CHAPTER VIII.

Mammoth Dome—First Discoverers—Little Dome—Tale of a Lamp—Return.

From the Bandit's Hall, diverge two caves; one of which, the left, leads you to a multitude of domes; and the right, to one which, par excellence, is called the Mammoth Dome. Taking the right, we arrived, after a rugged walk of nearly a mile, to a platform, which commands an indistinct view of this dome of domes. It was discovered by a German gentleman and the guide Stephen about two years ago, but was not explored until some months after, when it was visited by a party of four or five, accompanied by two guides, and well prepared with ropes, &c. From the platform, the guides were let down about twenty feet, by means of a rope, and upon reaching the ground below, they found themselves on the side of a hill, which, descending about fifty feet, brought them immediately under the Great Dome, from the summit of which, there is a water-fall. This dome is near four hundred feet high, and is justly considered one of the most sublime and wonderful spectacles of this most wonderful of caverns. From the bottom of the dome they ascended the hill to the place to which they had been lowered from the platform, and continuing thence up a very steep hill, more than one hundred feet, they reached its summit. Arrived at the summit, a scene of awful grandeur and magnificence is presented to the view. Looking down the declivity, you see far below to the left, the visiters whom you have left behind, standing on the platform or termination of the avenue along which they had come; and lower down still, the bottom of the Great Dome itself. Above, two hundred and eighty feet, is the ceiling, lost in the obscurity of space and distance. The height of the ceiling was determined by E.F. Lee, civil engineer. This fact in regard to the elevation of the ceiling and the locality of the Great Hall, was subsequently ascertained, by finding on the summit of the hill, (a spot never before trodden by man,) an iron lamp!! The astonishment of the guides, as well as of the whole party, on beholding the lamp, can be easily imagined; and to this day they would have been ignorant of its history, but for the accidental circumstance of an old man being at the Cave Hotel, who, thirty years ago, was engaged as a miner in the saltpetre establishment of Wilkins & Gratz. He, on being shown the lamp, said at once, that it had been found under the crevice pit (a fact that surprised all,); that during the time Wilkins & Gratz were engaged in the manufacture of saltpetre, a Mr. Gatewood informed Wilkins, that in all probability, the richest nitre earth was under the crevice pit. The depth of this pit being then unknown, Wilkins, to ascertain it, got a rope of 45 feet long, and fastening this identical lamp to the end of it, lowered it into the pit, in the doing of which, the string caught on fire, and down fell the lamp. Wilkins made an offer of two dollars to any one of the miners who would descend the pit and bring up the lamp. His offer was accepted by a man, who, in consequence of his diminutive stature, was nicknamed Little Dave; and the rope being made fast about his waist, he, torch in hand, was lowered to the full extent of the forty-five feet. Being then drawn up, the poor fellow was found to be so excessively alarmed, that he could scarcely articulate; but having recovered from his fright, and again with the full power of utterance, he declared that no money could tempt him to try again for the lamp; and in excuse for such a determination, he related the most marvellous story of what he had seen—far exceeding the wonderful things which the unexampled Don Quixote de la Mancha declared he had seen in the deep cave of Montesinos. Dave was, in fact, suspended at the height of two hundred and forty feet above the level below. Such is the history of the lamp, as told by the old miner, Holton, the correctness of which was very soon verified; for guides having been sent to the place where the lamp was found, and persons at the same time stationed at the mouth of the crevice pit, their proximity was at once made manifest by the very audible sound of each other's voices, and by the fact that sticks thrown into the pit fell at the feet of the guides below, and were brought out by them. The distance from the mouth of the Cave to this pit, falls short of half a mile; yet to reach the grand apartment immediately under it, requires a circuit to be made of at least three miles. The illumination of that portion of the Great Dome on the left, and of the hall on the top of the hill to the right, as seen from the platform, was unquestionably one of the most impressive spectacles we had witnessed; but to be seen to advantage, another position ought to be taken by the spectator, and the dome with its towering height, and the hall on the summit of the hill, with its gigantic stalagmite columns, and ceiling two hundred feet high, illuminated by the simultaneous ignition of a number of Bengal lights, judiciously arranged. Such was the enthusiastic admiration of some foreigners on witnessing an illumination of the Great Dome and Hall, that they declared, it alone would compensate for a voyage across the Atlantic. With the partial illumination of the Great Dome, we closed our explorations on this side of the rivers, and retracing our steps, reached the hotel about sun-set. At mid-night, the party which separated from us at the entrance of Pensico Avenue, returned from the points beyond the Echo river.



