The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 3, September 1864

It is possible to walk the entire length of the ravine, surrounded by jets of steam, and little bubbling springs of mineral water; some hissing, some sputtering, others roaring, and others shrieking; the ground being soft and hot, your stick sinking into the clayey ooze, and a puff of spiteful steam following it as withdrawn; your shoes white or yellow, as you tread the chalk or the sulphur banks, and your feet burning with the hot breath of the sulphur blasts below.

If you are not stifled by the sulphur fumes above, be thankful; and when at last you reach the 'Mountain of Fire' at the head of the ravine, and look back upon the perils of your upward journey, you think of poor Christian in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Bunyan in his dreams never imagined a more horrible place.

It is a vale of wonders—Nature's laboratory, where chemistry is to be studied. The name and number of the springs is 'legion,' Hot Sulphur, Warm Sulphur, Blue Sulphur, White Sulphur, Alum, Salt, and nobody knows all the mineral compounds. You may stand with one foot in a cold bath and another in a hot one—if you can. With one hand you may dip up alum water, as bitter and pure as chemistry can compound it, and with the other sulphur water, that shall sicken your very soul. If you have rheumatism, bathe in the splendid sulphur baths or the Indian Spring; if your eyes are weak, use the eye-water, which beats any ever charmed by magical incantations.

In the midst of this ravine, into which so many springs are emptying themselves, is a little stream, which, starting from the head of the cañon quite cool and pure, receives all their mingled waters, and gradually increases in heat and abominable taste, until at last it defies description.

Its stones and the rocks that line its banks, owing probably to the protection of the cooler water, are tolerably firm in texture, all other parts of the ravine being burned to a powder which crumbles in the hand, or, when mixed with water, forms an ooze or clay. Many of these stones by the sides of this little stream are banded with colors like the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior (to compare great things with small), and probably from the same cause. These beautiful cliffs, the Schwee-archibi-kung of the Indians, are colored by percolations of surface-water, by which the coloring matter of various minerals and acids is brought to the face of the precipice, and it is reasonable to suppose that the drainage of the mountains behind the Devil's Cañon, sinking to similar beds of minerals, is thrown out by the volcano below in the shape of steam or mineral springs. It is impossible to drill a hole two feet deep in the side of the ravine without provoking a little jet of steam. Now, Daubeny, who is the highest authority on volcanoes, states that the greater part of their ascending vapor is mere steam, and that in 'Pantellaria (a volcanic island near Sicily) steam issues from many parts of this insular mountain, and hot springs gush forth from it which form together a lake six thousand feet in circumference.'

Similar jets of steam and hot water are observed at St. Lucia, near the crater Oalibou, where also there is a continual formation of sulphur from the condensation of the vapors, a phenomenon which is lavishly displayed in the Devil's Cañon, and in fact around most known volcanoes. The writer observed it fully two miles from the active volcano of Kilawea, forming a fine sulphur bed, and a body of steam so dense that rheumatic natives of Hawaii were in the habit of using it as a vapor bath.

The jets of steam in the cañon are of the most curious variety. One, honored by the name of the 'Devil's Steamboat,' is quite a formidable affair, high up on the hillside, and puffing uninterruptedly, and so powerfully that the steam is invisible for at least five feet from the vent. The ground about it is too soft to permit approach, and the heat too great to tempt it. On a frosty morning, just before sunrise, it is a fine sight. This, however, is only one of hundreds. It would be imagined that if they all came from the same source, they would puff in some sort of unison—that the beatings of the mighty heart below would be felt simultaneously in every pulse; but the fact is quite the reverse. No tune or concord is preserved by any two in the cañon; one moves with the quiet regularity of respiration, while the next is puffing with the nervous anxiety of a little high-pressure tug boat. It affords endless amusement to listen to their endless variety of complaint; some are restless, some spiteful, and some angry, while others sound as merrily as a teakettle, or beat a jolly 'rub-a-dub,' 'rataplan,' that makes a man's soul merry to hear. In fact, there is a little retreat just out of the cañon, styled the Devil's Kitchen, where the pot and the saucepan, the gridiron and the teakettle are visible to men gifted with imaginations strong enough to grasp the unseen.

The great feature of the cañon, which has given it the unmerited name of 'Geyser,' is the Witches' Caldron, a small cavity in the hillside, seemingly running back into the hill at an angle of forty-five degrees, filled with villanous black mud in unceasing commotion.

How different from the pellucid basin of the Great Geyser! Lord Dufferin tells us that he 'brewed his coffee in the Geyser water.'

