THE MAMMOTH CAVE. 121 
disks, so perfect in their fragile beauty that they 
seem ready to melt away under the blaze of 
your lamp. Then commences Cleveland’s Cab- 
inet, a gallery of crystals, the richness and 
variety of which bewilder you. It is a sub- 
terranean conservatory, filled with the flowers 
of all zones; for there are few blossoms expand- 
ing 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 parterre of white roses; sometimes it is 
starred with opening daisies; the sunflowers 
spread their flat disks 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 mammillary crystallization, as if*a myriad 
bubbles were rising beneath its glittering sur- 
face. Even on this jeweled soil, which sparkles 
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