The Argosy — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

46 Letters from Majorca. us, and to which we ascended by a sort of natural staircase in the rock. A cavernous hole admitted to what might be called the entrance- hall or court. Ferns grew in the crevices: and we passed from Southern warmth to the chilling regions of the North. The caves of Manacor were suffocating ; these of Arta were the opposite. The guide lighted torches, which not only flamed, but smoked desperately. It is a heart-breaking pity that their constant usage has spoilt the caves. They ought to be white and glistening, and if they were so, one can scarcely imagine their grandeur and magnifi- cence. As it is, almost every part of them, roof, pillars, stalactites, are black as Erebus. We descended into the depths, bearing our torches and looking like demons. The caves are amongst the wonders of the world : extensive, having many chambers, large and high. They have taken all sorts of fantastic forms, all on a grand scale. Immense pillars stretch upwards, fluted and beautiful as if designed by genius. Aisles like a cathedral, and roofs that rival the loveliest gothic architecture, are multiplied. Pulpits and chapels, witches’ cauldrons, organs and galleries—everything abounds. The guide had brought blue lights, and stationing us at certain points, he went off and set a match to them, with indescribable effect. Unearthly scenes rose up as by magic, more wonderful than anything in the Arabian Nights. In the way of caves, we had never seen anything like it, and probably never shall again. From their extreme and peculiar beauty and grandeur, they must be almost without rival. And, I repeat, that if they only possessed their natural colour, and had not been smoked to blackness by these heathenish torches, nothing in Fairy Land could exceed their marvel. The caves of Manacor were almost blotted out of memory. These of Arta will remain vivid pictures for ever. It is hardly wrong to say that they alone are worthy a visit to Mallorca. Such, at any rate, was their effect upon us. We returned to daylight and warmth, and sat a while on the rocks beneath the entrance, to think and talk over what we had seen, and to revel in the flashing waters of the Mediterranean. Then we rounded the cliff again, descended to sea level, despatched the men for the hamper, and, in a small wood, under shade of the trees, upon an immense slab elevated upon stone pedestals, enjoyed a sylvan repast. Not far off was another remnant of the stone age, where the men equally enjoyed theirs, each after his kind. We “laughed and quaffed the muscadel,” in this instance represented by the red wine of the country. The moments passed and we paid no heed. The sun declined, and we refused the warning. The shadows lengthened, and we only acted as if daylight would last for ever. But nothing lasts for ever. ‘Change and decay in all around I see.” The wisest man may take this for his motto, and it will not fail him, comicbooks.com