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!
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