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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 145 [10-01-1853]

              warmed in time.    A very small rise fills up the low arches, but one of twelve
feet would be required to close up the avenue of Purgatory.  Were it thus closed
at the commencement of rains or floods, luckless mortals on the other side must
perforce tarry there, no outlet being available.
			               October
  2. Sunday.  With Kellam and Stephen set off, as yesterday agreed upon,
to explore White�s Cave, a minor attraction, not generally visited, in the vicinity.
Like Knights Templars we bestrode one horse, Stephen walking beside us bearing
the lamps.  Less than a mile of forest road brought us to the place, where
the cave mouth almost hidden by pendant vines and greenery, pierced a hill side,
trees above and all around.      Dismounting, downwards we crept, attired in cave
costume, and swinging our lamps as usual.          Of this place I have no de-
tail of nomenclature and varying peculiarity to give, for unique and sin-
gularly beautiful as it is, �tis but one cavern, a thousand feet long from
entrance to end, partially divided in twain by a wondrous screen of stalactites
and stalagmites; which petrified rock-drippings and adamantine icicles indeed
are around on every side.     From the whole roof they depend, hard but
translucent, slender, long, massive, fantastically shaped, varying ever, strange
ly beautiful as a dream.  Nor this alone, for the floor is all worn into 
winding, shell-like, continuous curves, the hard, sharp clear-cut rock-ridges
serpentining hither and thither, up, down, in and out in the strongest
fashion: the hollows between filled with bright clear ice-cold water, now
deep enough to cover arm to elbow joint, now shallow enow to be bottomed
by finger-point.     For unguessable centuries here hath Nature been silent-
ly at work at this strange witchery, and with what wondrous result! I
never saw, imagined, dreamed of, aught like to it, and for many an
hour, when thoughtful musing, thousands of miles away, will the remembrance
haunt me, that there, amid wild Kentucky Hills, in darkness and with               
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