The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

which lies six miles from the village of Schoharie. The entrance is at the base of a heavily-wooded mountain that shuts in a secluded little valley. The only opening from this solitary vale is made by a small stream that winds out from among the hills. The entire seclusion of the place has prevented its earlier discovery; but the inevitable 'Hotel' now rears its wooden walls above the cave to encourage future adventurers to explore its recesses.

In the absence of the proprietor of the hotel, who usually acts as cicerone, we took as guide a sun-burnt young man, with an economical portion of nose, closely cut hair, and a wiry little mouth, which we saw at a glance would open only at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a fact. He proved himself, however, shrewd, witty, and, withal, good-natured, and as fond of a joke as any one of us all. Bob, for so our new companion named himself, showed us at once into a dressing-room, advising us to put on, over our own garments, certain exceedingly coarse and ragged coats, hats and pants, which transformed us at once from rather fashionable young men into a set of forlorn-looking beggars. Each laughed at the appearance of the other, unconscious of his own transformation; but Bob, with more truth than politeness, informed us that we all 'looked like the Old Nick;' whence it appeared that in Bob's opinion the Enemy is usually sorely afflicted with a shabby wardrobe, and that, in the words of the sage,

'Poverty is the devil.'

Being furnished with small oil lamps, we descended to the mouth of the cave. This opens at once into an entrance-hall, one hundred and fifty feet in length and thirty in width, and high enough for a tall man to enter upright.

I inquired of Bob when the cave was discovered. 'In 1842,' he replied. 'And by whom?' I continued. 'Why,' rejoined our guide, 'Mister Howe was a huntin' for caves, and he came across this one.' Rather a queer thing to be hunting for, I thought, though without comment; but in future I allowed Bob to carry on the conversation as best suited himself. He plunged at once into a dissertation on the state of the country, gravely stating that 'Washington was taken.' At the involuntary smile which this astounding piece of news called forth, Bob confessed 'he might be mistaken in this respect, as his paper came but once a week, and frequently only once in two weeks.' Finding him a stanch Union man, and inclined to serve his country to the best of his ability, we undertook 'to post him up' on the present state of affairs, for which the poor fellow was truly grateful.

Entrance Hall leads into Washington Hall, a magnificent apartment, three hundred feet long, and in the lowest part upwards of forty feet high. Our guide favored us at every turn with some new story or legend, repeated in a sing-song, nasal tone, ludicrously contrasting with the extravagance of the tales themselves. Yet he recited all alike with the most immovable gravity. It was a lively waltz of three notes.

Old Tunnel and Giant's Chapel, two fine cave-rooms, were next explored. On entering the latter, Bob favored us with the rehearsal of an old story from the Arabian Nights, which—unfortunately, not one which will bear repetition—he wished us to believe actually happened in this very locality.

I may here confess that, when we came to 'the dark hole in the ground,' I felt some slight reluctance to trust myself therein. Bob, observing this, immediately drew from his lively imagination such an astonishing increase of the perils of the way, looking complacently at me all the while, that my alarm, strange to say, took flight at once, and I pushed onward defiantly. The journey is, however, one that might justly inspire timidity. Above our heads, and on each side, frowned immense rocks, threatening at every instant to fall upon us; while the dash and babble of a stream whose course we followed, increasing in volume as we progressed, came to our ears like the 'sound of many waters.' We crossed this stream a hundred times, at least, in our journey. Sometimes it murmured and fretted in a chasm far below us; again, it spread itself out in our very path, or danced merrily at our side, until it seemed to plunge into some distant abyss with the roar of a cataract.

We emerged from the windings of our tortuous path into Harlem Tunnel, a room six hundred feet in length. In its sides were frequent openings, leading into hitherto unexplored parts of the cave; but we did not venture to enter many of these. Never have I seen such rocks as we here encountered; at one time piled up on one another, ready to totter and fall at a touch; at another, jutting out in immense boulders, sixty feet above our heads, while, in the openings they left, we gazed upward into darkness that seemed immeasurable.

From Harlem Tunnel we came into Cataract Hall, also of great length, and remarkable for containing a small opening extending to an unknown distance within the mountain, since it apparently cannot be explored. Applying the ear to this opening, the sound of an immense cataract becomes audible, pouring over the rocks far within the recesses of the mountain, where the Creator alone, who meted out those unseen, sunless waters, can behold its beauty and its terror.

