Castled rock and waving wood,
Monkish cell and robbers’ hold--
Rugged as in days of old,
From precipices, stern and grey,
Guard the dark and dreaded way.
The tourist who has happily escaped the perils of the Strudel rapids,
has still to encounter, in his descent, the whirlpool of the Wirbel,
which is distant from the former little more than five hundred
fathoms. Between the two perils of this passage in the Danube there is
a remarkable similarity--_magna componere parvis_--with that of the
Faro of Messina; where the hereditary terrors of Scylla and Charybdis
still intimidate the pilot, as he struggles to maintain a clear course
through the strait:
“There, in foaming whirls Charybdis curls,
Loud Scylla roars to larboard;
In that howling gulf, with the dog and wolf,
Deep moored to-night, with her living freight,
That goodly ship is harboured!”
The cause of the whirlpool is evident at first sight. In the centre
of the stream is an island called the Hansstein, about a hundred and
fifty yards long, by fifty in breadth, consisting of primitive rock,
and dividing the river--which at this point descends with tremendous
force--into the two separate channels of the Hössgang and the Strudel
already mentioned. In its progress to this point, it meets with that
portion of the river which runs smoothly along the northern shore,
and breaking it into a thousand eddies, forms the Wirbel. This has
the appearance of a series of foaming circles, each deepening as
it approaches the centre, and caused by the two opposite streams
rushing violently against each other. That such is the real cause of
the Wirbel is sufficiently proved by the fact, that, in the great
autumnal inundation of 1787, when the flood ran so high as to cover
the Hansstein, the Wirbel, to the astonishment of the oldest boatmen
and natives of the country, had entirely disappeared. For the obstacle
being thus counteracted by the depth of the flood, and the stream being
now unbroken by the rock, rushed down in one continuous volume, without
exhibiting any of those gyratory motions which characterize the Wirbel.
The sombre and mysterious aspects of the place, its wild scenery, and
the frequent accidents which occurred in the passage, invested it
with awe and terror; but above all, the superstitions of the time,
a belief in the marvellous, and the credulity of the boatmen, made
the navigation of the Strudel and the Wirbel a theme of the wildest
romance. At night, sounds that were heard far above the roar of the
Danube, issued from every ruin. Magical lights flashed through their
loop-holes and casements--festivals were held in the long-deserted
halls--maskers glided from room to room--the waltzers maddened to
the strains of an infernal orchestra--armed sentinels paraded the
battlements, while at intervals the clash of arms, the neighing of
steeds, and the shrieks of unearthly combatants smote fitfully on the
boatman’s ear. But the tower in which these scenes were most fearfully
enacted was that on the Longstone, commonly called the “Devil’s Tower,”
as it well deserved to be--for here, in close communion with his
master, resided the “Black Monk,” whose office it was to exhibit false
lights and landmarks along the gulf, so as to decoy the vessels into
the whirlpool, or dash them against the rocks.
Returning to Orsova, we re-embarked in boats provided by the Navigation
Company, and proceeded to encounter the perils of the Eisen Thor--the
Iron Gate of the Danube--which is so apt to be associated in the
stranger’s imagination with something of real personal risk and
adventure. The “Iron Gate” we conjecture, is some narrow, dark and
gloomy defile, through which the water, hemmed in by stupendous cliffs,
and “iron-bound,” as we say, foams and bellows, and dashes over a
channel of rocks, every one of which, when it cannot drag you into its
own whirlpool, is sure to drive you upon some of its neighbours, which,
with another rude shove, that makes your bark stagger and reel, sends
you smack upon a third! “But the ‘gate’?” “Why the gate is nothing more
or less than other gates, the ‘outlet’; and I dare say we shall be
very glad when we are ‘let out quietly.’” “Very narrow at that point,
s’pose?” “Very. You have seen an iron gate?” “To be sure I have.”