The mud boils like the angry lava-waves of a volcano; it is always of a very high temperature, and occasionally runs over the rim of the basin, but never rises violently into the air. It looks like black sulphur (bitumen), and has a brimstone smell. Certainly it is a diabolical pit, and worth coming far to see, but it shows none of the phenomena which tempt travellers to Iceland.

It more closely resembles the salses or mud volcanoes of Central and South America, and is a phenomenon very common on the sides of volcanoes. As far back as the time of Pliny it was observed that 'in Sicily eruptions of wet mud precede the glowing (lava) stream.'

Humboldt recognizes in the 'salses, or small mud volcanoes, a transition from the changing phenomena presented by the eruptions of vapor and thermal springs, to the more powerful and awful activity of the streams of lava that flow from volcanic mountains.'

Although the recent discovery of the Devil's Cañon in California makes it impossible to say at what time, if ever, this smothered volcano may have been more active, we have accounts of analogous phenomena in Central America and San Salvador, in the Ausoles of Ahuachapan, near the volcano of Izalco, which were described in 1576 by Licenciado Palacio, and also in what was called the 'Infernillo,' on the side of the volcano of San Vicente, which was mentioned by the Spanish Conquistadores. We also know something of the subsequent history of these volcanoes; for M. Arago has remarked that

'The volcano of Izalco is extremely active. Among its eruptions may be cited those of 1798, 1805, 1807, and 1825. On the occasion of the last eruption the course of the river Tequisquillo was altered to the extent of several kilomètres.'

Also:

'The volcano of San Vicente, called also Sacatecoluca, was distinguished in 1643 by a very violent eruption which covered all the surrounding country with ashes and sulphur. In January, 1835, a new eruption of this volcano destroyed many towns and villages.'

Now let us see what old Palacio says of the springs on the side of this fearful volcano of Izalco:

'The springs, which the Indians call 'Hell,' are all within the space of a gunshot across, and each makes a different noise. One imitates the sound of a fuller's mill; another that of a forge, and a third a man snoring. The water in some is turbid; in some clear; in others red, yellow, and various colors. They all leave deposits of corresponding colors. Collectively the springs form the Rio Caliente, running underground for a quarter of a league, and so hot on reaching the surface as to take the skin off a man's feet. Double the range of a musket shot from these springs are others, which flow from a rock fifteen feet long by nine feet broad, split in the centre, sending out with water columns of smoke and steam, with a fearful sound, distinguishable for half a league.'

A later visitor has given an account of the same springs, which may be thus condensed:

'Not far from Apaneca and in the vicinity of the town of Ahuachapan, are some remarkable thermal springs, called Ausoles. They emit a dense white steam from a semi-fluid mass of mud and water in a state of ebullition, which continually throws off large and heavy bubbles. [The mud bubbles of the Witches' Caldron are quite as extraordinary.] They occupy a considerable space, the largest not less than one hundred yards in circumference. In this one the water is exceedingly turbid, of a light brown color, and boils furiously. The waters in the other caldrons vary in color, and form deposits of the finest clay of every shade. Steam ascends in a dense white cloud, shutting out the sun; the ground is all hot, soon becoming insupportable. In places a little jet of steam and smoke rises fiercely from a hole in the hills, while in others boiling water rushes out as if forced from a steam engine. The water possesses varying mineral qualities.

'All these springs are on the side of the volcano Apaneca, one of a cluster of which Izalco is the most active, and Santa Anna the mother volcano.'

These accounts would be equally correct if applied to the Devil's Cañon; but the following appears to surpass it in the power of the volcano below. It is condensed from a description by the same traveller, whose name cannot be ascertained:

'On the north side of the volcano of San Vicente (a water volcano occupying the geographical centre of San Salvador, seven thousand feet above the sea), at the head of a considerable ravine, and near the base of the mountain, is a place called 'El Infernillo.'

'For the space of several hundred yards, rills of hot water spring from the ground, which looks red and burned, and there are numerous orifices sending out spires of steam with a fierce vigor like the escape of a steam engine. The principal discharge is from an orifice thirty feet broad, opening beneath a ledge of igneous rocks, nearly on a level with the bottom of the ravine. Smoke, steam, and hot water are sent out with incredible velocity for a distance of forty yards, as if from a force pump, with a roar as of a furnace in full blast. The noise is intermittent (although never ceasing entirely) and as regular as respiration. All around are salts, crystallized sulphur, and deposits of clay of every shade. There is no vegetation in the vicinity, and the stream for a mile is too hot for the hand to bear.'