CHAPTER IX.

Third Visit—River Hall—Dead Sea—River Styx—Lethe—Echo River— Purgatory—Eyeless Fish—Supposed Boil of the Rivers—Sources and Outlet Unknown.

Early the next morning, having made all the necessary preparations for the grand tour, which we were the more anxious to take from the glowing accounts of the party recently returned, we entered the cave immediately after an early breakfast, and proceeded rapidly on to River Hall. It was evident from the appearance of the flood here, that it had been recently overflown.



"The cave, or the River Hall," remarks a fair and distinguished authoress, whose description of the river scenery is so graphic, that I cannot do better than transcribe it throughout: "The River Hall descends like the slope of a mountain; the ceiling stretches away—away before you, vast and grand as the firmament at midnight." Going on, and gradually ascending and keeping close to the right hand wall, you observe on your left "a steep precipice, over which you can look down by the aid of blazing missiles, upon a broad black sheet of water, eighty feet below, called the Dead Sea. This is an awfully impressive place; the sights and sounds of which, do not easily pass from memory. He who has seen it, will have it vividly brought before him, by Alfieri's description of Filippo, 'only a transient word or act gives us a short and dubious glimmer, that reveals to us the abysses of his being—dark, lurid and terrific, as the throat of the infernal pool.' Descending from the eminence, by a ladder of about twenty feet, we find ourselves among piles of gigantic rocks, and one of the most picturesque sights in the world, is to see a file of men and women passing along those wild and scraggy paths, moving slowly—slowly, that their lamps may have time to illuminate their sky-like ceiling and gigantic walls—disappearing behind high cliffs—sinking into ravines—their lights shining upwards through fissures in the rocks—then suddenly emerging from some abrupt angle, standing in the bright gleam of their lamps, relieved by the towering black masses around them. He, who could paint the infinite variety of creation, can alone give an adequate idea of this marvellous region. As you pass along, you hear the roar of invisible waterfalls; and at the foot of the slope, the river Styx lies before you, deep and black, overarched with rock. The first glimpse of it brings to mind, the descent of Ulysses into hell,

"Where the dark rock o'erhangs the infernal lake, And mingling streams eternal murmurs make."

Across (or rather down) these unearthly waters, the guide can convey but four passengers at once. The lamps are fastened to the prow; the images of which, are reflected in the dismal pool. If you are impatient of delay, or eager for new adventures, you can leave your companions lingering about the shore, and cross the Styx by a dangerous bridge of precipices overhead. In order to do this, you must ascend a steep cliff, and enter a cave above, 300 yards long, from an egress of which, you find yourself on the bank of the river, eighty feet above its surface, commanding a view of those in the boat, and those waiting on the shore. Seen from this height, the lamps in the canoe glare like fiery eye-balls; and the passengers, sitting there so hushed and motionless, look like shadows. The scene is so strangely funereal and spectral, that it seems as if the Greeks must have witnessed it, before they imagined Charon conveying ghosts to the dim regions of Pluto. Your companions thus seen, do indeed—

"Skim along the dusky glades, Thin airy souls, and visionary shades."

If you turn your eyes from the canoe to the parties of men and women whom you left waiting on the shore, you will see them by the gleam of their lamps, scattered in picturesque groups, looming out in bold relief from the dense darkness around them.

