Returning to the Auditorium, we entered a passage behind the Great White Throne and started on what might well be called the Water Route, for no dry spot is touched on the round trip; but if one goes prepared for such a journey it is well worth the effort and the mud.  If the visitor is a man, the suit worn should be one he is ready to part with, or overalls; ladies receive the same advice even to the overalls, as some of the most beautiful portions of the cave, which we failed to see, can be visited only in that objectionable costume.  To visit any cave comfortably a short dress is necessary and if any thing like a thorough knowledge of the ramifications is desired, the unavoidable climbing will soon prove the superior claims of a divided skirt; but if it is properly made, only the wearer need be conscious of the divide.  Rubber boots and water-proof protection for the head and shoulders complete a costume that is not exactly an artistic creation, unless our ideas of art have been gathered in the school of Socrates, but it is suited to the requirements of the occasion and makes the explorations far more easy and profitable than they otherwise could be.

The passage back of the White Throne is called the Serpentine Passage, and most of it is sufficiently high for traveling in an erect position; yet there are several places that require crawling.  The first stopping point is the Gulf of Doom Room, or as it is also known, the Register Room, because here visitors usually write their names in the peculiar dark red clay, which is moist but firm and cuts with a polish.  This room is twenty-five feet high and fifty feet wide, and looks off into the Gulf of Doom, which seems rightly named when a rock is thrown into it and you note the lapse of time before any sound returns; and when the awful Gulf is made visible by lights thrown in, one involuntarily seeks a firmer footing and clings to a projecting rock.  The height of the Gulf is ninety-five feet and the distant sound of falling water is not reassuring.  The walls are not smoothly worn away, but have the rough and weird appearance of having been torn by a torrent in a narrow mountain gorge, and are stained with the dark clay.

Retracing our steps a short distance, if that style of locomotion could be called steps, we turned into Dore’s Gallery, and surely that artist was in his usual working mood when he conceived this awful method of connecting the upper regions with the lower.  Great bowlders have fallen down without helping to fill the black holes that received them, and into this real Inferno we proceeded to descend by narrow, ladder-like stairs provided with a light hand rail, and trembling slightly with the responsibility they assumed.  If any one’s courage trembled too, no notice was taken of it, and a record of exploring experiences does not necessarily include a confession of any doubts.

On all the ladders in this Gallery was a fine white fungus growth in the form of a thick, heavy mold, that the lightest touch destroyed.  In caves where some care is taken to protect this mold, it attains a growth of six or more feet and assumes the forms of sea-weed.