IN SILENT WONDER.
“In scenic wonders, these playful Isles present a peculiar series of thrilling charms, which seem to satisfy best the yearnings of those who have visited other lands.
“In geography, Zelania is beautifully isolated, as every beach is washed by more than a thousand miles of sea. Its borders are so erratic, so indented by bays, harbors, and inlets, that its shore-lines are over 4,000 miles in extent, and, in altitude, it reaches from the sea-shore to the clouds.
“Configuratively, it is milder than a dream, and topographically, it presents a most romantic and pleasing aspect. In scenic beauty, the Isles of Greece, the Lakes of Ireland, or the ‘Vales of Cashmere’ do not surpass it, and in the awe-inspiring wildness of its mountain grandeur, it rivals the noblest of Norway or Alaskan scenes.
“In bold magnificence, the glacial glories of the Swiss Alps are tame comparisons, and its geysers, its boiling lakes, its roaring vents from subterranean fires, its hundreds of spouting caldrons, its grottos and waterfalls, could not be surpassed, if all the rest of Oliffa’s wonders were brought together and placed on exhibition—such a congerie of curiosities has Nature thrown in young Zelania’s lap.
“When Nature made Oliffa, my children, she nourished a sly intent to show her skill when in the flower of training. With this in view, as she deftly moulded other lands and tempered them from her laboratory, she tossed aside the choice bits of material, and took notes on ‘effect.’ Then, after finishing the rest, and ‘behold it was very good,’ with a glance to the gallery gods, she said, ‘Now look at me!’
Waimangu Geyser.—Semiquiescent.
“Then, like the sculptor who has many models for one figure—one from which to copy the most perfect arm, one the hand, another the knee, and still another for the foot—so, she, selecting from the most perfect of all her former works, improved on each, and in her happiest mood she fashioned Zelania, and anchored it in these southern seas. Then she smiled, and—took a siesta.”
Waimangu Geyser playing to a height of 1500ft. The second wonder of the world.
“Geologically,” said Oseba, “Zelania is an ancient pile of dirt, but here all the games that frisky Nature played in her boisterous youth, before ‘Atlantus’ sank from the Ocean bosom, before the Mediterranean burst through the Pillars of Hercules, before the sun and winds drank the waters from the Sahara, and possibly before great Chimborazo was, she still keeps on the stage for the edification or the terror of gods and men.”
“At Rotorua, that trysting place of fairies and fiends, man may play with Nature as did the deities of old with the daughters of men; while at Waimangu, the mightiest geyser on the globe, one may safely stand within a few yards’ distance and behold a scene of thrilling awe that banishes all consciousness—save that of dread and power.
“To stand near the verge and behold this acre of dark world as it is hurled a thousand feet into the air, is worth a trip round this little globe. Language gives but a faint gleam of human passion, and every effort to describe this scene brings but a pathetic consciousness of human frailty. Beholding this mighty convulsion, even the thoughtless stand motionless and mute, and as Milton is dead, Waimangu will never be described in words.
“The countless mountain lakes, the wild fiords—from whose deep recesses one but rarely sees the sun—the shady solitudes, so painfully still that one shudders with a chilling sense of loneliness, and the easily-approached glaciers and waterfalls—many with a plunge of over a thousand feet, that amaze the Alpine traveller—thrill and fill the beholder with astonishment.
“But for one who enjoys the gun and the rod, there are such tempting opportunities for the diversion of the attention, that the imagination finds ready relaxation, and thus the body and mind gain vigor as the scenes and the days pass by.
“Then, Zelania’s wonders may be visited with ease, comfort, and perfect safety. Her furies are on their good behaviour, and save on the borders of her terrors, her aspects are as serene as heaven’s azure sky. Her mountains are rarely disturbed by the ravings of Pluto, her great geysers are forcible, but not dangerously erratic, and her boiling springs are so amiable that they may be studied and safely observed at short range.
“Zelania, thou art by far the most beauteous land,
E’er dreamed of fate, or reared by Nature’s cunning hand.
You’ve heaven-piercing peaks, crowned with eternal snow,
A thousand boiling caldrons—heated from below.
You’ve glaciers dwarfing Alpine scenes, and fiords more wild
Than Norway boasts. When fashioned, God beheld and smiled.
“That Nature rather recklessly managed this country in early geological times is abundantly evident, but save the activity of the geysers and boiling lakes—which play for the amusement of visitors—and the occasional listing when some great personage steps too close to the edge, terra has been satisfactorily firma ever since the present managers were commissioned in the early ’90’s.
“In every natural feature, this is a country of boundless variety. In climate, it varies from Finland to Italy; and in production, by intelligent transplanting, most of the necessities of civilised life are here.”
Here the notes say the poetess Vauline inquired whether Mr. Oseba had not minutely described some of these marvellous scenes in his report. With reverential mien, the sage replied:—
“No, my children, to attempt this, were to profane the gift and the giver of speech. Only one who beholds these wonders can appreciate them. When confronted, the grandeur of the infinite may be felt by a sensitive soul, but through an interpreter all attempts fail. Beholding one scene, I uncovered and bowed my head in silence.[A] Words! they were meaningless.”
Yes, and I will help Mr. Oseba out, for I have observed these things, and I have read somewhere how some sort “rush in” where even the angels incline to hesitate.
The Painter came!
Folding his arms, he raised his drooping head, and gazed in awful thought.
He stood in rapturous dream; “Oh God, if I could grasp that scene, the noblest fame e’er bought
By toil were mine!” With eager hand he clutched the brush. With anxious eye
He gazed. Lo! the eye dimmed, the brain reeled, the hand fell, and with a sigh
He dropped the brush. In deep despair he turned and said, “Alas, good-bye!
’Tis an unpainted picture. Ye gods of solitude, good-bye!”
The Poet came!
With streaming hair, pale brow, and nervous tread he hither came to brood
O’er Nature’s vastest works, to wrench the beauties from this solitude,
And weave in mystic rhyme these wond’rous scenes for common mortals’ gaze.
Entranced, he seized his pen. Anon he wrote—methinks he wrote in praise.
Then pensively he stood, and mutt’ring said: “Words suit well the minstrel’s lays,
But, ’tis an unwritten poem, to tempt the soul through endless days.”
The Fool came!
He smiled. On good terms with himself he seemed, as one who owned the world.
In jocund speech he cried, “’Tis ours!” and in mock haste his flag unfurled.
On ancient log he rests. He laughs, he jokes, and chats. Behold him look!
’Tis for a match; he faggots brings, he lights a fire—a meal to cook.
Says he: “Extr’ordinary! Ar’nt this grand? By gol! old fel, I’ll write a book.”
Then words like snow-flakes fall—like snow-flakes in a brook.