The narrow path ultimately widens into a more roomy and slanting space formed of the remains of more than a thousand perpendicular truncated shafts. The back wall consists of a range of unequally sized pillars, arranged somewhat like the tubes of an organ. When the waves rush with tumultuous fury into the cave and dash their flakes of snow-white foam against its wall, it seems as if the gigantic instrument, touched by an invisible hand, were loudly singing the triumphs of ocean.
Among the beauties of this matchless cave, the clear light must not be forgotten, which, penetrating through the wide portal, produces an agreeable chiaro-oscuro even at its farthest end, so that the eye is able to seize at one glance the full majesty of the splendid hall; nor the pure air which, constantly renewed by the perpetual alternations of the tides, is very different from the chilly dampness which generally reigns in subterranean caverns.
When we consider the resemblance which from its regularity this magnificent work of nature bears to a production of human art, we cannot wonder at its having been ascribed to mortal architecture. But as men of ordinary stature seemed too weak for so colossal an enterprise, it was attributed to a race of giants, who constructed it for their chief and leader, Fingal, so renowned in Gaelic mythology. This belief still lingers among the primitive people of the neighbourhood, though some, being averse to pagan Goliahs, ascribe its workmanship to St. Columban.
The patriotic muse of Walter Scott, who visited the cave in 1810, rises to more than ordinary warmth while describing
"That wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn, tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still between each awful pause
From the high vault an answer draws
In varied tones, prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,
That Nature's voice might seem to say,
'Well hast thou done, frail child of clay,
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard—but witness mine!'"
Lord of the Isles, canto iv. stanza 10.
The Mediterranean has likewise its marine grottoes of world-wide celebrity, its azure cave of Capri,[D] which I have previously described, and its Antro di Nettuno, in the island of Sardinia, about twelve miles from the small sea-port of Alghero. Unfortunately this superb grotto is very difficult of access, for any wind between the north-west and the south prevents an entry, so that the Algherese assert that 300 out of the 365 days it is impossible to enter it. The first vaulted cavern, forming an antechamber about thirty feet high, has no peculiar beauty, but on crossing a second cavern, in which are about twenty feet of beautifully clear water, and then turning to the left, one finds oneself in an intricate navigation among stalactites with surrounding walls and passages of stalagmites of considerable height. Having passed them and proceeding westerly, one reaches another cavern with a natural column in its centre, the shaft and capital of which, supporting the immense and beautifully fretted roof, reminds one of those in the chapter-house of the cathedral at Wells, and the staircase of the hall at Christ Church, Oxford. It stands, the growing monument of centuries, in all its massive and elegant simplicity with comparatively speaking few other stalagmites to destroy the effects of its noble solitude. In parts of the grotto are corridors and galleries, some 300 and 400 feet long, reminding one of the Moorish architecture of the Alhambra. One of them terminates abruptly in a deep cavern into which it is impossible to descend; but among many other interesting objects is a small chamber the access to which is through a very narrow aperture. After climbing and scrambling through it, one finds oneself in a room the ceiling of which is entirely covered with delicate stalactites, and the sides with fretted open work, so fantastical that one might almost imagine that it was a boudoir of the Oceanides, where they amused themselves with making lime lace. Some of the columns in different parts of the grotto are from seventy to eighty feet in circumference, and the masses of drapery drooping in exquisite elegance are of equally grand proportions.
If a rare chance was required to discover the narrow opening in the cliffs of Capri, behind which one of the loveliest spectacles of nature lies concealed, we well may wonder how the famous cave of Hunga in the Tonga Archipelago ever became known, as its entrance even at low water is completely hidden under the surface of the sea. Mariner, to whom we owe our first knowledge of this wonderful play of nature, relates that while he was one day rat-hunting[E] in the island of Hunga with king Finow, who at that time reigned over Tonga, the barbarian monarch took a fancy to drink his kawa[F] in the cave. Mariner, who had absented himself for a few moments from the company, was very much astonished when, returning to the strand, he saw one chieftain after another dive and disappear. He had but just time to ask the last of them what they were about. "Follow me," answered the chieftain, "and I will show thee a place where thou hast never been before, and where Finow and his chieftains are at present assembled." Mariner immediately guessed that this must be the celebrated cave of which he had frequently heard, and, anxious to see it, he immediately followed the diving chieftain, and swimming close after him under the water, safely reached the opening in the rock through which he emerged into the cave. On ascending to the surface, he immediately heard the voices of the company, and still following his guide, climbed upon a projecting ledge on which he sat down. All the light of the cave was reflected from the sea beneath, but yet it was sufficient, as soon as the eye had become accustomed to the twilight, to distinguish the surrounding objects. A clearer light being, however, desirable, Mariner once more dived, swam to the strand, fetched his pistol, poured a good quantity of powder on the pan, wrapped it carefully up in tapa-cloth and leaves, and, providing himself with a torch, returned as quickly as possible to the cave. Here he removed the cloth, a great part of which was still quite dry, and igniting it by the flame of the powder made use of it to light his torch. This was probably the very first time since its creation that the cave had ever been illumined by artificial light. Its chief compartment, which on one side branched out into two smaller cavities, seemed to be about forty feet wide and the mean height above the water amounted to as much. The roof was ornamented in a remarkable manner by stalactites resembling the arches and fantastic ornaments of a Gothic hall. According to a popular tradition, the chieftain who first discovered this remarkable cave while diving after a turtle, used it subsequently as a place of refuge for his mistress to screen her from the persecutions of the reigning despot. The sea faithfully guarded his secret: after a few weeks of seclusion, he fled with his beloved to the Feejee Islands, and on his returning to his native home after the death of the tyrant, his countrymen heard with astonishment of the wonderful asylum that had been revealed to him by the beneficent sea-gods. Lord Byron adopted this graceful tale as the subject of his poem "The Island, or Christian and his Comrades," and has thus described the cave, no doubt largely adorning it from the stores of his brilliant fancy: