CHAPTER L.
THE GEYSERS
Upon turning the point of a hill where our trail was a little elevated above the great valley, Zöega called my attention to a column of vapor that seemed to rise out of the ground about ten miles distant. For all I could judge, it was smoke from some settler’s cabin situated in a hollow of the slope.
“What’s that, Zöega?” I asked.
“That’s the Geysers, sir,” he replied, as coolly as if it were the commonest thing in the world to see the famous Geysers of Iceland.
“The Geysers! That little thing the Geysers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dear me! who would ever have thought it?”
I may as well confess at once that I was sadly disappointed. It was a pleasure, of course, to see what I had read of and pictured to my mind, from early boyhood; but this contemptible little affair looked very much like a humbug. A vague idea had taken possession of my mind that I would see a whole district of country shooting up hot water and sulphurous vapors – a kind of hell upon earth; but that thing ahead of us – that little curl of smoke on the horizon looked so peaceful, so inadequate a result of great subterranean fires, that I could not but feel some resentment toward the travelers who had preceded me, and whose glowing accounts of the Geysers had deceived me. At this point of view it was not at all equal to the Geysers of California. I had a distinct recollection of the great cañon between Russian River Valley and Clear Lake, the magnificent hills on the route, the first glimpse of the infernal scene far down in the bed of the cañon, the boiling, hissing waters, and clouds of vapor whirling up among the rocks, the towering crags on the opposite side, and the noble forests of oak and pine that spread “a boundless contiguity of shade” over the wearied traveler, and I must say a patriotic pride took possession of my soul. We had beaten the world in the production of gold; our fruits were finer and our vegetables larger than any ever produced in other countries; our men taller and stronger, our women prettier and more prolific, our lawsuits more extensive, our fights the best ever gotten up, our towns the most rapidly built and rapidly burned – in short, every thing was on a grand, wide, broad, tall, fast, overwhelming scale, that bid defiance to competition, and now I was satisfied we could even beat old Iceland in the matters of Geysers. I really felt a contempt for that little streak of smoke. Perhaps something in the expression of my eye may have betrayed my thoughts, for Zöega, as if he felt a natural pride in the wonders of Iceland and wished them to be properly appreciated, hastily added, “But you must not judge of the Geysers by what you now see, sir! That is only the little Geyser. He don’t blow up much. The others are behind the first rise of ground.”
“That may be, Zöega. I have no doubt they are very fine, but it is not within the bounds of possibility that they should equal the Geysers of California.”
“Indeed, sir! I didn’t know you had Geysers there.”
“Didn’t know it! Never heard of the Geysers of California?”
“Never, sir.”
“Well, Zöega, that is remarkable. Our Geysers are the finest, the bitterest, the smokiest, the noisiest, the most infernal in the world; and as for mountains, our Shasta Bute would knock your Mount Hecla into a cocked hat!”
“Is it possible!”
“Of course it is.”
“And have you great lava-beds covering whole valleys as we have here?”
“Certainly – only they are made of gold. We call them Placers – Gold Placers.”
“A wonderful country, sir!”
“Would you like to go there, Zöega?”
“No, sir; I’d rather stay here.”
And so we talked, Zöega and I, as we jogged along pleasantly on our way. Our ride, after we caught the first sight of the smoke, continued for some two hours over a series of low hills, with little green valleys lying between, till we came to an extensive bog that skirts the base of the Langarfjal, a volcanic bluff forming the background of the Geysers. It was now becoming interesting. Half an hour more would settle the matter conclusively between California and Iceland. Crossing the bog where it was not very wet, we soon came to a group of huts at the turning-point of the hill, where we were met by a shepherd and his family. All turned out, big and little, to see the strangers. The man and his wife were fair specimens of Icelandic peasantry – broad-faced, blue-eyed, and good-natured, with yellowish hair, and a sort of mixed costume, between the civilized and the barbarous. The children, of which there must have been over a dozen, were of the usual cotton-head species found in all Northern countries, and wore any thing apparently they could get, from the cast-off rags of their parents to sheepskins and raw hide. Nothing could surpass the friendly interest of the old shepherd. He asked Zöega a thousand questions about the “gentleman,” and begged that we would dismount and do him the honor to take a cup of coffee, which his wife would prepare for us in five minutes. Knowing by experience that five minutes in Iceland means any time within five hours, I was reluctantly obliged to decline the invitation. The poor fellow seemed much disappointed, and evidently was sincere in his offers of hospitality. To compromise the matter, we borrowed a spade from him, and requested him to send some milk down to our camp as soon as the cows were milked.