Crossing the Pool of Siloam, whose babbling waters sparkled into beauty as we held our lamps above them, we entered Franklin Hall. Here the roof, although high enough in some places, is uncomfortably low in others; whereupon Bob bade us give heed to the caution of Franklin, 'Stoop as you go, and you will miss many hard thumps.'

We arrived next at Flood Hall, where a party of explorers were once put in great peril by a sudden freshet in the stream. They barely saved themselves by rapid flight, the water becoming waist-deep before they gained the entrance. We had no reason to doubt the truth of this story, as there were evidences of the rise and fall of water all about us.

Congress Hall now awaited us, but I will omit a description of it, as Musical Hall, which immediately succeeded, contains so much more that is interesting. On entering, our attention was first directed to an aperture wide enough for the admission of a man's head. Any sound made in this opening is taken up and repeated by echo after echo, till the very spirit of music seems awakened. Wave after wave of melodious sound charms the ear, even if the first awakening note has been most discordant. If the soul is filled with silent awe while listening to the unseen waterfall in Cataract Hall, it is here wooed into peace by a harmony more perfect than any produced by mortal invention. A temple-cavern vaster than Ellora with a giant 'lithophone' for organ!

The second wonder of Musical Hall is a lake of great extent, and from ten to thirty feet in depth. The smooth surface of these crystal waters, never ruffled by any air of heaven, and undisturbed save by the dip of our oars as we were ferried across, the utter darkness that hid the opposite shore from our straining sight, the huge rocks above, whose clustering stalactites, lighted by our glimmering lamps, sparkled like a starry sky, the sound of the far-off waterfall, softened by distance into a sad and solemn music, all united to recall with a vivid power, never before felt, the passage of the 'pious Æneas' over the Styx, which I had so often read with delight in my boyhood. I half fancied our Yankee Bob fading into a vision of the classic Charon, and that the ghosts of unhappy spirits were peering at us from the darkness.

At the end of the lake is Annexation Rock, a huge limestone formation in the shape of an egg. It stands on one end, is twenty-eight feet in diameter, and over forty in height.

We were now introduced into Fat Man's Misery, where the small and attenuated have greatly the advantage. We emerged from this narrow and difficult passage into the Museum, half a mile long, and so called from the number and variety of its formations. We did not linger to examine its curiosities, but pushed on over the Alps, which we surmounted, aided partly by ladders. Very steep and rugged were these Alps, and quite worthy of the name they bear. We descended from them into the Bath-room, where a pool of water and sundry other arrangements suggest to a lively imagination its designation. It certainly has the recommendation of being the most retired bath-room ever known. That of the Neapolitan sibyl is public in comparison to it.

We then entered Pirate's Retreat. Why so named, I can not guess, for I doubt if the boldest pirate who ever sailed the 'South Seas o'er' would dare venture alone so far underground as we now found ourselves.

Leaving the Pirate's Retreat, we were obliged to cross the Rocky Mountains, similar in formation and arrangement to the Alps. The Rocky Mountains lead into Jehoshaphat's Valley, one mile in length. Like its namesake, this valley is a deep ravine, with steep, rugged sides, and a brawling brook running at the bottom.

Miller's Hall next claims our attention. Here we take leave of the brook, which, with the cave, loses itself in a measureless ravine, where the rocks have fallen in such a manner as to obstruct any further explorations.

From thence, turning to the right, we enter Winding Way, a most appropriate name for the place. The narrow passage turns and twists between masses of solid rook, high in some places, and low in others. The deathlike silence of the solitude that surrounded us impressed us with a vague feeling of fear, and we felt no disposition to tempt the Devil's Gangway, especially as, in consequence of a recent freshet, it was partly filled with water. Our guide informed us that beyond the Gangway were several rooms, among which Silent Chamber and Gothic Arch were the most noteworthy. The portion of the cave visited by tourists terminates in the 'Rotunda,' eight miles from the entrance; although explorations have been made some miles further. The Rotunda is cylindrical in shape, fifteen feet in diameter, and one hundred feet in height.

We were now in a little room six miles from the mouth of the cave, and thought the present a good opportunity to try the effect of the absence of light and sound on the mind. Extinguishing our lights, therefore, we resigned ourselves to the influences of darkness and silence. To realize such a state fully, one must find one's self in the bowels of the earth, as we were, where the beating of our own hearts alone attested the existence of life. We were glad to relight our lamps and begin our return to upper air.

I have already mentioned Annexation Rock; near it is another curious freak of nature, called the Tree of the World's History. It resembles the stump of a tree two feet in diameter, and cut off two feet above the ground, upon which a portion of the trunk, six feet in length, is exactly balanced. A singular type of the changes which time makes in the world above-ground.

