DESCENDING THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.
Until within a few years the pit had never been descended; but several enterprising and rapid Kentuckians, who had done nothing to distinguish themselves, thought they would render their names historic by becoming acquainted temporarily with the region which, they feared, they might know permanently in the future. They went to the spot well prepared with lights, ropes, hooks, and ladders; but the place looked so ugly that only one of them had the nerve to go down. He came within an ace of breaking his neck several times before he was lowered to the base, where, after groping about for half an hour, and finding nothing but rough rocks, he expressed a desire to be pulled up again.
This was easier said than done, in consequence of the difficulty of managing the rope. On his upward passage he was jammed against the walls, and cut by sharp ledges, until he was exhausted, more from terror and pain than from loss of blood; and finally he was dragged to the top, just as the rope, in several places, held only by a few slight strands. He did not recover from his wounds and the shock to his nervous system for a long while, and he frequently asserted that he would not repeat the excursion for any consideration under heaven. He never recovered, I may say, from the indirect effect of his exploit; for it gave him a certain local notoriety, and he nourished his fame on such generous quantities of Bourbon whiskey, known in the state as Kentucky wine, that, after several brilliant seasons of imbibition at Frankfort, the delirium tremens and two undertakers took him to his eternal home.
Since then, the descent of the Bottomless Pit has been made not unfrequently, one of George D. Prentice’s sons having performed the feat, and furnished a two-column article of sophomorical extolment thereon in the Louisville Journal.
The Lethe has steep and rocky banks, and as we floated down its current, through the almost tangible darkness, with our flickering torches and the hollow murmur of our voices, it really seemed as if we might be disembodied spirits on the sad Plutonian shore. When we ceased to chatter, the dropping of water through the roof into the stream, and the dip of the oars, broke the silence with strange impressiveness.
MUSIC ON THE LETHE.
Sam Meredith was not musical: but I remember on a previous occasion, that our ancient sable guide treated me to a dirge on the flute, while we glided over the bosom of the river of oblivion. The effect was magical; the solemn strains were so in keeping with the sombreness of the surroundings, the flame of the torches was so weird and fitful, the faces of the tourists looked so pale and wondering, and the ebony player assumed such an impishness of form and feature, that I should not have been in the least astonished to meet, sailing along in another boat, spirits long departed from the world.
Would it had been Lethe indeed! How gladly I should have drank of its waters! how willingly have forgotten the earthly life and all its sorrows, including the bad breakfast I was to get at the hotel the next morning, and the boredom I was doomed to encounter for the fortnight to come!
On the long route the most noticeable localities are the passage of El Ghor, a long, narrow, covered causeway; the Brown Chamber, so called from the color of its walls, and its square, apartment-like shape; Martha’s Vineyard, the roof of which resembles clusters of grapes cut in marble; Snow-ball Grotto, showing a remarkable likeness to sculptured (floral) snowballs overhead; the Rose Chamber, a fine counterfeit of roses in rock; Silliman’s Avenue, a narrow gallery so regular that it might have been the work of engineers; and numerous chambers of different proportions, and marked by striking geological features.
The Maelstrom is an ordinary pool containing an eddy and a great disappointment at the same time. It is no more of a sham, however, than the famous (fabulous) whirlpool off the coast of Norway, which was supposed to carry down ships and whales, and which in reality is not perilous to vessels or even small open boats, except during winter and in time of violent storms.