Having passed the Styx, (much the smallest of the rivers,) you walk over a pile of large rocks, and are on the banks of Lethe; and looking back, you will see a line of men and women descending the high hill from the cave, which runs over the river Styx. Here are two boats, and the parties, which have come by the two routes, down the Styx or over it, uniting, descend the Lethe about a quarter of a mile, the ceiling for the entire distance being very high—certainly not less than fifty feet. On landing, you enter a level and lofty hall, called the Great Walk, which stretches to the banks of the Echo, a distance of three or four hundred yards. The Echo is truly a river: it is wide and deep enough, at all times, to float the largest steamer. At the point of embarkation, the arch is very low, not more than three feet, in an ordinary stage of water, being left for a boat to pass through. Passengers, of course, are obliged to double up, and lie upon each others shoulders, in a most uncomfortable way, but their suffering is of short duration; in two boat lengths, they emerge to where the vault of the cave is lofty and wide. The boat in which we embarked was sufficiently large to carry twelve persons, and our voyage down the river was one of deep, indeed of most intense interest. The novelty, the grandeur, the magnificence of every thing around elicited unbounded admiration and wonder. All sense of danger, (had any been experienced before,) was lost in the solemn, quiet sublimity of the scene. The rippling of the water caused by the motion of our boat is heard afar off, beating under the low arches and in the cavities of the rocks. The report of a pistol is as that of the heaviest artillery, and long and afar does the echo resound, like the muttering of distant thunder. The voice of song was raised on this dark, deep water, and the sound was as that of the most powerful choir. A fall band of music on this river of echoes would indeed be overpowering. The aquatic excursion was more to our taste than any thing we had seen, and never can the impression it made be obliterated from our memories.

The Echo is three quarters of a mile long. A rise of the water of merely a few feet connects the three rivers. After long and heavy rains, these rivers sometimes rise to a perpendicular height of more than fifty feet; and then they, as well as the cataracts, exhibit a most terrific appearance. The low arch at the entrance of the Echo, can not be passed when there is a rise of water of even two feet. Once or twice parties have been caught on the further side by a sudden rise, and for a time their alarm was great, not knowing that there was an upper cave through which they could pass, that would lead them around the arch to the Great Walk. This upper cave, or passage, is called Purgatory, and is, for a distance of forty feet, so low, that persons have to crawl on their faces, or, as the guides say, snake it. We were pleased to learn that this passage would soon be sufficiently enlarged to enable persons to walk through erect. This accomplished, an excursion to Cleveland's Avenue may be made almost entirely by land, at the same time that all apprehensions of being caught beyond Echo will be removed. It is in these rivers, that the extraordinary white eyeless fish are caught—we secured two of them. There is not the slightest indication of an organ similar to an eye, to be discovered. They have been dissected by skillful anatomists, who declare that they are not only without eyes, but also develope other anomalies in their organization, singularly interesting to the naturalist. "The rivers of Mammoth Cave were never crossed till 1840. Great efforts have been made to discover whence they come and whither they go, yet they still remain as much a mystery as ever—without beginning or end; like eternity."

"Darkly thou glidest onward, Thou deep and hidden wave! The laughing sunshine hath not look'd Into thy secret cave.

Thy current makes no music— A hollow sound we hear; A muffled voice of mystery, And know that thou art near.

No brighter line of verdure Follows thy lonely way No fairy moss, or lily's cup, Is freshened by thy play."

According to the barometrical measurement of Professor Locke, the rivers of the Cave are nearly on a level with Green River; but the report of Mr. Lee, civil engineer, is widely different. He says, "The bottom of the Little Bat Room Pit is one hundred and twenty feet below the bed of Green River. The Bottomless Pit is also deeper than the bed of Green River, and so far as a surveyor's level can be relied on, the same may be said of the Cavern Pit and some others." The rivers of the Cave were unknown at the time of Mr. Lee's visit in 1835, but they are unquestionably lower than the bottom of the pits, and receive the water which flows from them. According to the statement of Lee, the bed of these rivers is lower than the bed of Green River at its junction with the Ohio, taking for granted that the report of the State engineers as to the extent of fall between a point above the Cave and the Ohio, be correct, of which there is no doubt. "It becomes, then," continues Mr. Lee, in reference to the waters of the Cave, "an object of interesting inquiry to determine in what way it is disposed of. If it empties into Green River, the Ohio, or the ocean, it must run a great distance under ground, with a very small descent."



CHAPTER X.

Pass of El Ghor—Silliman's Avenue—Wellington's Gallery—Sulphur Spring—Mary's Vineyard—Holy Sepulchre—Commencement of Cleveland Avenue—By whom Discovered—Beautiful Formations—Snow-ball Room— Rocky Mountains—Croghan's Hall—Serena's Arbor—Dining Table— Dinner Party and Toast—Hoax of the Guide—Homeward Bound Passage— Conclusion.