Although these worthy people lived not over half a mile from the Geysers, they could not tell us when the last eruption had taken place – a most important thing for us to know, as the success of the trip depended almost entirely upon the length of time which had elapsed since that event. The man said he never took notice of the eruptions. He saw the water shooting up every few days, but paid no particular attention to it. There might have been an eruption yesterday, or this morning, for all he knew; it was impossible for him to say positively. “In truth, good friend,” said he to Zöega, “my head is filled with sheep, and they give me trouble enough.” It was evidently filled with something, for he kept scratching it all the time he was talking.
Many travelers have been compelled to wait a week for an eruption of the Great Geyser, though the interval between the eruptions is not usually more than three days. A good deal depends upon the previous state of the weather, whether it has been wet or dry. Sometimes the eruptions take place within twenty-four hours, but not often. The Great Geyser is a very capricious old gentleman, take him as you will. He goes up or keeps quiet just to suit himself, and will not put himself the least out of the way to oblige anybody. Even the Prince Napoleon, who visited this region a few years ago, spent two days trying to coax the grumbling old fellow to favor him with a performance, but all to no purpose. The prince was no more to a Great Geyser than the commonest shepherd – not so much, in fact, for his finest displays are said to be made when nobody but some poor shepherd of the neighborhood is about. In former times the eruptions were much more frequent than they are now, occurring at least every six hours, and often at periods of only three or four. Gradually they have been diminishing in force and frequency, and it is not improbable they will cease altogether before the lapse of another century. According to the measurements given by various travelers, among whom may be mentioned Dr. Henderson, Sir George Mackenzie, Forbes, Metcalfe, and Lord Dufferin, the height to which the water is ejected varies from eighty to two hundred feet. It is stated that these Geysers did not exist prior to the fifteenth century; and one eruption – that of 1772 – is estimated by Olsen and Paulsen to have reached the extraordinary height of three hundred and sixty feet. All these measurements appear to me to be exaggerated.
Ascending a slope of dry incrusted earth of a red and yellowish color, we first came upon the Little Geyser, a small orifice in the ground, from which a column of steam arose. A bubbling sound as of boiling water issued from the depths below, but otherwise it presented no remarkable phenomena. In a few minutes more we stood in the middle of a sloping plateau of some half a mile in circuit, which declines into an extensive valley on the right. Within the limits of this area there are some forty springs and fissures which emit hot water and vapors. None of them are of any considerable size, except the Great Geyser, the Strokhr, and the Little Geyser. The earth seems to be a mere crust of sulphurous deposits, and burnt clay, and rotten trap-rock, and is destitute of vegetation except in a few spots, where patches of grass and moss present a beautiful contrast to the surrounding barrenness. In its quiescent state the scene was not so striking as I had expected, though the whirling volumes of smoke that filled the air, and the strange sounds that issued from the ground in every direction, filled my mind with strong premonitions of what might take place at any moment. I did not yet relinquish my views in reference to the superiority of the California Geysers; still, I began to feel some misgiving about it when I looked around and saw the vastness of the scale upon which the fixtures were arranged here for hydraulic entertainments. If we could beat Iceland in the beauty of our scenery, it was quite apparent that the advantage lay here in the breadth and extent of the surrounding desolation – the great lava-fields, the snow-capped Jokuls, and the distant peaks of Mount Hecla.
We rode directly toward the Great Geyser, which we approached within about fifty yards. Here was the camping-ground – a pleasant little patch of green sod, where the various travelers who had preceded us had pitched their tents. Zöega knew every spot. He had accompanied most of the distinguished gentlemen who had honored the place with their presence, and had something to say in his grave, simple way about each of them. Here stood Lord Dufferin’s tent. A lively young gentleman he was; a very nice young man; told some queer stories about the Icelanders; didn’t see much of the country, but made a very nice book about what he saw; had a great time at the governor’s, and drank every body drunk under the table, etc. Here, close by, the Prince Napoleon pitched his tent – a large tent, very handsomely decorated; room for all his officers; very fine gentleman the prince; had lots of money; drank plenty of Champagne; a fat gentleman, not very tall; had blackish hair, and talked French; didn’t see the Great Geyser go up, but saw the Strokhr, etc. Here was Mr. Metcalfe’s tent; a queer gentleman, Mr. Metcalfe; rather rough in his dress; wrote a funny book about Iceland; told some hard things on the priests; they didn’t like it at all; didn’t know what to make of Mr. Metcalfe, etc. Here was Mr. Chambers’s camp – a Scotch gentleman; very nice man, plain and sensible; wrote a pamphlet, etc. And here was an old tent-mark, almost rubbed out, where an American gentleman camped about ten years ago; thought his name was Mr. Miles. This traveler also wrote a book, and told some funny stories.
