who had preceded us formed a picturesque group waiting as we neared the shore. The bright dresses, the lights throwing fitful gleam and shadow into the darkness beyond, and our own gliding motion, form a picture not soon forgotten. Upon disembarking we enter Great Walk, extending from the Lake to Echo River, the floor of which is covered with yellow sand. Reaching the river, we all embark in a large boat, and soon find ourselves in a very contracted space, the rocks overhead being only three feet above the surface of the water. Stooping under the narrow archway for fifteen or twenty feet, we finally emerge into the open river, with the ceiling about fifteen feet above. At some points the river is two hundred feet wide, in depth it varies from ten to thirty feet. The water is now transparently clear, rocks can be seen twenty feet below, and the boat seems passing through the air. The illusion is heightened by the fact of our guide using no oars here, propelling the boat by a staff applied at intervals to the ceiling or side walls. We avoided looking at him, that we might still fancy ourself wafted over these mysterious waters by some invisible agency. Here is no feeling of danger, only a dreamy, delicious content to float on thus for ever into the “Silent Land.”
An occasional song to wake the far-famed echoes is the only sound to disturb the stillness and the unutterable thoughts which fill the soul. Echo River is an idyl! Alas! that it should be so short—yet three-quarters of a mile of bliss should compensate poor human nature for many ills. Some of the gentlemen, in the adventurous spirit of youth, made their passage through a rugged avenue called Purgatory; from their description of which we prefer journeying to paradise by the river. Landing
on the farther banks, we enter Silliman’s Avenue, extending a mile and a half to the Pass of El Ghor, the walls and ceilings of which, being of recent formation, are rugged and water-worn. Here is Cascade Hall, a circular chamber with vaulted ceiling, from which falls a stream of sparkling water, disappearing through a pit in the floor. The avenue leading to Roaring River takes its rise in this hall.
The Infernal Region is an irregular down-hill passage, the floor covered with wet clay. Such essentially and persistently sticky mud was probably never known above ground. The scrambling, slipping, miring, ejaculating crowd made an amusing scene. Our black guide, Mat, is a character, rarely relaxing into a smile, but displays a grim humor by saying “Sot her up,” when some heavier slush than usual reveals the fact that somebody is down. Now, sotting her up is not nearly as easy as sotting her down. In some places the water is ankle-deep. Here the gentlemen pick up the ladies, and carry the fair creatures to dry ground. Several laughable incidents were the consequence of this manœuvre. One gentleman, feeling the mud slipping under his feet, fancied himself in a quicksand, and hurriedly set his wife down in the water to rescue himself. Another, a bashful young swain, felt a delicacy about the manner of picking up his young lady, so carried her under one arm, her heels on a line with her head. What a funny picture those little dangling boots presented! Alas! for the uncertainty of human events. When we started out fresh in the morning, we had observed the secret pride with which that young woman contemplated her jaunty tasselled boots, the neatest fit in the party, and amply displayed by her short dress.
We are now quite willing to climb the Hill of Fatigue, leading to dry ground. Among many names and objects of interest we shall only mention Ole Bull’s Concert-Room, where the great violinist performed, on his first tour through the United States. The Pass of El Ghor, two miles in length, is one of the most picturesque avenues in the cave, its narrow and lofty sides changing into every variety of uncouth, fantastic shapes; again, the hanging rocks overhead suggest the idea of imminent danger, but we are assured by the guide that no rocks have fallen during his time, a period of thirty years.[127]
This pass finally communicates with a large body of water, the “Mystic River,” which has not been explored by visitors. Ascending a very high, steep ladder, we enter Martha’s Vineyard, twenty feet above the Pass of El Ghor. Here a stalagmite, extending from the floor to the ceiling, forms the stem of a grapevine, from which all over the walls and ceiling depend bunches of black grapes—nodules of carbonate of lime, colored with the black oxide of iron—and here the vintage never fails, for is there not sulphur at hand?
An avenue directly over Martha’s Vineyard, which we did not explore, is said to contain a miniature chapel of stalactites, in a dark room adjoining which, without ornament of any kind, is a grave hewn out of the rock. This was considered so suggestive by a Catholic priest that he named it the Holy Sepulchre.
The next place of great and general interest is Washington Hall, where were unpacked the hampers carried by the extra guide, detailed for that
purpose. Keen appetites were brought to bear upon the liberal luncheon supplied by the proprietor of the hotel. Some of the party had added champagne, so we filled generous bumpers to the genii of the cave. After an hour spent in rest and refreshment, we leave Washington Hall, and, passing through Snow-Ball Room, covered with nodules of white gypsum, enter Cleveland Cabinet, an avenue two miles in length, and so beautiful that the sight of it alone would fully repay for the fatigue and time devoted to the cave.
It is a perfect arch of fifty feet span, averaging the height of ten feet in the centre. Thus every part may be viewed with ease. From summit to base is a dazzling expanse of alabaster bloom—a grand conservatory where the Snow Flora moulds her flowers ere she transports them to the upper world and endows them with a soul. Here are clusters of pale white roses sprinkled with diamond dew, waiting only the enchantress’ wand to convert them into a coronal for some fair bride; again, a perfect cross of flowers, which may yet be the only companion of a rare soul entombed. Stately lilies, nodding tulips, graceful fern shapes, are showered in endless profusion on these fairy walls. Here and there are little niches lined with flowers, a feathery veil of rock bloom hanging over the entrance. We peep in curiously, but no Peri is there. This seems truly the “Enchanted Palace of Sleep,” but the princess is too deeply hidden for mortal eyes to discover.