Having now left the Echo, we have a walk of four miles to Cleveland's Avenue. The intervening points are of great interest; but it would occupy too much time to describe them. We will therefore hurry on through the pass of El Ghor, Silliman's Avenue, and Wellington's Gallery, to the foot of the ladder which leads up to the Elysium of Mammoth cave. And here, for the benefit of the weary and thirsty, and of all others whom it may interest, coming after us, be it known, that Carneal's Spring is close at hand, and equally near, a sulphur spring, the water of which, equals in quality and quantity that of the far-famed White Sulphur Spring, of Virginia. At the head of the ladder, you find yourself surrounded by overhanging stalactites, in the form of rich clusters of grapes, hard as flint, and round and polished, as if done by a sculptor's hand. This is called Mary's Vineyard—the commencement of Cleveland's Avenue, the crowning wonder and glory of this subterranean world. Proceeding to the right about, a hundred feet from this spot, over a rough and rather difficult way, you reach the base of the height or hill, on which, stands the Holy Sepulchre. This interesting spot is reached at some hazard, as the ascent, which is very steep, and more than twenty feet high, affords no secure footing, owing to the loose and shingly character of the surface, until the height is gained. Having achieved this, you stand immediately at the beautiful door-way of the Chapel, or anteroom of the Sepulchre. This Chapel, which is, perhaps, twelve feet square, with a low ceiling, and decorated in the most gorgeous manner, with well-arranged draperies of stalactite of every imaginable shape, leads you to the room of the Holy Sepulchre adjoining, which is without ornament or decoration of any kind; exhibiting nothing but dark and bare walls—like a charnel house. In the centre of this room, which stands a few feet below the Chapel, is, to all appearance, a grave, hewn out of the living rock. This is the Holy Sepulchre. A Roman Catholic priest discovered it about three years ago, and with fervent enthusiasm exclaimed, "The Holy Sepulchre!" a name which it has since borne. Returning from the Holy Sepulchre, we commence our wanderings through Cleveland's Avenue—an avenue three miles long, seventy feet wide, and twelve or fifteen feet high—an avenue more rich and gorgeous than any ever revealed to man—an avenue abounding in formations such as are no where else to be seen, and which the most stupid observer could not behold without feelings of wonder and admiration. Some of the formations in the avenue, have been denominated by Professor Locke, oulophilites, or curled leafed stone; and in remarking upon them, he says, "They are unlike any thing yet discovered; equally beautiful for the cabinet of the amateur, and interesting to the geological philosopher." And I, although a wanderer myself in various climes, and somewhat of a mineralogist withal, have never seen or heard of such. Apprehensive that I might, in attempting to describe much that I have seen, color too highly, I will, in lieu thereof, offer the remarks of an intelligent clergyman, extracted from the New York Christian Observer, of a recent date: "The most imaginative poet never conceived or painted a palace of such exquisite beauty and loveliness, as Cleveland's Cabinet, into which you now pass. Were the wealth of princes bestowed on the most skilful lapidaries, with the view of rivaling the splendors of this single chamber, the attempt would be vain. How then can I hope to give you a conception of it? You must see it; and you will then feel that all attempt at description, is futile." The Cabinet was discovered by Mr. Patten, of Louisville, and Mr. Craig, of Philadelphia, accompanied by the guide Stephen, and extends in nearly a direct line about one and a half miles, (the guides say two miles.) It is a perfect arch, of fifty feet span, and of an average height of ten feet in the centre—just high enough to be viewed with ease in all its parts. It is incrusted from end to end with the most beautiful formations, in every variety of form. The base of the whole, is carbonate (sulphate) of lime, in part of dazzling whiteness, and perfectly smooth, and in other places crystallized so as to glitter like diamonds in the light. Growing from this, in endlessly diversified forms, is a substance resembling selenite, translucent and imperfectly laminated. It is most probably sulphate of lime, (a gypsum,) combined with sulphate of magnesia. Some of the crystals bear a striking resemblance to branches of celery, and all about the same length; while others, a foot or more in length, have the color and appearance of vanilla cream candy; others are set in sulphate of lime, in the form of a rose; and others still roll out from the base, in forms resembling the ornaments on the capitol of a Corinthian column. (You see how I am driven for analogies.) Some of the incrustations are massive and splendid; others are as delicate as the lily, or as fancy-work of shell or wax. Think of traversing an arched way like this for a mile and a half, and all the wonders of the tales of youth—"Arabian Nights," and all—seem tame, compared with the living, growing reality. Yes, growing reality; for the process is going on before your eyes. Successive coats of these incrustations, have been perfected and crowded off by others; so that hundreds of tons of these gems lie at your feet, and are crushed as you pass, while the work of restoring the ornaments for nature's boudoir, is proceeding around you. Here and there, through the whole extent, you will find openings in the sides, into which you may thrust the person, and often stand erect in little grottoes, perfectly incrusted with a delicate white substance, reflecting the light from a thousand glittering points. All the way you might have heard us exclaiming, "Wonderful, wonderful! O, Lord, how manifold are thy works!" With general unity of form and appearance, there is considerable variety in "the Cabinet." The "Snow-ball Room," for example, is a section of the cave described above, some 200 feet in length, entirely different from the adjacent parts; its appearance being aptly indicated by its name. If a hundred rude school boys had but an hour before completed their day's sport, by throwing a thousand snow-balls against the roof, while an equal number were scattered about the floor, and all petrified, it would have presented precisely such a scene as you witness in this room of nature's frolics. So far as I know, these "snow-balls" are a perfect anomaly among all the strange forms of crystalization. It is the result, I presume, of an unusual combination of the sulphates of lime and magnesia, with a carbonate of the former. We found here and elsewhere in the Cabinet, fine specimens of the sulphate of Magnesia, (or Epsom salts,) a foot or two long, and three inches in thickness.

