UNDERGROUND CHURCH.
The Methodist Church, one of the first localities of note, is a semicircular chamber, in which a ledge of a rock represents the pulpit. Theological service has been performed there, and the logs brought in for seats are still in perfect preservation, though they have been there more than half a century. More recently service has been improvised by enthusiastic itinerants of the Methodist creed, who, having heard that the groves were God’s first temples, may infer that caves have an equal fitness for divine worship. The imagination on which religious fervor so largely depends could not fail to be kindled by burning tapers, swelling music, and earnest appeals in those natural aisles and chancels, nor could they do other than remind the pious participants of the primeval Christians who fled to caverns and to catacombs that they might adore their Creator in secret, and be preserved from persecution.
Just beyond the church is a figure of gypsum on the roof, a sort of bas-relief called the American Eagle. Patriotism prevents me from indorsing this symbolic bird, which, whatever it may have been originally, is now sorely shorn and shattered. One leg, a wing, and part of the body are literally relieved, being no longer visible under the light of a dozen lamps; and the entire animal is so deranged that it might as well be styled a dromedary or a griffin. The American eagle is usually on such admirable terms with itself that I am confident this bird would be ashamed to pretend that it is what it is represented to be. If it be an eagle, I will be sworn it does not know it. I choose to consider it a unicorn, since a unicorn is a fabulous beast, and may be presumed to resemble anything, even that amorphous gypsum figure on the roof. If the likeness cannot be traced by ordinary observers, they may be reminded that it consists in the—or more properly in a—horn.
Minerva’s Dome is remarkable for its fluted walls and a honey-combed roof, though why it should be devoted to Minerva, who is not herself present in any form of natural sculpture, is an enigma not to be solved. The probability is, that Kentucky orators have so constantly referred to Minerva springing full-armed from the brain of Jove, that the goddess, even if she once had her image there, has removed it, lest its sight might induce the five or six public speakers in the state who have not used the time-honored simile to force it into their next brilliant effort.
THE FAT MAN’S MISERY.
Near the Dome, those who wish to traverse the short route only, branch off, while the long route is continued until the cave contracts, and Fat Man’s Misery is reached. This is a passage through the rocks so very narrow that a man of average proportions is compelled to go sidewise. It must have been worn by a stream of water in the dim ages past; and now the only stream of water visible is that which flows down the sight-seer’s face, as he toils along, and crawls through the Valley of Humility, where the roof is so low that you are obliged to bend nearly double. Persons with weak backs, or inclined to lumbago, have to return here with the fleshy people who have surrendered at the Fat Man’s Misery. The Great Relief is a broad passage, a little farther on, where tourists bring themselves to an erect position once more, and mop their brows with their handkerchiefs, so frequently brought into activity during their arduous journey.
RIVERS IN MAMMOTH CAVE.
There are numerous streams in the cave, the chief of which have been christened the Echo and Roaring Rivers, the Styx and the Lethe; the last often called Oblivion, because the unclassical public is resolved to pronounce the Greek title as if it were a monosyllable. The Echo River is renowned for its echoes. It is much larger and more striking than the other streams, and when it is high, as it usually is in the spring, it is difficult to cross. When I last made the passage, I had to lie almost flat in the little boat to get under the shelving rocks, and, only a few days before, the guides had to stop there in consequence of the swollen stream. After we had rowed out a little way, we shouted, and called, and sang, and had the pleasure of hearing our words come back to us again and again, with almost perfect articulation. Even the tone of the voice and the emphases are preserved, and I could scarcely believe sometimes that persons were not concealed, and repeating our phrases. The thick darkness, and the weird aspect of the cavern at that point, aid the fancy, and stimulate the feeling of superstition, said to exist, more or less, in every human breast. Two hundred years ago, countless witnesses might have been found to tell of hobgoblins and demons they had heard with their own ears, and seen with their own eyes, too, in the ghastly vault.
The Roaring River does not roar much,—indeed, not at all,—and is not especially noteworthy. It is a dark and turbid stream when it is high, though at its lower stage, it is as clear as any of the south-western waters. We rowed over it, as we had rowed over the Echo River, our little scow being as inconvenient, awkward, and dirty as its fellow.
The Styx flows about a hundred feet below the floor of the cave, and is passed by a rough wooden bridge. We could hear the murmur of the stream below, and tried, with the aid of our lamps, to see it. We did not succeed until the guide attached two or three of the lights to a long pole, and let them down over the bridge. Then we saw a great fissure in the rock (manifestly made by the water), the walls of which are tolerably smooth. The borders of the chasm were so slippery that great caution was necessary to prevent one from falling into the yawing gulf. Near the Styx is the Bottomless Pit—a nominal no less than an actual hyperbole, because it has a bottom not more than one hundred and seventy-five feet from the spot where we stood. We peered down into it as best we could, and concluded that it merited its title in point of gloom and dreariness.