Such a striking similarity in phenomena at so great a distance apart, in connection with active or dormant volcanoes, would seem to be enough to prove the connection in any candid mind, and utterly refute the idle theory that all this heat may be produced by the chemical action of water on beds of sulphates or phosphates just below the surface. The temperature of the water should be sufficient to show that it comes from great depths. The writer was unable, from want of a thermometer, to verify the temperatures of the various springs in the Devil's Cañon, but was told that they average 201°, and as most of them were boiling, it appeared not to be far from the truth. Since Arago discovered, in 1821, that the deepest artesian wells were the hottest, it has been observed that the hottest springs are the purest; and from their geological surroundings, many are proved to come from great depths. The Aguas Calientes de las Trincheras, near Puerto Cabello, issue from granite, at a temperature of 206°; the Aguas de Comaugillas, near Guanaxuato, from basalt, at 205°. To more fully establish the volcanic origin of the phenomena of California and Central America, if such a thing were necessary, it can, however, be shown that similar phenomena are found around the crater of a volcano in actual eruption.

A graphic account of 'White Island,' in the South Pacific, from the pen of Captain Cracroft, R. N., who visited it with the Governor of New Zealand, in H. M. S. Niger, speaks of boiling springs, 'geysers,' and steam-escapes, in connection with a very remarkable active volcano.

As very few are acquainted with this singular island, his description of his visit is given in full:

'Sunday, January 15, 1862.

'This morning we were well inside the Bay of Plenty, and as the wind declined to a calm, I got steam up, and stood for White Island, on which there is a volcano in active operation. The white cloud of smoke that always hovers over it was in sight before eight o'clock, in shape like a huge palm tree, and at eleven o'clock, H. E., the governor, gladly accompanied me ashore, with all the officers of the ship that could be spared from duty.

'As we approached the island, its aspect was of the most singular and forbidding description. Except on its northern face, to which the sulphurous vapor does not appear to reach, it is utterly destitute of vegetation: here and there are a few patches of underwood; but in every other direction the island is bald, bleak, and furrowed into countless deep-worn ravines. The centre of the island has been hollowed out by the crater of the volcano into a capacious basin, almost circular, and, excepting to the south, where there is a huge cleft or rent, its sides or edges rise almost perpendicular full eight hundred feet from the base. After some trouble, carefully backing in with the swell, a landing was effected on the south side, when a most extraordinary sight was displayed to our view. Before us, in the hollow of the basin, was a lake of yellow liquid, smoking hot, about a hundred yards in diameter, as near as could be guessed. Around this, but chiefly toward the north side, were numerous jets of steam spouting out of the ground. A strong sulphurous smell pervaded the atmosphere, and warned us what was to be expected from a nearer proximity to the crater in active operation at the farther end of the lake, to which, nothing daunted by its appearance, our party was determined to penetrate. Our advance was made cautiously; the surface of the ground was in some places soft and yielding, and we knew not to what brimstone depths an unwary step might sink us. There were little ravines to be crossed, which had to be first carefully sounded. As we proceeded on the soft, crustaceous surface, diminutive spouts of vapor would spit forth, as if to resent our intrusion. In skirting the edge of the lake, its temperature and taste were both tested; the former varied with the distance from the seething bubbling going on at the extremity; in some places the hand could be kept in, but 130° was the highest registered, without risk to the thermometer, by Mr. Lawrenson, assistant surgeon: the taste may be imagined, but not described!

'Continuing our advance, the roaring and hissing became louder and louder, as though a hundred locomotives were all blowing off together, while the steam from the crater and numerous geysers surrounding it was emitted in huge volumes, ascending full two thousand feet in the air. Most fortunately it was a perfect calm, or the fumes of the sulphur would alone have sufficed to stop our progress; but there was also every reason to believe, judging from the description I have by me of a former visit, that the volcano was to-day in a more quiescent state than usual. Everywhere sulphur was strewed around, and we had only to enlarge any of the vapor holes to obtain it in its pure crystallized state. We were now within a few yards of the crater—huge bubbles of boiling mud were rising several feet from the surface of the lake—the heat and sulphurous vapor were almost insupportable; it was evident that no animal life could long exist here. But before leaving this caldron, one of the mids, more venturous than the rest, climbed up a small, semi-detached hill, and his example being followed, we beheld a scene that beggars all description. In full activity a roaring fountain shot up into the scorching atmosphere: we deemed this to be molten sulphur, but no flame was visible in the daylight; stones were thrown in, but they were projected into the air as high as the ship's mast-heads. It was a sight never to be forgotten; and we retraced our steps to the boats with the satisfaction of having been permitted to make a closer examination of this grand natural curiosity than any previous visitor. We saw no indication of either animal or insect life, and it is not likely that any can exist on this island. On the beach, which was composed of large bowlders, lay the bones of an enormous whale, and a couple of whale birds hovered round the boats as they pulled back to the ship.'

