The traveler who desires good roads, romantic scenery, comfortable conveyances, and excellent hotel accommodations, will be sure to go in or come out by way of Coulterville. This town lies on Maxwell creek, a branch of the Merced, about eighteen hundred feet above the sea, and not far from the border-land between the "foot-hills" and the mountains proper. The road runs from Coulterville nearly northeast, about eight miles, when it strikes the North Fork of the Merced. Along the side of this stream it descends for a short distance, then crosses and passes near the

Bower Cave.

This is a picturesque and unique locality, and is well worth a visit.

The cave is an immense crack or sink, or both combined, in the solid limestone of the mountaintop. At the surface it presents a somewhat crescent-shaped opening, one hundred and thirty-three feet long, eighty-six feet wide near the centre, and one hundred and nine feet deep in the deepest place. Trees grow from the bottom and lift their branches out through the opening at the top, while a beautifully tranquil and wonderfully clear lake occupies the greater portion of the floor.

We enter at the north end and go down by a rough but strong and safe staircase. The walls of the cleft are perpendicular, or nearly so, throughout the greater portion of their extent, but near the south end the upper part of the wall projects or overhangs several feet.

The bottom has the form of an irregular square, measuring over a hundred feet one way and somewhat less than a hundred the other. From the bottom and near the centre grow three large maples, the largest of which is more than two feet through, and about a hundred and twenty-five feet high. Around these trees are benches, capable of seating a score or two of persons. On one side of the wall, some twenty feet above the bottom, is a singular niche or alcove which has been christened the "Pulpit." It is occasionally used for the legitimate purpose of similar constructions, though more frequently occupied by the fiddler of some festive party. Upon special occasions, such as a Fourth of July celebration, they erect tables here and use all the available floor as a dining hall. Over a hundred have thus dined here at one time.

In one corner, and nearly under the pulpit, is a small but singularly beautiful lake, rendered somewhat ghostly and mysterious by the overhanging rocky wall, and the intercepted light falling through the overshadowing trees. Upon this lake is a small boat, in which the imaginative visitor may easily fancy himself crossing the Styx, with himself as his own Charon. Not far from the corner of this lake, nearly under the pulpit, the water is claimed to have an immense depth. In all parts it is so clear that one can plainly see the cracks and crevices in the sloping limestone sides at the depth of forty feet. The vision would, doubtless, penetrate much deeper did not the overhanging walls obstruct the light.

Having rowed across the lake, as you are returning to the shore, the guide may possibly ask you to keep very quiet while he calls and feeds his fish. He gives a few soft whistles, places his hand in the water, waits a moment, repeats his whistle, and softly whispers, "Here they come." Up swim several large trout, rub their noses against his hand, and circle slowly around it, evidently waiting for the customary food. And that hand seldom disappoints them. It is a pleasant and restful sight. After enjoying it, seeing them finish feeding, and returning to the landing, you ask the guide how they became so tame. He tells you, that for several weeks after putting them into the lake, which he did some years ago, he came every day, about the same time, softly whistling and gently dropping crumbs and worms into the water. After a few days he began to hold on to one end of a worm while the trout would swim up, take hold of the other end and tug away until he pulled it apart, or the hand let go. After a few months they seemed to have learned to associate the whistling and the feeding, so that whenever they hear the first they swim up in evident expectation of the second.

At various heights upon one wall several large cavities or small caves are worn into the rock, some of which admit the tourist for a considerable distance. These make that side of the wall a collection of cells, some of which are high enough to permit the visitor to walk erect; others so low that they compel one who would enter to crawl upon his hands and knees. When first discovered, the walls of these chambers were covered with beautiful stalactites of various sizes and fanciful forms, but the ruthless hands of vandal visitors have gradually broken them off and carried them away, until hardly a trace of their original beauty and variety remains.

During the heat of the summer, the time when nearly all visitors enter this cave, its cool and refreshing temperature makes it a comfortable and welcome retreat, especially during the hotter midday hours. The place seems as if nature and art had combined to make it as attractive as possible for hot weather picnics, or midsummer lunch parties. It is difficult to imagine, and almost impossible to discover a more fascinating combination of dell and grotto, grove and lake, cave and bower, than nature has kindly provided for the tourist in the romantic Bower Cave.