peculiar to Iceland.
Having made a sketch of the lake, I retired to rest, the last of our
party. We slept, without undressing, in our old quarters—on the floor of
the pastor’s parlour.