Page:Our New Zealand Cousins.djvu/54

 Wonder upon wonder here. We stand on a thin echoing crust of pumice and silica, with a raging hell beneath our feet. Steam and boiling water issue from every chink and cranny, and yet at the foot of the crested reef—so close that we could dip our foot into it—flows the purling, plashing stream, so cool, so fresh-looking, with trailing masses of aquatic weeds, swaying to and fro in the swift current.

Over the river—what a contrast. If here be life, brightness, intense activity, what have we there? A black, oozy, slimy flat; sulphurous steam, too, hangs over the Stygian, quaking bog; but instead of azure water, only bubbling, lethargic mud comes, with a thick, slab mass; seething, in horrible suggestiveness of witches' broth and malignant wizard spells. One could fancy the flat a fit abode for ghouls, vampires, and evil spirits. While the living stream, the pure white and deep blue of the terraces, and lively pools, might be the chosen abode of spirits of healing and beneficence. The sound is indescribable. You hear the thump, thump, as of pent-up engines. The din confuses you; and as you hear it gradually softening in the distance, you begin to realize what an awful thing is nature, and what an atom is man.

Let us look for a brief instant at this deep pellucid pool. Clear as is the water, the eye cannot penetrate far into the unequalled blue of its mysterious depths. It is perfectly still. A quivering steam hovers on its surface. So innocent and