In the Museum, whose examination we had postponed till our return, we were lost in a world of wonders. It were vain to attempt to describe or even enumerate half of the various objects that met us at every turn. Churches, towers, complete with doors and windows, as if finished by the hand of an architect; an organ, its long and short pipes arranged in perfect order; Lot's Wife, a figure in stone, life size; in another place two women, in long, flowing garments, standing facing each other, as if engaged in earnest conversation, and a soldier in complete armor,—these were among the most striking of the larger objects. The vegetable world was also well represented. Here was a bunch of carrots, fresh as if just taken from the ground, sheaves of wheat, bunches of grain and grass hanging from the walls and roofs. Interspersed were birds of every species, doves in loving companionship, sparrows, and hawks. I noticed also in one place a pair of elephant's ears perfect as life. Indeed it was not difficult to believe that these stony semblances had once been endowed with life, and, ere blight or decay could change, had been transmuted into things of imperishable beauty.

While waiting for our guide to unmoor the boat, which was to take us over the lake a second time, I ran up the bank to look at the stalactites that hung in the greatest profusion above the water. The light of my lamp shining through them produced an effect as surprising as it was beautiful. But no words can do justice to the scene. Imagine an immense room whose ceiling is studded with icicles forming every conceivable curve and angle, and you will have only a faint idea of the number and variety of these subterranean ornaments.

A mile from the entrance we found some stray bats,—the first living creatures we had met. We endeavored to attract them by holding up our lamps, and succeeded so well that we were glad to leave them behind us as soon as possible.

It is a singular fact, noted by other cave-explorers, and confirmed by our own experience, that while within a cave one's usual vigor and activity appears augmented. A slight reaction takes place on coming out into the upper world, and renders rest doubly refreshing and grateful.

Let me, in closing, advise other visitors to Howe's Cave to choose fair weather, and take time enough for their visit, as the windings of the cave and its curiosities are alike exhaustless.

Potential Moods

I sit and dream
Of the time that prophets have long foretold,
Of an age surpassing the age of gold,
Which the eyes of the selfish can never behold,
When truth and love shall be owned supreme.

I think and weep
O'er the thousands oppressed by sin and woe,
O'er the long procession of those who go,
Through ignorance, error, and passions low,
To the unsought bed of their dreamless sleep.

I wait and long
For the sway of justice, the rule of right;
For the glad diffusion of wisdom's light;
For the triumph of liberty over might;
For the day when the weak shall be free from the strong.

I work and sing
To welcome the dawn of the fairer day,
When crime and sin shall have passed away,
When men shall live as well as they pray,
And earth with the gladness of heaven shall ring.

I trust and hope
In the tide of God's love that unceasingly rolls,
In the dear words of promise that bear up our souls,
In the tender compassion that sweetly consoles,
When in death's darkened valley we tremblingly grope.

I toil and pray
For the beauty excelling all forms of art;
For the blessing that comes to the holy heart;
For the hope that foretells, and seems a part
Of the life and joy of the heavenly day.

