Enesee.
CONCLUSION.
Again the hand of time has made its mark in and around Dungeon Rock. Twenty-eight years have come and gone since this little book first went on its mission, and with them, many of those most interested in the progress and prosperity of the work and workers at the cave, have passed on to spirit life. One only, of the little family yet lives. Far away in the sunny South-west, in her own home, the first to say farewell to home and loved ones. Next the gentle, kind-hearted wife and mother, was called away by death’s relentless hand. The father and son still held steadfast to their faith, working winters and attending to visitors during the summer and autumn months. Friends always came in times of need, and when hope was ready to give way to doubt, and when hands and hearts grew weary with their labors, some cheering message from the other side, or the fulfilment of a long ago communication, gave them new courage and energy, and thus the work continued. The father’s health had been gradually failing, and in 1868 he joined the spirit band without having reached the cave occupied by the pirates, though quite a cave had been made by the excavators, and a huge pile of stone near by gave ample proof of the unwavering purpose of this man’s life for nearly twenty years. Intelligent, energetic and capable, sharp and clear-sighted, with a vein of humor, and pleasing manner, he welcomed all to his humble abode, whether believer or skeptic, with the same good natured, honest expressions of interest and assurance in the work, that he fully believed was given him to do by disembodied spirits, receiving, as he sometimes said all things as compliments, whether donations of money, provisions, or a profusion of wordy advice or ridicule. He had many firm friends, who were ever ready to lend their assistance in life, and in his death missed the companionship of a good and upright man.
Thus Hiram Marble, the Excavator, finds rest from his labors, and his inanimate form is placed beside that of his wife in the little church-yard of his native town in western Massachusetts.
The little house under the rock has now but two occupants. Edwin, first mentioned in the history as a youth of twenty, now takes up the task alone. A small, delicate man, with clear light blue eyes, light brown hair and a face white and fair as a woman’s; honest, credulous and hopeful, he has the will but not the strength to cope long with that hard unyielding stone, yet the thought of abandoning the work is not tolerated for a single moment, and every year the pile of stone outside is heaped higher, and the route of the excavation becomes longer, deeper and more circuitous; and, alas! each year the excavator grows weaker and more feeble and less able to carry on the work. More rooms have been added to the house, but the octagon foundation is now only a ruin. The interest is still kept up and many visitors come every year and all go away well pleased that they have spent an hour in this quiet spot, around which there hangs a mystery.
Early in the winter of 1879 Mr. Marble contemplated visiting his relatives and friends in the West, but instead thereof, he started on that journey from whence no traveler returns,—in the body—and one bright day, in the middle of January 1880, the last good byes were spoken and his grave was made by the side of the rock, just above the house where he spent more than half of his earthly existence.
There is little change in the place since then; the faces of strangers are seen in the places where the visitors of long ago saw, perhaps, those described in these pages; but they will give you a welcome, kind as ever, and try always to make your visit pleasant. The old platform, where there has been much merry-making, has been replaced by a larger and better one. The old flag-staff has long since blown down.
The cave, or excavation, is now nearly two hundred feet through and seventy-five feet below the entrance, and well worthy a visit from all who can find opportunity for such a pleasure. It teaches a lesson of faith—not without works—then the view from the top of the rock is beyond all description; far as the eye can reach, from the dome of the state house in Boston on the right, to Marblehead and Salem on the left, with a full view of the harbor even to Minot’s light, with its beaches and islands, its steamers and sail-boats, its constant trains of cars passing and repassing along the beach, the electric lights and japanese illuminations at the Point of Pines, are all plainly visible, and make a grand and majestic panorama, while the nearer view is still more picturesque and lovely. The song entitled “America” best describes ones feelings as they look around them from that point. The tall pines, the giant oaks and walnuts, the graceful cedars, with ash and hemlocks mingling with the monster gray boulders, forming beautifully contrasting colors and shades, in the sunlight, or the gray morn or eventide, while the shimmering light upon Saugus river and the sheeny blue of the Ocean contrast strangely with the large, smooth-faced sheet of water directly in front and just below, which just now is over-running its banks on every side, while a hundred little brooks and rivulets are hurrying and tumbling over their rocky beds to offer their tribute to Breeds Pond, that the people of Lynn may drink and not thirst. Around this beautiful pond is a shady, winding road, that is named Dungeon Rock Avenue, and leads directly to the rock from the city, while beyond and around are hundreds of acres of hills and valleys and mountains and glens, rocks and ravines.
The scenery is wild and romantic in the extreme, and a society, calling themselves Foresters, have formed for the purpose of purchasing and holding these granite hills for public use to be kept as a perpetual forest, that all may have the pleasure of visiting the wild woods, and this inside the city limits of Lynn and within a dozen miles of Boston. Dungeon Rock, or the Visitor’s Resort is in the midst of this quiet splendor, this silent temple, with its many spires and altars. It is accessible by the Myrtle Street horse cars, or addressing Dungeon Rock, Lynn Mass., parties will be conveyed direct from any part of the city, and can spend an hour of pleasure and profit and judge for themselves of all that has been said and written of this quiet, lovely spot and wonder who next will have the faith, courage and opportunity to go on with this strange work, and add to the monument that two good men have created to faith in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the grave.