Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
The illusion, however, was only momentary, but I would have liked it to continue for the rest of my natural life, and then, in default of a better place hereafter, I would have been content to paddle in that pool to all eternity, floating on its surface, diving into its depths, and basking on the pearly margin of its brink. Its water was just warm enough to render it delightfully pleasant, and it seemed to wrap itself round the body in gently waving folds, while, as I glided from point to point, streaks, as it were, of cold water would bathe the skin with refreshing effect, and then a soft, tepid wave would impart a voluptuous sensation of glowing warmth.[33]
When we had enjoyed the luxuries of the bath, we went along a winding path fringed with bush, at the back of Te Tarata, when we came suddenly upon Ngahapu, an intermittent boiling geyser, which burst forth with a loud noise from the farther side of an oval-shaped basin, about a hundred feet in circumference, and in which the heated, steaming water, in a constant state of ebullition, kept rising and falling in great hot waves, which lashed themselves into fury against the rugged sides of the cauldron with a loud hissing sound, as a column of boiling water shot high into the air. Right above this spring, on the side of a hill, a transparent jet of steam burst forth from a narrow fissure with a loud screaming noise, as if anxious to escape from its rock-bound prison-house, and blow up the surrounding country. It blew, whistled, steamed, and hissed, and shrieked away, like a fifty-horse-power engine, and the terrific pressure, acting in some way upon the rocks below, made them send forth a sound like the "thud" of a great steam-hammer.
Passing along by Te Tokapo, a region of small hot springs, on the margin of Lake Rotomahana, we came to Waikanapanapa, a small lake, surrounded by gaunt-looking _manuka_ scrub, and whose thick, slimy water, of the colour of green sealing-wax, gave it the appearance of a veritable slough of despond.
Just beyond Waikanapanapa we entered a rocky, desolate gorge, seamed and fissured in every direction with streams of hot water, while jets of hissing steam, bursting from its sides, marked the site of subterranean fires. The heated, quaking soil was covered with thick deposits of silica, sulphur, oxide of iron, pumice, obsidian, scoria, and other volcanic products, and, with its sulphurous atmosphere, fierce heat, and shrieking sounds, it appeared as we entered it like a short cut to Pandemonium. The high hills on each side of the gorge rose up in quaint, fantastic shape, and their rugged sides, composed of shattered volcanic rock, sent forth water and jets of steam from a thousand fissures. There was something very wild, weird, and fascinating in this strange place. All the huge rocks, boulders, and stones had been pitched and tossed about by the tremendous action of fire and water into a wild and endless confusion, and when we had so recently gazed in admiration upon the delicate, tranquil beauty of the White Terrace, it seemed as if we had got behind the scenes and into the laboratory and mysterious manufactory where all the wonders of Te Tarata had been evolved before Nature had sent them through the subterranean depths below to rise on the other side of the hill in the form of the marvellous "transformation scene" we had so recently beheld.