“Was it Pliny Miles?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, that was his name. I was with him all the time.”
“Have you his book?”
“Yes, sir, I have his book at home. A very queer gentleman, Mr. Miles; saw a great many things that I didn’t see; says he came near getting drowned in a river.”
“And didn’t he?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know. I didn’t see him when he was near being drowned. You crossed the river, sir, yourself, and know whether it is dangerous.”
“Was it the Brúará?”
“No, sir; one of the other little rivers, about knee-deep.”
Here was food for reflection. Zöega, with his matter-of-fact eyes, evidently saw things in an entirely different light from that in which they presented themselves to the enthusiastic tourists who accompanied him. Perhaps he would some time or other be pointing out my tent to some inquisitive visitor, and giving him a running criticism upon my journal of experiences in Iceland. I deemed it judicious, therefore, to explain to him that gentlemen who traveled all the way to Iceland were bound to see something and meet with some thrilling adventures. If they didn’t tell of very remarkable things, nobody would care about reading their books. This was the great art of travel; it was not exactly lying, but putting on colors to give the picture effect.
“For my part, Zöega,” said I, “having no great skill as an artist, and being a very plain, unimaginative man, as you know, I shall confine myself strictly to facts. Perhaps there will be novelty enough in telling the truth to attract attention.”
“The truth is always the best, sir,” replied Zöega, gravely and piously.
“Of course it is, Zöega. This country is sufficiently curious in itself. It does not require the aid of fiction to give it effect. Therefore, should you come across any thing in my narrative which may have escaped your notice, depend upon it I thought it was true – or ought to be.”
“Yes, sir; I know you would never lie like some of these gentlemen.”
“Never! never, Zöega! I scorn a lying traveler above all things on earth.”
But these digressions, however amusing they were at the time, can scarcely be of much interest to the reader.
Even after the lapse of several years the marks around the camping-ground were quite fresh. The sod is of very fine texture, and the grass never grows very rank, so that wherever a trench is cut to let off the rain, it remains, with very little alteration, for a great length of time.
On the principle that a sovereign of the United States ought never to rank himself below a prince of any other country, I selected a spot a little above the camping-ground of his excellency the Prince Napoleon. By the aid of my guide I soon had the tent pitched. It was a small affair – only an upright pole, a few yards of canvas, and four wooden pins. The whole concern did not weigh twenty pounds, and only covered an area of ground about four feet by six. Zöega then took the horses to a pasture up the valley. I amused myself making a few sketches of the surrounding objects, and thinking how strange it was to be here all alone at the Geysers of Iceland. How many of my friends knew where I was? Not one, perhaps. And should all the Geysers blow up together and boil me on the spot, what would people generally think of it? Or suppose the ground were to give way and swallow me up, what difference would it make in the price of consols or the temperature of the ocean?
When Zöega came back, he said, if I pleased, we would now go to work and cut sods for the Strokhr. It was a favorable time “to see him heave up.” The way to make him do that was to make him sick. Sods always made him sick. They didn’t agree with his stomach. Every gentleman who came here made it a point to stir him up. He was called the Strokhr because he churned things that were thrown down his throat; and Strokhr means churn. I was very anxious to see the performance suggested by Zöega, and readily consented to assist him in getting the sods.
The Strokhr lay about a hundred yards from our tent, nearly in a line between the Great and Little Geysers. Externally it presents no very remarkable feature, being nothing more than a hole in the bed of rocks, about five feet in diameter, and slightly funnel-shaped at the orifice. Standing upon the edge, one can see the water boiling up and whirling over about twenty feet below. A hollow, growling noise is heard, varied by an occasional hiss and rush, as if the contents were struggling to get out. It emits hot vapors, and a slight smell of sulphur; otherwise it maintains rather a peaceful aspect, considering the infernal temper it gets into when disturbed.