Here we have an account agreeing in every respect, as far as it goes, with the appearance of the desolate valley known as 'Geyser Cañon,' the same 'burnt-out' look of the land, the same jets of steam, large and small, and boiling caldrons of mud.

'The surface of the soil was soft and yielding,' according to the gallant captain, and the punching of a stick called out spiteful little jets of steam. It is to be regretted, however, that the observant officer does not acquaint us with the taste of the waters. Probably one swallow was enough for him, if it was sulphur water; and he does not even tell us that, so that it is impossible to say whether the numerous kinds of salts noticed in California are to be traced here. His testimony is explicit that these 'geysers' occur on the sides of a great volcano.7

Thus, in conclusion, it will be seen how a comparison of all the phenomena occurring in the 'Devil's Cañon'—where, without any other positive proof, we suspect the existence of a deep-seated volcano—with similar thermal springs and jets of steam on the sides of known volcanoes, in many and distant parts of the world, either now or at some recorded time in active operation, drives us irresistibly to the inference that the so-called 'Geysers' are of similar origin, and only another manifestation of the dormant energies of the interior of our globe; now bursting out in lava flames, as on Hecla or Vesuvius, and now mildly presenting us with a tepid bath.

As to the name of geyser being applied to the Californian phenomena, we protest against it. A true geyser is a natural hydraulic machine of magnificent power; it is a spring, to be sure, but a mineral spring is not necessarily a geyser, and there is as much difference between the 'Geysers of California' and the Strokr or the 'Great Geyser,' as there is between a squib and a musket-shot. Call the springs Ausoles, if you please, like their counterparts of Ahuachapan, or 'give the devil his due,' and call the place as it was called by its discoverer.

The Devil's Cañon is not a bad name for such a diabolical, sulphurous, hot, and altogether infernal den.

FLY LEAVES FROM THE LIFE OF A SOLDIER

PART I.—SCALES

We were in the three-months.

There! I feel as proud of that as one of the Old Guard would have been in saying: 'I was of the Army of Italy.'

There is but one three-months (pronounced with the accent strongly resting on the numeral adverb, after the Hibernian). All others are spurious imitations. I refer to the early days of the war: the dark days that followed the first fall of Sumter, when our Southern friends had just finished the last volume of the lexicon of slavery, that for so long a time had defined away our manhood, our national honor, and our birthright of freedom, with such terrible words as 'coercion,' 'secession,' 'fratricidal war,' 'sovereign States,' and what not; before we had begun to look without fear even at the title page of the new Gospel of Liberty: the days when we were mudsills and greasy mechanics, whose pockets were to be touched: the days, in short, when we were still inclined to crawl upon our bellies, from the preference arising out of long and strong habit. Then, you remember, the rebellion was to be crushed in sixty days. So the President issued his proclamation, of date the 15th of April, A. D. 1861 (and of the independence of the United States the first), calling out SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND men for ninety days to do it.

On the same day we were mustered into the service as a part of this gigantic force of seventy-five thousand, at the bare suggestion of whose numbers the refractory South was confidently expected to abandon its rash enterprise, and kindly resume its sway over us. Before the awful ceremony known as 'mustering in,' we were sixty odd excited young gentlemen, hailing from and residing in all parts of the country. After it we were Company N, commanded by Captain John H. Pipes, of the First Regiment of District of Columbia Volunteers, commanded by Colonel Charles Diamond, as the muster rolls called us, or the 'American Sharpshooters,' as we called ourselves.

