205 CHAPTER XII. A REGION OF FIRE. Myvatn-Lava Streams-Reykjahlith-Sand Columns-A Plain of Boiling Mud-Chaldrons-Krafla-Obsidian Mountain-A Ride over a Desert -Eylifr-A wretched Farm-Dettifoss-A magnificent Fall-Volcanic Cones-Return to Reykjahlith. STAND with me one moment on the slope above Reykjahlith, and scan Lake Myvatn.* The horizon to the south-west is indistinct, for the lake winds, and is so studded with islands that its low, swampy shore is indefinable from this point. The sheet of water is seven or eight miles long. Yon black speckles on its surface are lava points, glorious breeding places for ducks. If we were in a boat we should see that the bed of the lake is full of rifts and splinters, among which glide char and trout. The water is not so cold as that of other lakes in the From the Latin * My, a midge. Norse dialect, Smikka; Lithuanian, Musa; German, Mücke; Danish, Myg; Russian, Múkà; Slovakian, Muka; Sanskrit, Maksika; Bengal, Makjeka; Afghan, Mac; Hindustan, Makki, Magas; Latin, Musca; Greek, μvia. musca (a fly) came the term muscatus (speckled), and the French moucheté. From its spotted plumage the sparrowhawk was called mousquet in French, moschetto in Italian, and musket in English. "How now, my eyas-musket!" Merry Wives of Windsor. When fire-arms took the place of these birds in the chase, the name was transferred to them. island and does not freeze in winter, from the existence of hot springs in its depths, and from the fact of the lava having never thoroughly cooled. To the right is a hill like a dust-heap heaving itself out of the morasses which surround it, with a thread of vapour creeping along its base. This is Vindbelgr, or " The Bellows." Now turn to the left, and you see the indigo chain of Bláfell (Plate IX.), beyond which is a field of sulphur and boiling mud, called Fremri Námur, not visited by travellers, as it is difficult of access, and inferior in interest to the Námarfjall springs. Nearer at hand is Hverfjall, which was thrown up in 1748-52; it is a crater, dipping conveniently on one side, so that we can see into the bowl and admire its symmetry. Perhaps you can distinguish a black line along its base; that is a fissure in the lava, similar to the Almannagjá, only on a smaller scale. More distant is Vilingafjall, a crater much like Hverfjall. Both are built up of shale and dust, and have never erupted lava. Now turn your eyes to the strip of land between us and the water. Below us is the farm, with its emerald patch of tún, and the church, the latter encircled by lava which has flowed towards it in an undivided stream, parted into two arms, and met beyond. This took place during the last eruption of Krafla between the years 1724-1730. The mountains then vomited flames and matter in a state of fusion, which rolled down in torrents, and inundated the neighbouring fields, overlapping older beds of lava. In the lake, where the matter burned like oil for several days, it killed all the fish and dried up the greater portion of the water. The largest branch of this river of fire ran nine miles from the mountain, and was three miles in breadth; whilst another torrent overwhelmed the parsonage of Reykjahlith, which was swallowed up without leaving the slightest trace behind. The volcanic matter advanced slowly, destroying everything in its progress, without undergoing the least change. During the day it emitted a blue flame, like that |