Leaving the quiet and beautiful "Cabinet," you come suddenly upon the "Rocky Mountains," furnishing a contrast so bold and striking, as almost to startle you. Clambering up the rough side some thirty feet, you pass close under the roof of the cavern you have left, and find before you an immense transverse cave, 100 feet or more from the ceiling to the floor, with a huge pile of rocks half filling the hither side—they were probably dashed from the roof in the great earthquake of 1811. Taking the left hand branch, you are soon brought to "Croghan's Hall," which is nine miles from the mouth, and is the farthest point explored in that direction. The "Hall" is 50 or 60 feet in diameter, and perhaps, thirty-five feet high, of a semi-circular form. Fronting you as you enter, are massive stalactites, ten or fifteen feet in length, attached to the rock, like sheets of ice, and of a brilliant color. The rock projects near the floor, and then recedes with a regular and graceful curve, or swell, leaving a cavity of several feet in width between it and the floor. At intervals, around this swell, stalactites of various forms are suspended, and behind the sheet of stalactites first described, are numerous stalagmites, in fanciful forms. I brought one away that resembles the horns of the deer, being nearly translucent. In the centre of this hall, a very large stalactite hangs from the roof; and a corresponding stalagmite rises from the floor, about three feet in height and a foot in diameter, of an amber color, perfectly smooth and translucent, like the other formations. On the right, is a deep pit, down which the water dashes from a cascade that pours from the roof. Other avenues could most likely be found by sounding the sides of the pit, if any one had the courage to attempt the descent. We are far enough from terra supra, and our dinner which we had left at the "Vineyard." We hastened back to the Rocky Mountains, and took the branch which we left at our right on emerging from the Cabinet. Pursuing the uneven path for some distance, we reached "Serena's Arbor," which was discovered but three months since, by our guide "Mat." The descent to the Arbor seemed so perilous, from the position of the loose rocks around, that several of the party would not venture. Those of us who scrambled down regarded this as the crowning object of interest. The "Arbor" is not more than twelve feet in diameter, and of about the same height, of a circular form; but is, of itself, floor, sides, roof, and ornaments, one perfect, seamless stalactite, of a beautiful hue, and exquisite workmanship. Folds or blades of stalactitic matter hang like drapery around the sides, reaching half way to the floor; and opposite the door, a canopy of stone projects, elegantly ornamented, as if it were the resting-place of a fairy bride. Every thing seemed fresh and new; indeed, the invisible architect has not quite finished this master-piece; for you can see the pure water, trickling down its tiny channels and perfecting the delicate points of some of the stalactites. Victoria, with all her splendor, has not in Windsor Castle, so beautiful an apartment as "Serena's Arbor."

