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:

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.