Zöega and I worked hard cutting and carrying the sods for nearly half an hour, by which time we had a large pile on the edge of the orifice. Zöega said there was enough. I insisted on getting more. “Let us give him a dose that he won’t forget.” “Oh, sir, nobody ever puts more than that in; it is quite enough.” “No; I mean to make him deadly sick. Come on, Zöega.” And at it we went again, cutting the sod, and carrying it over and piling it up in a great heap by the hole. When we had about a ton all ready, I said to Zöega, “Now, Zöega, fire away, and I’ll stand here and see how it works.” Then Zöega pushed it all over, and it went slapping and dashing down into the steaming shaft. For a little while it whirled about, and surged, and boiled, and tumbled over and over in the depths of the churn with a hollow, swashing noise terribly ominous of what was to come. I peeped over the edge to try if I could detect the first symptoms of the approaching eruption. Zöega walked quietly away about twenty steps, saying he preferred not to be too close. There was a sudden growl and a rumble, a terrible plunging about and swashing of the sods below, and fierce, whirling clouds of steam flew up, almost blinding me as they passed.
“Sir,” said Zöega, gravely, “you had better stand away. It comes up very suddenly when it once starts.”
“Don’t be afraid, Zöega; I’ll keep a sharp look-out for it. You may depend there’s not a Geyser in Iceland can catch me when I make a break.”
“Very well, sir; but I’d advise you to be careful.”
Notwithstanding this good counsel, I could not resist the fascination of looking in. There was another tremendous commotion going on – a roar, a whirling over of the sods, and clouds of steam flying up. This time I ran back a few steps. But it was a false alarm. Nothing came of it. The heaving mass seemed to be producing the desired effect, however. The Strokhr was evidently getting very sick. I looked over once more. All below was a rumbling, tumbling black mass, dashing over and over against the sides of the churn. Soon a threatening roar not to be mistaken startled me. “Look out, sir!” shouted Zöega; “look out!” Unlike the Frenchman who looked out when he should have looked in, I unconsciously looked in when I should have looked out. With a suddenness that astonished me, up shot the seething mass almost in my face. One galvanic jump – an involuntary shout of triumph – and I was rolling heels over head on the crust of earth about ten feet off, the hot water and clumps of sod tumbling down about me in every direction. Another scramble brought me to my feet, of which I made such good use that I was forty yards beyond Zöega before I knew distinctly what had happened. The poor fellow came running toward me in great consternation.
“Are you hurt, sir? I hope you’re not hurt!” he cried, in accents of great concern.
“Hurt!” I answered. “Didn’t you see me rolling over on the ground laughing at it? Why, Zöega, I never saw any thing so absurd as that in my life; any decent Geyser would have given at least an hour’s notice. This miserable little wretch went off half cocked. I was just laughing to think how sick we made him all of a sudden!”
“Oh, that was it, sir! I thought you were badly hurt.”
“Not a bit of it. You never saw a man who had suffered serious bodily injury run and jump with joy, and roll with laughter as I did.”
“No, sir, never, now that I come to think of it.”
Somehow it was always pleasant to talk with Zöega, his simplicity was so refreshing.
The display was really magnificent. An immense dark column shot into the air to the height of sixty or seventy feet, composed of innumerable jets of water and whirling masses of sod. It resembled a thousand fountains joined together, each with a separate source of expulsion. The hissing hot water, blackened by the boiled clay and turf, spurted up in countless revolving circlets, spreading out in every direction and falling in torrents over the earth, which was deluged for fifty feet around with the dark, steaming flood. This, again sweeping into the mouth of the funnel, fell in thick streams into the churn, carrying with it the sods that were scattered within its vortex, and once more heaved and surged about in the huge caldron below.
The eruption continued for about five minutes without any apparent diminution of force. It then subsided into fitful and convulsive jets, as if making a last effort, and finally disappeared with a deep growl of disappointment. All was now quiet save the gurgling of the murky water as it sought its way back. Zöega said it was not done yet – that this was only a beginning. I took my sketch-book and resolved to seize the next opportunity for a good view of the eruption, taking, in the mean time, a general outline of the locality, including a glimpse of the Langarfjal. Just as I had finished up to the orifice the same angry roar which had first startled me was repeated, and up shot the dark, boiling flood in grander style than ever. This time it was absolutely fearful. There could be no doubt the dose of sods we had tumbled into the stomach of the old gentleman was making him not only dreadfully sick, but furiously angry.