Such is the description of Cleveland's Avenue, as given by this clerical gentleman. It is perfectly graphic, and corresponds with all the glowing accounts I have read of this famous place. Exquisitely beautiful and rare as are the formations in this avenue, it will soon be, I fear, like the Grotto of Pensico—shorn of its beauties. Many a little Miss, to decorate her centre table or boudoir, and many a thoughtless dandy to present a specimen to his lady fair, have broken from the walls (regardless of the published rules prohibiting it,) those lovely productions of the Almighty, which required ages to perfect; thus destroying in a moment the work of centuries. These beautiful and gorgeous formations were encrusted on the walls by the hands of our Maker, and who so impious as to desecrate them—to tear them from their place? there they are, all lovely and beautiful, and there they ought to remain, untouched by the hands of man, for the admiration and wonder of all future ages. If the comparatively small cave of Adelburg which belongs to the Emperor of Austria, be placed for the preservation of its formations under the protecting care of the government [Transcriber's note: sic] (as is the case,) what ought not to be done to preserve the mineralogical treasures, in this great Cave of America, and especially in Cleveland's Cabinet, which are worth more than all the caves in Europe, indeed of the world, so far as our knowledge of caverns extends.

Returning from Serena's Arbor, we passed on our left the mouth of an avenue more than three miles long, lofty and wide, and at its termination there is a hall, which in the opinion of the guide is larger than any other in the Cave. It is as yet without a name. Equidistant from the commencement and the termination of Cleveland's Avenue, is a huge rock, nearly circular, flat on the top and three feet high. This is the "dining table." More than one hundred persons could be seated around this table; on it the guide arranged our dinner, and we luxuriated on "flesh and fowl" and "choice old sherry." Never did a set of fellows enjoy dinner more than we did ours. Our friend B. was perfectly at his ease and happy; and, in the exuberance of his spirits, proposed the following toast:

"Prosperity to the subterranean territory of Cimmeria; large enough, if not populous enough, for admission into the Union as an independent State."

We emptied our glasses and gave nine hearty cheers in honor of the sentiment. A proposition was made to adjourn, but B. was not inclined to locomotion, and opposed it with great warmth, insisting that it was too soon to move after such a dinner, and that a state of rest was absolutely essential to healthy digestion. We had much argument on the motion to adjourn; when our sagacious guide Stephen, with a meaning look interposed, saying "we had as well be going, for the river might take a rise and shut us up here." "What!" exclaimed B. in utter consternation, and with a start, literally bouncing from his seat, cried aloud "Let's be off!" at the same time suiting the action to the word. In a second we were all in motion, and hurrying past beautiful incrustations, through galleries long and tortuous, down one hill and up another, (poor B. puffing and blowing, and all the while exclaiming against the terrible length and ruggedness of the way,) we at last reached the Echo, which we found to our great relief had not risen. It seems, the guide had used this stratagem for our own advantage, to break off our banquet, lest it trenched too far upon the night. We were too happy in having our fears relieved, to fall out with him. On our homeward bound passage over the rivers, our admiration was rather increased than diminished. The death-like stillness! the awful silence! the wild grandeur and sublimity of the scene, tranquilizing the feeling and disposing to pensive musings and quiet contemplation; on a sudden a pistol is fired—a tremendous report ensues—its echoes are heard reverberating from wall to wall, in caves far away, like the low murmuring sound of distant thunder—the spell of silence and deep reverie is broken—we become roused and animated, and the mighty cavern resounds with our song. We believe every one will, under similar circumstances, experience this sudden transition from pensive musings to joyous hilarity. Leaving the rivers, we hastened onward to the outlet to the upper world. Far ahead we perceive the first dawnings of day, shining with a silvery pallid hue on the walls, and increasing in brightness as we advance, until it bursts forth in all the golden rays and glorious effulgence of the setting sun. This parting scene is lovely and interesting. We bid adieu to the "Great Monarch of Caves." We here terminate our subterranean tour. Standing on the grassy terrace above, we inhale the cool, pure air, and take a last look at the "great Wonder of Wonders!" To all we would say "go and see—explore the greatest of the Almighty's subterranean works." No description can give you an idea of it—neither can inspection of other caves; it is "the Monarch of Caves!" none that have ever been measured can at all compare with it, in extent, in grandeur, in wild, solemn, serene, unadorned majesty; it stands entirely alone.—"It has no brother; it has no brother."

THE END