“Well, I’m glad of that, because you can more readily imagine what the
Iron Gate of the Danube is.” “Yes, and I am all impatience to see it;
but what if it should be locked when we arrive?” “Why, in that case,
we should feel a little awkward.” “Should we have to wait long?” “Only
till we got the key, although we might have to send to Constantinople
for it.” “Constantinople! well, here’s a pretty situation! I wish I
had gone by the ‘cart.’” “You certainly had your choice, and might
have done so--the Company provide both waggon and water conveyance
to Gladova; but I dare say we shall find the gate open.” “I hope we
shall; and as for the rocks and all that, why we got over the Wirbel
and Strudel and Izlay and twenty others, and s’pose we get over
this too. It’s only the gate that puzzles me--the Handbook says not
a word about that--quite unpardonable such an omission! Write to the
publisher.”
[Illustration: THE IRON GATES OF THE DANUBE.]
By this time we were ready to shoot the rapids; and certainly, at
first appearance, the enterprise was by no means inviting. The water,
however, was in good volume at the time; and although chafed and
fretted by a thousand cross, curling eddies, which tossed their crests
angrily against our bark, we kept our course with tolerable steadiness
to the left, and without apparent danger, unless it might have arisen
from sheer ignorance or want of precaution. More towards the centre of
the channel there would certainly have been some risk; for there the
river is tortured and split into numberless small threads of foam, by
the rocky spikes which line the channel, and literally tear the water
into shreds, as it sweeps rapidly over them--and these, more than the
declivity itself, are what present a more formidable appearance in
the descent. But when the river is full, they are not much observed,
although well-known by their effects in the cross-eddies, through
which, from the channel for boats being always intricate and irregular,
it demands more caution and experience to steer. The entire length
of these rapids is rather more than seventeen hundred yards, with
a perpendicular fall of nearly one yard in every three hundred,
and a velocity of from three to five yards in every second. Boats,
nevertheless, are seen from time to time, slowly ascending, close under
the left bank of the river, dragged by teams of oxen. “But the Iron
Gate?” said an anxious voice, again addressing his fellow-tourist.
“I see nothing like a gate--but of course we have to pass the gorge
first?” “We have passed both,” said his friend, “and here is Gladova.”
“Passed both! ‘Tell that to the marines!’ I know a gorge when I see
it, and a gate when I see it; but as yet we’ve passed neither.” “Why,
_there_ they are,” reiterated the other, pointing to the stern; “those
white, frothing eddies you see dancing in the distance--those _are_ the
‘Iron-Gate!’ and very luckily we found the ‘key.’”[12] The inquirer now
joined heartily in the laugh, and taking another view of the “Gate” we
glided smoothly down to the little straggling, thatch-clad village of
Gladova.
_The Danube_ (London, 1844).
FOOTNOTE:
[12] At the Iron Gate the Danube quits the Austrian Dominions and
enters those of Turkey. The country on the south continues for some
time mountainous, then hilly, and by degrees sinks into a plain: on
the north is the great level of Wallachia. In its course towards the
Black Sea, the Danube divides, frequently forming numerous islands,
especially below Silistria. Its width where undivided now averages from
fifteen hundred to two thousand yards, its depth above twenty feet.
Before reaching its mouth, several large rivers flow into it, as the
Alt, Sereth, and Pruth. On its junction with the last-mentioned river
it divides into several branches, which do not again unite, and it at
last terminates its long course by issuing through seven several mouths
into the Black Sea.
THE MAMMOTH CAVE
(_UNITED STATES_)
BAYARD TAYLOR
There was no outbreathing from the regions below as we stood at the
entrance to the cave, the upper atmosphere having precisely the same
temperature. We advanced in single file down the Main Avenue, which,
from the increased number of lamps, showed with greater distinctness
than on our first trip. Without pausing at any of the objects of
interest on the road, we marched to the Giant’s Coffin, crawled through
the hole behind it, passed the Deserted Chambers, and reached the
Bottomless Pit, the limit of our journey in this direction the previous
day.
Beyond the Pit we entered upon new ground. After passing from under its
Moorish dome the ceiling became low and the path sinuous and rough. I
could only walk by stooping considerably, and it is necessary to keep
a sharp look-out to avoid striking your head against the transverse
jambs of rock. This passage is aptly called the Valley of Humiliation.