The True Interest Of Nations

For a litigious, quarrelsome, fighting animal, man is very fond of peace. He began to shed blood almost as soon as he began to go alone in company with his nearest relatives; and when Abel asked of Cain, 'Am I not a man and a brother?' the latter, instead of giving him the hug fraternal, did beat him to death. Cain's only object, it should seem, was a quiet life, and Abel had disturbed his repose by setting up a higher standard of excellence than the elder brother could afford to maintain. It was only to 'conquer a peace' that Cain thus acted. He desired 'indemnity for the past and security for the future,' and so he took up arms against his brother and ended him. He loved peace, but he did not fear war, because he was the stronger party of the two, his weapons being as ready for action as the British navy is ready for it to-day; and Abel was as defenceless as we were a twelvemonth ago. Cain is the type of all mankind, who know that peace is better than war, but who rush into war under the pressure of envy and pride. Ancient as violence is, it is not so old as peace; and it is for peace that all wars are made, at least by organized communities. All peoples have in their minds the idea of a golden age, not unlike to that time so vividly described by Hesiod, when men were absolutely good, and therefore happy; living in perfect accord on what the earth abundantly gave them, suffering neither illness nor old age, and dying as calmly as they had lived. Historical inquiry has so far shaken belief in the existence of any such time as that painted by the poet, that men have agreed to place it in the future. It has never been, but it is to be. It will come with that 'coming man,' who travels so slowly, and will be by him inaugurated, a boundless millennial time. In the mean time contention prevails; 'war's unequal game' is played with transcendent vigor, and at a cost that would frighten the whole human race into madness were it incurred for any other purpose. But, while fighting, men have kept their eyes steadily fixed upon peace, which is to be the reward of their valor and their pecuniary sacrifices. Every warlike time has been followed by a period in which strenuous exertions have been made to make peace perpetual. Never was there a more profound desire felt for peace than that which prevailed among the Romans of the Augustan age, after a series of civil and foreign wars yet unparalleled in the history of human struggles. One poet could denounce the first forger of the iron sword as being truly brutal and iron-hearted; and another could declare it to be the 'mission' of the Romans only to impose terms of peace upon barbarians, who should be compelled to accept quiet as a boon, or endure it as a burden. Strange sentiments were these to proceed from the land of the legions, but they expressed the current Roman opinion, which preferred even dishonor to war. So was it after the settlement of Europe in 1815. A generation that had grown up in the course of the greatest of modern contests produced the most determined and persistent advocates of the 'peace-at-any-price' policy; and for forty years peace was preserved between the principal Christian nations, through the exertions of statesmen, kings, philanthropists, and economists, who, if they could agree in nothing else, were almost unanimous in the opinion that war was an expensive folly, and that the first duty of a government was to prevent its subjects from becoming military-mad. Perhaps there never was a happier time in Christendom than it knew between the autumn of 1815 and the spring of 1854, after Napoleon had gone down and before Nicholas had set himself up to dictate law to the world. It was the modern age of the Antonines, into which was crowded more true enjoyment than mankind had known for centuries; and they are beginning to learn its excellence from its loss,—war raging now in the New World, while Europe lives in hourly expectation of its occurrence. There were wars, and cruel wars, too, in those years, but they faintly affected Europe and the United States, and probably added something to men's happiness, for the same reason that a storm to which we are not exposed increases our sense of comfort. Their thunders were remote, and they furnished materials for the journals. So we saw a Providence in them, and thanked Heaven, some of us, that we no longer furnished examples of the folly of contention.

The friends of peace were actuated by various motives. With statesmen and politicians peace was preferred because it was cheaper than war, and all countries were burdened with debt. England has sometimes been praised because she so uniformly threw her influence on the side of peace, after she had accomplished her purpose in the war against imperial France. Time and again, she might have waged popular wars, and in which she would have probably been successful; but she would help neither the Spaniards against France and the Holy Alliance, nor the Turks against the Russians, nor the Poles against the Czar, nor the Hungarians against the Austrians, nor the Italians against the Kaiser, nor the Greeks against the Turks. She settled all her disputes with the United States by negotiation, and showed no disposition to fight with France, except when she had all the rest of Europe on her side. But this praise has not been deserved. England did not quarrel with powerful countries, because she could not afford to enter upon costly warfare. She had gone to the extent of her means when her debt had reached to four thousand million dollars, and she could not increase that debt largely until she should also have increased her wealth. Time was required to add to her means, and to lessen her debt; and to such a state had her finances been reduced, that it is now twenty years since she began to derive a portion of her revenue from an income tax, which, imposed in the time of peace, was increased when war became inevitable. The bonds she had given to keep the peace were too great to admit of her breaking it. She did not fight, because she doubted her ability to fight successfully. She had no wish to behold another suspension of cash payments by her national bank; and a general war would be sure to bring suspension. But she was as ready as she had ever been to contend with the weak. The Chinese and the Afghans did not find her very forbearing, though with neither of those peoples had she any just cause for war.

With the disunited States she has been as prompt to quarrel as she was slow to contend with the United States; and now she is one of the high contracting parties to the crusade against Mexico. We say nothing of the Sepoy war, for that was a contest for 'empire,' as Earl Russell would say. She could not, in the days of Clyde, give up what she had acquired in the days of Clive; and no one ought to blame her for what she did in India, though it can not be denied that the mutiny was the consequence of her own bad conduct in the East. With Russia, Austria, and Prussia to back her, in 1840, she went to the verge of a war with France; but, in so doing, the government did that which the English nation by no means warmly approved; and the fall of the whig ministry, in 1841, was in no small part due to Lord Palmerston's policy in the preceding year. The Russian war was brought about by the action of the English people, who were angry with the Czar because his empire had the first place in Europe. The government would have prevented that war from breaking out if it could, but popular pressure was too strong for it, and it had to give way. The event has proved that the English government was wiser than were the English people, France alone having gained anything from the departure from what had become the policy of Europe; and for France to gain is not altogether for the benefit of England.