At this moment, as if the elements sympathized in his distress, fierce gusts of wind began to blow down from the Langarfjal. So sudden and violent were they that it was difficult to maintain a foothold in our exposed position; and the tall column of fountains, struck with the full violence of the wind, presented a splendid spectacle of strength and rage – surging, and swaying, and battling to maintain its erect position, and showing in every motion the irresistible power with which it was ejected. Steam, and water, and sods went whirling down into the valley; the very air was darkened with the shriven and scattered currents; and a black deluge fell to the leeward, hundreds of yards beyond the orifice. The weird and barren aspect of the surrounding scenery was never more impressive.
“What do you think of the Strokhr, sir?” asked Zöega, with some pride. “Is it equal to the Geysers of California?”
I was rather taken aback at the honest bluntness of this question, and must admit that I felt a little crest-fallen when I came to compare the respective performances. Therefore I could only answer, in rather a casual way,
“Well, Zöega, to tell you the truth, ours don’t get quite so sick as this, owing, no doubt, to the superior salubrity of our climate. You might throw sods into them all day, and they wouldn’t make such a fuss about it as the Strokhr makes about a mere handful. Their digestion, you see, is a great deal stronger.”
“Oh, but wait, sir, till you see the Great Geyser; that’s much better than the Strokhr.”
“Doubtless it is very fine, Zöega. Still I can’t help but think our California Geysers are in a superior condition of health. It is true they smoke a good deal, but I don’t think they impair their digestion by such stimulating food as the Geysers of Iceland. Judging by the eruptions of the Strokhr, I should say he feeds exclusively on fire and water, which would ruin the best stomach in the world.”
Zöega looked troubled. He evidently did not comprehend my figurative style of speech. So the conversation dropped.
The column of water ejected from the Strokhr, unlike that of the Great Geyser, is tall and slender, and of almost inky blackness. In the case of the Great Geyser no artificial means interrupt its operations; in that of the Strokhr the pressure of foreign substances produces results not natural to it.
After the two eruptions which I have attempted to describe, the waters of the Strokhr again subsided into sobs and convulsive throes. Some half an hour now elapsed before any thing more took place. Then there was another series of growls, and a terrible swashing about down in the churn, as if all the demons under earth were trying to drown one another, and up shot the murky flood for the third time. Thus it continued at intervals more and more remote, till a late hour in the night, making desperate efforts to disgorge the sods that were swept back after every ejection, and to rid itself of the foul water that remained. Those attempts gradually grow fainter and fainter, subsiding at last into mere grumblings. I looked into the orifice the next morning, and was surprised to find the water yet discolored. It was evident, from the uneasy manner in which it surged about, that the dose still produced unpleasant effects.
Having finished my sketch, I returned to the tent, in front of which Zöega had meantime spread a cloth, with some bread and cheese on it, and such other scraps of provisions as we had. A little boy from the neighboring sheep-ranch brought us down some milk and cream, and I thought if we only had a cup of tea on to warm us up after the chilly wind our supper would be luxurious.
“Just in time, sir,” said Zöega; “I’ll make the tea in a minute.”
“Where’s your fire.”
“Oh, we don’t need fire here – the hot water is always ready. There’s the big boiler up yonder!”
I looked where Zöega pointed, and saw, about a hundred yards off, a boiling caldron. This was our grand tea-kettle. Upon a nearer inspection, I found that it consisted of two great holes in the rocks, close together, the larger of which was about thirty feet in circumference, and of great depth. The water was as clear as crystal. It was easy to trace the white stratum of rocks, of which the sides were formed, down to the neck of the great shaft through which the water was ejected. Flakes of steam floated off from the surface of the crystal pool, which was generally placid. Only at occasional intervals did it show any symptoms of internal commotion. By dipping my finger down a little way I found that it was boiling hot. Five minutes immersion would be sufficient to skin and boil an entire man.
Nature has bountifully put these boilers here for the use of travelers. Not a stick or twig of wood grows within a circuit of many miles, and without fuel of course it would be impossible to cook food. Here a leg of mutton submerged in a pot can be beautifully boiled; plum-puddings cooked; eggs, fish, or any thing you please, done to a nicety. All this I knew before, but I had no idea that the water was pure enough for drinking purposes. Such, however, is the fact. No better water ever came out of the earth – in a boiled condition. To make a pot of tea, you simply put your tea in your pot, hold on to the handle, dip the whole concern down into the water, keep it there a while to draw, and your tea is made.