Major McDuff mustered us in. He did it after this fashion: First he walked out into the yard of the War Department, where the company stood at 'parade rest,' or the nearest militia approach thereto, waiting to be absorbed. Then he had us marched across the yard and halted; then up it; then down it; then back to the first position; then forward in a line a few paces; then, by the right flank, into the back yard, where he left, us, at a 'rest,' for two hours and fifty-three minutes, while he retired into the War Department building, probably to ascertain if the thing was regular. Then, at the fifty-fourth minute, or thereabout, after the second hour, he caused us to be marched into our original position. After gazing at us uneasily for a few minutes, he proceeded to inspect our arms with the utmost care: the importance of which manœuvre will more fully appear from the fact that they intended to take us, and did take many of us, sans lock, stock, or barrel. Then he told us that we were—called into the—service—of the—United States—for—three months—to serve in the District—not to go beyond the District—under any circumstances. Then he called the roll, so accurately (never having seen it before) that nearly all of us recognized our names, and in hardly more than two and three quarters the time it would have taken the orderly sergeant to do it. Then we were told to hold up our right hands, and a stout party, well known to all early volunteers, stepped forward from wherever he had been before, and, introducing himself by exclaiming, in solemn and cavernous tones, 'The following is the oath!' swore us in. Then, after another short adjournment of half an hour, we were marched to our barracks.

That was a queer organization, the 1st D.C. Vols., composed as it was of a cloud of independent companies—thirty-five, or thereabout, in all, I think—all made up of men from everywhere, largely in the tadpole stage of Unionism, and all sworn in for service in the District, not to go beyond the District. Early in May they were organized into eight battalions of four or five companies each, commanded by lieutenant-colonels, majors, or the senior captains. Nearly every company occupied its own separate 'armory' or barracks, and all the officers and men lived at home when not actually on guard or other duty!

It was an awful feeling that sandwiched the gaps of new-born exultation at finding ourselves real soldiers—that feeling of a merged identity; the individual Smith sold for glory at $11 per mensem, and lost, lost in an aggregate: become only a cog in a little machine connected with a larger machine that forms part of the great machine called an army. One thing saved us the full horror of this discovery: we were not bothered with corps, divisions, brigades, or even greatly with regiments, in those days, and if individually we were ciphers or merely recurring decimals, collectively 'our company' was of the first importance; and this reflection stiffened the breasts of our gray frock coats, and caused our scales (we wore scales!) to shine again.

First night. Everybody wants to be on guard! Think of that, old soldiers, and grin. The captain details twice as many as are necessary, to prevent clamor. Some of the more enthusiastic of the disappointed ones offer to stay at the armory all night, to be on hand in case of anything happening. We can never be certain about the enemy's crossing the Long Bridge, you know. The company, guard and all, is drilled vigorously, in squads, for two hours. Then the unhappy fellows who are to go home loiter themselves, with many wistful glances, out of the building. Then the guard plays euchre, reads, reads aloud, sings, fences, and drills. A few sleepy heads lie down in corners about one a.m., and are not going to sleep, but nevertheless shortly complain of being kept awake by the noise. 'Never mind,' growls the melancholy man of the company; 'won't hear any of this to-morrow night. D–d glad to go to sleep then.' The melancholy man, now as hereafter, is voted a bore, but, as I presently discover, turns out to be pretty nearly right, and achieves the sad triumph of being able to say, 'Told you so; wouldn't believe me; now see.'—Daylight. No one has been asleep, yet, strange to say, everyone has waked up and found everyone else snoring. No one waits for reveillé, this first morning. You stretch yourself, and endeavor to rise. Which is you, and which the board floor? You rather think this must be you that has just got up, because it aches so down the grain, and its knots or eyes—yes, they are eyes—are so full of sand. This must be how Rip Van Winkle felt after his nap in the Catskills, you think. You wonder how those fellows Boyce and Tripp can skylark so on an empty stomach. Three hours to breakfast. You police the quarters with vigor. 'Heavens, what a dust! Open the windows, somebody; and look here, Sergeant! the floor hasn't been sprinkled.' The sharp, quick tones of the sergeant of the guard (more like the sound of a tenpenny nail scratching mahogany than aught else in nature) soon set matters right. You think you have surely swallowed your peck of dirt that morning, and feel even more gastric than you usually do on an empty stomach. You can go home to breakfast now: but you hear Johnny Todd's cheery voice sing out; 'Fall in, cocktail squad!' and march off with a score of your comrades to the nearest restaurant, which, finding just open, the squad incontinently takes possession of. You take a cocktail, a whiskey cocktail, with the edge of the green glass previously lemoned and dipped in powdered sugar. 'Ah,' says Todd to everybody, and everybody, to everybody else, including Todd, 'that goes to the right place' (slapping it affectionately). Oh, reader, if wearer of p[)a]hnts, did you ever meet with a decoction, infusion, or other mixture whatsoever, vinous, alcoholic, or maltic, with or without sugar, that did not go to the right place? And if there was a fault, wasn't it in the addition of a trifle too much lemon peel? The crowd takes another of the same sort. You take another. Then you wish you hadn't.