It branches off to the right into another passage called Pensico
Avenue, which contains some curious stalactitic formations, similar to
the Gothic Gallery. We did not explore it, but turned to the left and
entered an extremely narrow, winding passage, which meanders through
the solid rock. It is called Fat Man’s Misery, and any one whose
body is more than eighteen inches in breadth will have trouble to get
through. The largest man who ever passed it weighed two hundred and
sixty pounds, and any gentleman weighing more than that must leave the
best part of the cave unexplored. None of us came within the scope of
prohibition (Nature, it seems, is opposed to corpulence), and after
five minutes’ twisting we emerged into a spacious hall called the
Great Relief. Its continuation forms an avenue which leads to Bandits’
Hall--a wild, rugged vault, the bottom of which is heaped with huge
rocks that have fallen from above. All this part of the cave is rich
in striking and picturesque effects, and presents a more rude and
irregular character than anything we had yet seen.
At the end of Bandits’ Hall is the Meat-Room, where a fine collection
of limestone hams and shoulders are suspended from the ceiling, as in
a smoke-house, the resemblance, which is really curious, is entirely
owing to the action of the water. The air now grew perceptibly damp,
and a few more steps brought us to the entrance of River Hall. Here
the ceiling not only becomes loftier, but the floor gradually slopes
away before you, and you look down into the vast depths and uncertain
darkness, and question yourself if the Grecian fable be not indeed
true. While I paused on the brink of these fresh mysteries the others
of the party had gone ahead under the charge of Mat; Stephen, who
remained with me, proposed that we should descend to the banks of the
Styx and see them crossing the river upon the Natural Bridge. We stood
on the brink of the black, silent water; the arch of the portal was
scarcely visible in the obscurity far above us. Now, as far below, I
saw the twinkle of a distant lamp, then another and another. “Is it
possible,” I asked, “that they have descended so much further?” “You
forget,” said Stephen, “that you are looking into the river and see
their reflected images. Stoop a little and you will find that they are
high above the water.” I stooped and looked under an arch, and saw the
slow procession of golden points of light passing over the gulf under
the eaves of a great cliff; but another procession quite as distinct
passed on below until the last lamp disappeared and all was darkness
again.
Five minutes more and the roughest and most slippery scrambling brought
us to the banks of the Lethe River, where we found the rest of the
party.
The river had risen since the previous day, and was at the most
inconvenient stage possible. A part of the River Walk was overflowed,
yet not deep enough to float the boats. Mat waded out and turned the
craft, which was moored to a projecting rock, as near to us as the
water would allow, after which he and Stephen carried us one by one
upon their shoulders and deposited us in it. It was a rude, square
scow, well plastered with river mud. Boards were laid across for the
ladies, the rest of us took our seats on the muddy gunwales, the guides
plied their paddles, and we were afloat on Lethe.
After a ferriage of about one hundred yards, we landed on a bank of
soft mud besides a small arm of the river, which had overflowed the
usual path. We sank to our ankles in the moist, tenacious soil,
floundering laboriously along until we were brought to a halt by Echo
River, the third and last stream. This again is divided into three or
four arms, which, meandering away under low arches, finally unite.
As we stood on the wet rocks, peering down into the black translucence
of the silent, mysterious water, sounds--first distant, then near,
then distant again--stole to us from under the groined vaults of rock.
First, the dip of many oars; then a dull, muffled peal, rumbling away
like the echoes of thunder; then a voice marvellously sweet, but
presently joined by others sweeter still, taking up the dying notes
ere they faded into silence, and prolonging them through remoter
chambers. The full, mellow strains rose until they seemed sung at our
very ears, then relapsed like ebbing waves, to wander off into solitary
halls, then approached again, and receded, like lost spirits seeking
here and there for an outlet from the world of darkness. Or was it a
chorus of angels come on some errand of pity and mercy to visit the
Stygian shores? As the heavenly harmonies thickened, we saw a gleam on
the water, and presently a clear light, floating above its mirrored
counterfeit, swept into sight. It was no angel, but Stephen, whose
single voice had been multiplied into that enchanting chorus.
The whole party embarked in two small boats, and after a last voyage
of about two hundred yards, were landed beyond the waters, and free to
explore the wonderful avenues of that new world of which Stephen is
the Columbus. The River Hall here terminates, and the passages are
broken and irregular for a short distance. A few minutes of rough
travel brought us to a large circular hall with a vaulted ceiling, from
the centre of which poured a cascade of crystal water, striking upon
the slant side of a large reclining boulder, and finally disappearing
through a funnel-shaped pit in the floor. It sparkled like a shower of
pearls in the light of our lamps, as we clustered around the brink of
the pit to drink from the stores gathered in those natural bowls which
seem to have been hollowed out for the uses of the invisible gnomes.
