JOHN SMITH’S ABSENCE FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH.
NEXT morning, having taken breakfast, we got into the coach, and
departed for the Mammoth Cave, which we reached after a not unpleasant
ride of ten miles, over a hilly and wooded country. It was one of the
pleasantest days of the year, and the conversation between my companion
and myself was of such an agreeable nature, that when we reached the
hotel near the cave, I fancied we had scarcely traveled half-a-dozen
miles. The length of time we had been on the road, however, indicated
that we must have traveled fully ten miles. It was about ten o’clock.
We each paid two dollars for the services of a guide; and the latter
providing three lanterns, and some combustible material for temporary
lights at certain particular points, accompanied us into a deep valley
near by: and in this valley, in so obscure a place as to be almost hid
from the eyes of men, we found the entrance to the renowned Mammoth
Cave.
It is not my intention to give a general description of it. Many a
graphic account of the great cave has been furnished by tourists; and
yet, as in the case of Niagara Falls, no one has ever given an adequate
description, and no one can form any proper conception of it without
having seen it. However, I’ll mention a point or two that may prove
interesting or amusing to the “gentle reader.”
Once within the cave,—which we entered without striking our “brows” on
the overhanging rocks at the entrance, where a little cascade sings away
its happy life—the guide lighted the three lamps he carried. It is
customary to give one to each visitor, on entering the cave; but as I
could not have carried one conveniently, the guide, having given one to
my Confederate friend, carried two himself.
We then walked on, following a straight and narrow passage for a quarter
of a mile; by which time we began to feel quite independent of the sun.
It would be natural to suppose that dampness would predominate in this
cave, but such is not the case. On the contrary, quite the opposite
state of things prevails. Except near the subterranean streams, the
cave, both over-head and under-foot, is as dry as one could wish the
paper on which he writes—and you know that isn’t sloppy.
The temperature of the atmosphere within the cave, at all seasons of the
year, is about fifty-nine degrees; and chemists have decided that the
air is purer there than without—that it contains a far less proportion
of carbonic acid gas.
The first point to which the guide respectfully directed our
attention—for he was very polite—was a place called the “Rotunda,”
situated at the first turn of the passage—or rather at the junction of
this passage with another running off toward the left, nearly at a right
angle. The “ceiling” of this “Rotunda”—so-called from its resemblance to
the interior of a dome—is about one hundred feet high, and eighty feet
in diameter. Over the floor are still strewn some of the wooden pipes,
used by the miners in 1812, at which time saltpeter was taken from the
cave in large quantities.
Turning to the left, we soon passed a small stone hut, and, somewhat
surprised, we asked the guide what it meant to see a building thus far
under ground, half-a-mile from the light of the sun.
“That,” said he, “and another similar one, which we shall soon pass,
were built ten or fifteen years ago, for residences for consumptive
patients, who, it was thought, would be benefited by the mild and
regular temperature of the air.”
“And is it possible that any came in here to live, and thus shut
themselves up from the light of day,” I asked.
“Yes,” returned the guide, “a number tried the experiment.”
“And with what result?” asked my companion.
“Not a very satisfactory one. Several of them died in here, and never
saw the sun again; while nearly all who lived to be taken out, died
within a week or two after. When they reached the light again, it was
discovered that all their eyes were perfectly black, no matter what
their original color had been.”
This fact, my friend and I silently doubted; but subsequent inquiry
convinced us that it was true. Any person who desires black eyes can
acquire them by a residence of a few months in the Mammoth Cave. If any
of my lady readers are afflicted with eyes of celestial blue, and are
tired of them, they can have them promptly dyed black by taking
apartments for three months in the Mammoth Cave. I don’t advise them to
do it, though, for I—John Smith is but mortal—have a weakness for blue
eyes that I cannot overcome.
A few hundred yards from the Rotunda, the passage widens out into a
spacious apartment, styled the “Methodist Church.” It is so-called
because a congregation of Methodists used to hold “divine services”
there. A good idea; for if they _were_ a little noisy in their
adorations, they did not disturb any one; and their prayers could as
easily ascend through the two hundred feet of earth above them, as
through a slate roof, with a tall spire to point out the way.
A little further on we saw a huge rock which had evidently at some time
or other fallen from above—I mean from the roof of the cave—which, to
look at it from a certain position, is a most perfect semblance of a
coffin. It is termed the “Giant’s Coffin,” as the guide informed us. It
is forty feet long, twenty feet wide and eight feet deep. It would make
a good sarcophagus to bury some great politician in, some day.
Just beyond, the guide called our attention to some huge figures on the
ceiling above. They represented the outlines of several persons of
immense size. He informed us that they were styled the “Giant, his Wife
and Child;” and I just wondered, but didn’t ask him, if they were to be
put in the “Giant’s Coffin,” when they should die? These figures had
been formed by some dark substance that had apparently oozed from the
rocky roof.
