A VISIT TO MAMMOTH CAVE.
A sleepy and forlorn bachelor, about to set forth on this expedition solus, some special providence sent to our relief a party of gay young friends, whom we found already assembled in the Louisville depot of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad. Upon this pleasant rencontre we did not cease to congratulate ourself, having been previously warned that the cave is seen to greater advantage by a large party; the number of lights carried, extra guides, etc., all tending to enhance picturesque effects, and promote the comfort of the sight-seers.
Leaving Louisville at the early hour of seven A.M., a very enjoyable ride lay before us; at first through the celebrated blue grass region of Kentucky, and afterward skirting the wilder, more picturesque country, famous, or infamous, as the scene of guerilla warfare during the war and after. Here these desperadoes, entrenched in some of nature’s impregnable fortresses, sallied forth at will, cutting the railroads, stopping trains at all hours of the day and night, and plundering farms for miles in every direction. But we have changed all that! The road boasts a tunnel of some extent. Here the young men of our party perpetrated the time-honored joke of kissing their hands with a resounding smack, bringing out the roses on the cheeks of our pretty girls; when we emerge from darkness, each one of them being fully conscious that she is suspected as the guilty recipient of that kiss.
At noon we reach a station bearing
the imposing name of Cave City; a close corporation, consisting of one establishment, for the refreshment of man and beast destined for the Mammoth Cave. A poor dinner, after the manner of such wayside inns, awaits us, and at two P.M. we hear the welcome sound, “All aboard stage for the cave!” Two vehicles, filled inside with ladies, and outside with the adequate complement of gentlemen and baggage—a nice point, by the way, in these days of woman’s rights and Saratoga trunks! But, ladies, we warn you not to undertake the cave without at least one man whom you own or have a lien on—there are points in the explorations before you when one man, and perhaps several others, will be convenient to lean on.
With a mighty creaking, a few preliminary false starts, resulting in some new and jerky experiences to those unaccustomed to the old-fashioned stages, at last we are fairly off, beginning almost immediately a winding and gradual ascent. We are told by our sanguine driver that there had been an attempt to macadamize the road—then certainly it has been an attempt, and nothing more; on several occasions we rode over smooth stones so large that it was quite a relief from the deep ruts which seamed the road on every side.
High hills surround us, luxuriant in the foliage of June; at rare intervals a farm-house is seen in some distant valley, but there are few evidences of cultivating the soil, which is doubtless of too cavernous a nature to repay the farmer his toil.
After riding a distance of three or four miles, the wildness of the scene is increased by huge formations of rocks; many streams murmur in the distance, and near the only house we approach on the route, a little maid, hurrying barefoot from the spring, presents a pail of water for the benefit of the thirsty stagers. There have been sundry flasks of eau de vie on top, and the gentlemen evince no desire for the milder fluid, quaffed by the ladies with such avidity.
The half-way point is a platform for shade built across the road, and here those who wish to explore Osceola, or Indian Cave, take a short walk down the hill. Not caring to receive any subterra impressions before the great cavern dawned upon us, we joined the ladies in picking wild flowers, which are of great beauty and variety in this region. The exploring party on their return reported Osceola to be mainly a dugout cave, having some interest, but, like its illustrious namesake, very dirty! Nearly an hour having been devoted to resting the horses, we resume the stages, and, the road improving, proceed with accelerated speed, when a sudden halt causes us to look back—the second stage has broken down! What is to be done? Nothing but to squeeze two more ladies in our coach, while we gentlemen resign our places on top to the rest of the feminines, who really make the alarming ascent with grace; but after a short walk our gallantry oozes out at the very tips of our boots, and, one by one, we jump on the steps to talk, thence clamber to the roof to find seats as best we may.
After a nine miles’ drive, we approach a long, low frame-building. An air of quiet and rustic simplicity pervades the spot! This is the “Cave House.” The apartments to which