Beyond Cascade Hall commences Silliman’s Avenue, a passage about twenty
feet wide, forty or fifty in height, and a mile and a half in length.
Our lamps were replenished and we entered El Ghor, which is by far the
most picturesque avenue in the cave. It is a narrow, lofty passage
meandering through the heart of a mass of horizontal strata of
limestone, the broken edges of which assume the most remarkable forms.
Now there are rows of broad, flat shelves overhanging your head; now
you sweep around the stern of some mighty vessel with its rudder set
hard to starboard; now you enter a little vestibule with friezes and
mouldings of almost Doric symmetry and simplicity; and now you wind
away into a Cretan labyrinth most uncouth and fantastic, whereof the
Minotaur would be a proper inhabitant. It is a continual succession of
surprises, and, to the appreciative visitor, of raptures. The pass is
somewhat more than _a mile and a half in length_, and terminates in a
curious knot or entanglement of passages leading to two or more tiers
of avenues.
We were now, according to Stephen’s promises, on the threshold of
wonders. Before proceeding further we stopped to drink from a fine
sulphur spring which fills a natural basin in the bottom of a niche
made on purpose to contain it. We then climbed a perpendicular ladder,
passing through a hole in the ceiling barely large enough to admit our
bodies, and found ourselves at the entrance of a narrow, lofty passage
leading upwards. When all had made the ascent the guides exultingly
lifted their lamps and directed our eyes to the rocks overhanging
the aperture; there was the first wonder, truly! Clusters of grapes
gleaming with blue and violet tints through the water which trickled
over them, hung from the cliffs, while a stout vine, springing from the
base and climbing nearly to the top, seemed to support them. Hundreds
on hundreds of bunches clustering so thickly as to conceal the leaves,
hang forever ripe and forever unplucked in that marvellous vintage
of the subterranean world. For whose hand shall squeeze the black,
infernal wine from grapes that grow beyond Lethe?
Mounting for a short distance, this new avenue suddenly turned to the
left, widened, and became level; the ceiling is low, but beautifully
vaulted, and Washington’s Hall, which we soon reached, is circular, and
upwards of a hundred feet in diameter. This is the usual dining-room
of parties who go beyond the rivers. Nearly five hours had now elapsed
since we entered the cave, and five hours spent in that bracing,
stimulating atmosphere might well justify the longing glances which we
cast upon the baskets carried by the guides. Mr. Miller had foreseen
our appetites, and there were stores of venison, biscuit, ham, and
pastry, more than sufficient for all. We made our midday, or rather
midnight meal sitting, like the nymph who wrought Excalibur
“Upon the hidden bases of the hills,”
buried far below the green Kentucky forests, far below the forgotten
sunshine. For in the cave you forget that there is an outer world
somewhere above you. The hours have no meaning: Time ceases to be; no
thought of labour, no sense of responsibility, no twinge of conscience
intrudes to suggest the existence you have left. You walk in some limbo
beyond the confines of actual life, yet no nearer the world of spirits.
For my part, I could not shake off the impression that I was wandering
on the _outside_ of Uranus or Neptune, or some planet still more deeply
buried in the frontier darkness of our solar system.
Washington Hall marks the commencement of Elindo Avenue, a straight
hall about sixty feet wide, twenty in height, and _two miles_ long.
It is completely encrusted from end to end with crystallizations of
gypsum, white as snow. This is the crowning marvel of the cave, the
pride and the boast of the guides. Their satisfaction is no less than
yours, as they lead you through the diamond grottoes, the gardens of
sparry efflorescence, and the gleaming vaults of this magical avenue.