Soon after passing them, we emerged into another spacious apartment,
called the “Star Chamber.” It is so called, because the ceiling, which
is there of a dark hue, is covered with white spots; and when we gazed
upon it for a moment, in the meager light of the lanterns, it looked
like the mighty heavens studded with stars.
“Now,” said the guide, “sit down on those rocks there a little while,
and I will take all the lamps and retire into a recess, where you cannot
see a single beam of them. You can then see what perfect darkness is.”
We sat down, and the guide, taking all the lamps, walked away, descended
into a kind of pit, and disappeared in a small sub-cavern; and every ray
of light soon vanished. The darkness was indeed perfect; and it occurred
to me that if a man intended to remain in such a position, he might as
well have his eyes sewed up and covered with black sealing-wax.
Neither my companion nor myself spoke. The darkness was so absolute, and
the silence so profound that strange thoughts came into my head. I
thought of the busy world without—fancied I saw the thronging multitudes
of all the cities and towns of the globe; and the moving men and women
scattered over the broad land; the ships with their crews, tossing about
over the breasts of the great oceans; and I asked myself: “Does the eye
of the great unknown, incomprehensible, Almighty Being who created and
who governs the Universe, take note of all these, and still peer into
this silent and secret place?”
“There is a light!” exclaimed my companion, after a minute or so of
black darkness and grave-like silence.
Silence? No—all the while I had heard the beating of my own heart,
although I was almost unconscious of it as I sat musing, and the very
absence of sound caused a singular imaginary ringing in my ears that I
had never experienced before.
I looked and saw our guide approaching from a different direction. He
had traversed a small passage not known to visitors, and emerged from it
some forty yards distant.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the guide, when he reached us again, “I am ready
to accompany you further.”
“I presume we will see the ‘Bottomless Pit,’ by and by,” observed my
Confederate friend, as we arose.
“Yes,” returned the guide, while we walked on. “That is a mile from
here. We will pass over it.”
“And the river Styx,” said I—“where is it?”
“About two miles from here,” responded the guide.
The _nonchalance_ with which the guide would speak of miles of distance
in the cave was very remarkable. He would say of such and such a point,
“Why, that is two-and-a-half (or three or five, as the case might be,)
miles from here,” just the same as one in the outside world would say,
“You will find the Cross-roads about two miles from here;” or, “The
village is just four miles distant.” I remember his once telling us that
some point—I forget what—was “five miles from here.” Five miles
underground! Think of it. However, that is not the extreme. Persons who
go in to spend the whole day, travel as far as nine miles from the
entrance. We only went three or four miles from the entrance that day,
but we visited a great many intermediate passages, _etc._; so that we
probably traveled ten miles in the aggregate.
In half-an-hour, after having seen many curiosities by the way, we
reached the celebrated “Bottomless Pit.” Much curiosity regarding this
pit prevails among those who have only heard it spoken of: therefore, I
will remark that its very name is a contradiction in terms. A pit, in
order to be _bottomless_, must have no bottom at all; but this pit has
one bottom, in a very good state of preservation, and, therefore, cannot
be bottomless. If the word _bottomless_ is an adjective of the
comparative order, I would say of the “Bottomless Pit;” “There are no
doubt bottomlesser pits in the world than it is, but it is the
bottomlessest pit I ever saw.”
Directly over the Pit is constructed a wooden bridge, which—for every
thing is named there—is called the “Bridge of Sighs.” It might be termed
the “Bridge of rather small Size,” for it is not much wider than a
darkey’s foot.
We stepped upon this structure—which the guide assured us was perfectly
safe—and stood directly over the center of the yawning pit. While we
stood there he lighted a piece of peculiar paper he carried with him for
the purpose, and dropped it from the bridge. Away it went, glaring,
flaring, blazing, fluttering, down, down, down, till it reached the
bottom of the pit that has no bottom. I do not mean to make light of
it—in fact, it is too dark and gloomy to be made _light_ of—for it is
grand and terrible even as it is. Its depth is probably one hundred and
fifty feet. It is round, like a well, and about twenty feet in diameter.
Water a few inches deep stands silently on the bottom, and the loose
stones—probably such as have been cast down from time to time—can be
seen peeping above the surface.
The guide showed us another pit called “Side-saddle Pit”—so named
because to see into it one must thrust his head through a small
aperture, the lower part of which is in shape very similar to a
side-saddle. This pit is very little wider than an ordinary well, and
is, we were informed, more than one hundred feet deep.
Not far from this we arrived at a wide place in the subterraneous
passage called “Revelers’ Hall;” because it is customary for visitors to
stop there awhile, rest from their rambles and drink each other’s, or
somebody else’s health—if they have anything to drink it with. I
happened to have about my person somewhere—say in the breast pocket of
my coat, for example—a willow-encased receptacle containing a strong
unmixed toddy, without water or sugar. I produced it, and my companion,
the guide and I imbibed all our healths, the healths of all other
visitors, the healths of distant friends, the health of the owner, and
finally of the Cave itself, with all its curiosities and wonders. If I
had thought of it at the time, I would, moreover, have proposed Horne
Tooke’s regular after-dinner sentiment: “All kings in h—l; the door
locked, _the key lost_!”
