IN MAMMOTH CAVE 243 



it is a wonder to the ear, a strangeness to the 

 smell and to the touch. The body feels the 

 presence of unusual conditions through every 

 pore. 



For my part, my thoughts took a decidedly 

 sepulchral turn ; I thought of my dead and of 

 all the dead of the earth, and said to myself, the 

 darkness and the silence of their last resting- 

 place is like this; to this we must all come at 

 last. No vicissitudes of earth, no changes of 

 seasons, no sound of storm or thunder penetrate 

 here; winter and summer, day and night, peace 

 or war, it is all one; a world beyond the reach 

 of change, because beyond the reach of life. 

 What peace, what repose, what desolation! 

 The marks and relics of the Indian, which dis- 

 appear so quickly from the light of day above, 

 are here beyond the reach of natural change. 

 The imprint of his moccasin in the dust might 

 remain undisturbed for a thousand years. At 

 one point the guide reaches his arm beneath the 

 rocks that strew the floor and pulls out the 

 burnt ends of canes used, when probably fdled 

 with oil or grease, by the natives to light their 

 way into the cave doubtless centuries ago. 



Here in the loose soil are ruts worn by cart- 

 wheels in 1812, when, during the war with 

 Great Britain, the earth was leached to make 

 saltpetre. The guide kicks corn-cobs out of 

 the dust where the oxen were fed at noon, and 

 they look nearly as fresh as ever they did. In 

 those frail corn-cobs and in those wheel tracks 

 as if the carts had but just gone along, one 