We first entered the “Snow-ball Room,” where the gnome-children in
their sports have peppered the grey walls and ceiling with thousands
of snow-white projecting discs, so perfect in their fragile beauty,
that they seem ready to melt away under the blaze of your lamp. Then
commences Cleveland’s Cabinet, a gallery of crystals, the richness
and variety of which bewilder you. It is a subterranean conservatory,
filled with the flowers of all the zones; for there are few blossoms
expanding on the upper earth but are mimicked in these gardens of
Darkness. I cannot lead you from niche to niche, and from room to room,
examining in detail the enchanted growths; they are all so rich and so
wonderful that the memory does not attempt to retain them. Sometimes
the hard limestone rock is changed into a pasture of white roses;
sometimes it is starred with opening daisies; the sunflowers spread
their flat discs and rayed leaves; the feathery chalices of the cactus
hang from the clefts; the night-blooming cereus opens securely her
snowy cup, for the morning never comes to close it; the tulip is here a
virgin, and knows not that her sisters above are clothed in the scarlet
of shame.
In many places the ceiling is covered with a mammary crystallization,
as if a myriad bubbles were rising beneath its glittering surface.
Even on this jewelled soil which sparkles all around you, grow the
lilies and roses, singly overhead, but clustering together towards the
base of the vault, where they give place to long, snowy, pendulous
cactus-flowers, which droop like a fringe around diamonded niches.
Here you see the passion-flower, with its curiously curved pistils;
there an iris with its lanceolate leaves; and again, bunches of celery
with stalks white and tender enough for a fairy’s dinner. There are
occasional patches of gypsum, tinged of a deep amber colour by the
presence of iron. Through the whole length of the avenue there is
no cessation of the wondrous work. The pale rock-blooms burst forth
everywhere, crowding on each other until the brittle sprays cannot
bear their weight, and they fall to the floor. The slow, silent
efflorescence still goes on, as it has done for ages in that buried
tropic.
What mostly struck me in my underground travels was the evidence of
_design_ which I found everywhere. Why should the forms of the earth’s
outer crust, her flowers and fruits, the very heaven itself which
spans her, be so wonderfully reproduced? What laws shape the blossoms
and the foliage of that vast crystalline garden? There seemed to be
something more than the accidental combinations of a blind chance in
what I saw--some evidence of an informing and directing Will. In the
secret caverns, the agencies which produced their wonders have been at
work for thousands of years, perhaps thousands of ages, fashioning the
sparry splendours in the womb of darkness with as exquisite a grace,
as true an instinct of beauty as in the palm or the lily, which are
moulded by the hands of the sun. What power is it which lies behind
the mere chemistry of Nature, impregnating her atoms with such subtle
laws of symmetry? What but Divine Will, which first gave her being, and
which is never weary of multiplying for man the lessons of His infinite
wisdom?
At the end of Elindo Avenue the floor sinks, then ascends, and is at
last blocked up by a huge pile of large, loose rocks. When we had
reached the foot, the roof of the avenue suddenly lifted and expanded,
and the summit of the Rocky Mountains, as they are called, leaned
against a void waste of darkness. We climbed to the summit, about a
hundred feet above, whence we looked down into an awful gulf, spanned
far above our heads by a hollow dome of rock. The form of this gigantic
hall was nearly elliptical. It was probably 150 feet in height, by
500 in length, the ends terminating near the roof in the cavernous
mouths of other avenues. The guides partly descended the hill and there
kindled a brilliant Bengal light, which disclosed more clearly the
form of the hall, but I thought it more impressive as its stupendous
proportions were first dimly revealed by the light of our lamps.
Stephen, who discovered this place, gave it the name of the Dismal
Hollow.
Scrambling along the ridge of the Rocky Mountains, we gained the
entrance to the cavern opening on the left, which we followed for about
two hundred yards, when it terminated in a lofty circular dome, called
Crogan’s Hall. The floor on one side dropped suddenly into a deep pit,
around which were several cushions of stalagmite, answering to short
stalactites, hanging from the ceiling far above. At the extremity of
the hall was a sort of recess, formed by stalactitic pillars. The wall
behind it was a mass of veined alabaster. “Here,” said Stephen, “is
your Ultima Thule. This is the end of the Mammoth Cave, nine miles
from daylight.” But I doubt whether there is really an end of the cave
any more than an end of the earth. Notwithstanding the ground we had
traversed, we had left many vast avenues unexplored, and a careful
search would no doubt lead to further discoveries.