MT. HECLA.
While all arctic lands are thus wild and desolate, there is one which is especially worthy of attention. Though it is named Iceland it might equally be called the Land of Fire; for it has volcanoes compared with which even Etna is puny. The whole island is of volcanic origin, and the mighty snow-clad peaks have often changed their garments of ice for those of fire, while streams of melted lava have poured into the sea through the valleys but lately filled with huge glaciers. At such times the great river Jokulsa, whose source is in the unknown wastes amid the everlasting snows, comes roaring to the sea swollen to overflowing with the melted ice and discolored with ashes, while at night the red glare from the burning mountain is reflected far and wide over the snows. Since the discovery of the island and its settlement, there have been over twenty-five eruptions of Mt. Hecla alone, and yet this is but one out of many peaks and is far from being the largest. The most serious eruption was from Skaptar Jokull in the year 1783. From this mountain went two great streams of lava. One fifteen miles in breadth extended over fifty miles, and one seven miles wide, reached a length of forty miles. Where these streams were pent in by the mountains, they were six hundred feet in depth and where they reached out over the plains one hundred feet in depth. For one whole year the sun never shone clearly, owing to the vast clouds of smoke that rose into the air, and showers of ashes fell covering the ground in some places to a depth of fourteen feet. Even in countries so far distant as England the sky was perceptibly darkened. The cattle died by thousands, the fish in the sea were poisoned and died, and the poor islanders were reduced to the last extremity by starvation and disease. The volcanic character of the island is shown in other ways than in such outbursts as these. Pools are found of boiling mud, from whose surface clouds of sulphurous vapor are constantly rising. Some are so thick that only occasionally does the surface rise, break, and emit the steam, while others are in a constant state of agitation. But more wonderful are the boiling springs, and especially the Great Geyser, as it is called. It is situated in the centre of a mound of its own creation in the interior of the island, and its basin is perhaps seventy feet in diameter, while in the centre a well in width ten feet, descends to unknown depths. Ordinarily this great basin is filled with perfectly clear boiling water of a temperature of 200 degrees. Presently the water becomes agitated, a rumbling beneath the ground grows louder, and suddenly a vast column of water is raised in the air, surrounded by clouds of steam, till it reaches the height of a hundred feet. Only for a moment or two does this last, when it sinks back and the fountain resumes its former quiet. The Geyser is not by any means regular in its discharges, often a whole day may pass without a single one, but a near neighbor called the Strokr may be made to perform by a simple trick. As its mouth is very small, a few shovelsful of turf completely close it up. It gasps and sputters for a moment and then the turf is hurled high in the air, followed by a column of spray, which after a few moments settles back as before. Though not so large as the Great Geyser, it is thought more graceful, while the ease with which its wrath may be aroused causes it to be far more of a favorite with the spectator.
GREAT GEYSER.
As the traveller approaches the coast of Iceland, his vessel passes cliff after cliff, standing out into the ocean, until at length she drops anchor in the harbor of the ancient town of Reykjavik. Small though it may be, it can boast of a long existence. Ingolfr, the Northman, in the year 869, flying from the tyranny of his sovereign, resolved to seek a new home in Iceland. Though his countrymen had visited the island, no successful settlement had been made. As he neared the stormy shores, he cast into the sea the sacred pillars of his former home, vowing to build a new town where they should land. At the present day the appearance of Reykjavik, is not such as we should expect from the romance of its foundation. “The town consists of a collection of wooden sheds one story high—rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions,—flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava, that once must have boiled up red hot and fallen hissing into the sea. No tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, but before the door of each merchant’s house there flies a gay little pennon, and as you walk along the silent streets the rows of flower pots that peep out of the windows at once convince you that within each dwelling reigns the comfort of a woman-tended home.”