I found it excellent, and did not, as I apprehended, discover any unpleasant flavor in the water. It may be slightly impregnated with sulphur, though that gives it rather a wholesome smack. To me, however, it tasted very much like any other hot water.
When I returned to the tent, and sat down to my frugal repast, and ate my bread and cheese, and quaffed the fragrant tea, Zöega sitting near by respectfully assisting me, something of the old California feeling came over me, and I enjoyed life once more after years of travel through the deserts of civilization in Europe. What a glorious thing it is to be a natural barbarian! This was luxury! this was joy! this was Paradise upon earth! Ah me! where is the country that can equal California? Brightest of the bright lands of sunshine; richest, rarest, loveliest of earth’s beauties! like Phædra to the mistress of his soul, I love you by day and by night, behave in the company of others as if I were absent; want you; dream of you; think of you; wish for you; delight in you – in short, I am wholly yours, body and soul! If ever I leave you again on a wild-goose chase through Europe, may the Elector of Hesse-Cassel appoint me his prime minister, or the Duke of Baden his principal butler!
Very little indication of the time was apparent in the sky. The sun still shone brightly, although it was nearly ten o’clock. I did not feel much inclined to sleep, with so many objects of interest around. Apart from that, there was something in this everlasting light that disturbed my nervous system. It becomes really terrible in the course of a few days. The whole order of nature seems reversed. Night has disappeared altogether. Nothing but day remains – dreary, monotonous, perpetual day. You crave the relief of darkness; your spirits, at first exuberant, go down, and still down, till they are below zero; the novelty wears away, and the very light becomes gloomy.
People must sleep, nevertheless. With me it was a duty I owed to an overtaxed body. Our tent was rather small for two, and Zöega asked permission to sleep with an acquaintance who lived in a cabin about two miles distant. This I readily granted. It was something of a novelty to be left in charge of two such distinguished characters as the Great Geyser and the Strokhr. Possibly they might favor me with some extraordinary freaks of humor, such as no other traveler had yet enjoyed. So, bidding Zöega a kindly farewell for the present, I closed the front of the tent, and tried to persuade myself that it was night.
With the light streaming in through the crevices of the tent, it was no easy matter to imagine that this was an appropriate time to “steep the senses in forgetfulness.” I was badly provided with covering, and the weather, though not absolutely cold, was damp and chilly. In my hurry to get off, I had forgotten even the small outfit with which I originally thought of making the journey. All I now had in the way of bedding was a thin shawl, and an old overall belonging to Captain Andersen, of the steamer. I put one on the ground and the other over my body, and with a bag of hard bread under my head by way of a pillow, strove to banish the notion that it was at all uncomfortable. There was something in this method of sleeping to remind me of my California experience. To be sure there was a lack of blankets, and fire, and pleasant company, and balmy air, and many other luxuries; but the general principle was the same, except that it was impossible to sleep. The idea of being utterly alone, in such an outlandish part of the world, may have had something to do with the singular activity of my nervous system. It seemed to me that somebody was thrusting cambric needles into my skin in a sudden and violent manner, and at the most unexpected places; and strange sounds were continually buzzing in my ears. I began to reflect seriously upon the condition of affairs down underneath my bed. Doubtless it was a very fiery and restless region, or all these smokes and simmering pools would not disfigure the face of the country. How thick was the shell of the earth at this particular spot? It sounded very thin all over – a mere crust, through which one might break at any moment. Here was boiling water fizzing and gurgling all around, and the air was impregnated with strong odors of sulphur. Suppose the whole thing should burst up of a sudden? It was by no means impossible. What would become of my sketches of Iceland in the event of such a catastrophe as that? What sort of a notice would my editorial friends give of the curious manner in which I had disappeared? And what would Zöega think in the morning, when he came down from the farm-house, and saw that his tent and provision-boxes were gone down in a great hole, and that an American gentleman, in whom he had the greatest confidence, had not only carried them with him, but failed to pay his liabilities before starting? Here, too, was the sun only slightly dipped below the horizon at midnight, and the moon shining overhead at the same time. Every thing was twisted inside out and turned upside down. It was truly a strange country.