We soon after visited the river “Styx,” which, unlike the Styx of
mythology, we can cross without arriving in Erebus. We went over it on a
natural bridge of rock, with a single arch through which the dark river
flows, and found the other shore about the same as this—either being
gloomy enough to represent Erebus, on a small scale. We descended to the
water’s edge on the opposite shore, and embarked in a small boat, which
the guide propelled with a long pole, and rode a few hundred yards on
the bosom of the awful stream. As we went gliding along through those
gloomy passages that frown in everlasting silence, our figures barely
seen in the dim light of the lamps, and the black walls grumbling at
each sound, and echoing it back and forth, I thought that nothing in the
depths of the earth could be more like the fabled mythic river over
which Charon ferries his passengers to Hades. Certainly, the
subterranean stream could not have been more appropriately named.
In some places we passed under dark arches that hovered over us so
closely that they seemed ready to close upon us and crush us in their
dismal grasp; and in other places we passed through narrow passages
where there was no path on either shore, and we were hemmed in on both
sides by perpendicular walls of sombre rock. The stream is from twenty
to fifty feet wide, and is not very deep, except in some noted places.
The guide assured us that it is inhabited by fish without eyes. I have
heard doubts expressed on this point, but there can be no reasonable
doubt about it. In fact, why should they need eyes there? What material
eye could penetrate the awful gloom?
While gliding leisurely down the dusky river, the guide struck up a
song; and whether his voice was sonorous or not, or the words beautiful,
I thought I had never heard anything sound so majestically musical. The
dim dark walls took up the words and echoed them again and again; and
they rolled along the passages, like half-tamed thunder, and returned to
us again from remote pits and recesses.
O, what’s the use for humble John Smith to attempt to describe those
scenes of awful and gloomy grandeur! Let me desist, and escort the
reader from the grandly dismal labyrinths, the yawning pits and frowning
recesses, to the bright day again! As we go toward the entrance I will
mention a few other things that I saw. The guide conducted us into an
avenue—I forgot what he called it: some “arcade,” I think—which was
adorned with innumerable stalactites and stalagmites, and many grand
columns that seemed placed there to support the ceiling, which had been
formed by the meeting and blending together of stalactites and
stalagmites. The stalactites form like icicles. They are carbonate of
lime, _i. e._, limestone. The carbonate of lime, mingled with some other
chemical substance, has oozed from the ceiling, and, as the other
substance leaves, it hardens into suspending columns, as water freezes
into icicles when the cold air carries away the caloric from it.
In one place, four columns arise in a kind of cluster, so that one can
stand among them. They constitute what is termed the “Altar.” The guide
told us that a marriage ceremony was once performed there. A young lady
had promised her mother during the latter’s dying moments, that she
would “never get married on top o’ ground;” but as time rolled on, and
the dear creature concluded that it was not good to be alone, she and
her “intended,” accompanied by a minister, entered the Mammoth Cave,
repaired to this novel place, and were married _under_ ground.
Literally, she kept her promise, but scarcely in spirit. It looked like
“whipping the—’ould one—round the stump.” I do not censure her, though;
nor should I, even if she had got married on the “cloud-capped” crest of
Mount Hood; for, “a bad promise is better broken than kept.”
It was three o’clock when we emerged from the cave, and experienced the
blinding influence of suddenly returning daylight. Without delay we
repaired to the hotel and took dinner—for which we had acquired a good
appetite—then got into a coach and returned to Cave City. My Confederate
friend wanted to travel into Tennessee, and cordially bidding me good-by
at Cave City, he left on an evening train. I had to wait till twelve
o’clock for a train northward; and I passed the interim very agreeably,
playing “All-fours” with an ugly gentleman who wore spectacles, and
begged on three trumps.
Although this work is no “Traveler’s Guide,” as I have mildly insinuated
before, I will favor the reader with a tabular statement of the cost of
visiting the Mammoth Cave, making Louisville the starting-point:
From Louisville to Cave City, $4.00
Supper at Cave City, 1.00
Night’s repose at Cave City, 1.00
Breakfast at Cave City, 1.00
Coach from Cave City to Mammoth Cave, 2.00
For guide, (paid to proprietor,) 2.00
Trifle presented to guide as mark of esteem, 1.00
Dinner at Mammoth Cave Hotel, 1.00
Coach back to Cave City, 2.00
Supper at Cave City, 1.00
Playing “All-fours” with ugly gent. for lemonade, 1.00
Train back to Louisville, 4.00
Incidentals, 5.00
Other incidentals, 2.00
_____
$28.00
That was what it cost me, and I’ll venture to say that anyone, by being
economical, can visit the Mammoth Cave from Louisville for the same
amount.