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: