ocation, we arrived, after a drive of twenty-one hours, at our
journey's end--i.e., at "Old Bell's," so called from the proprietor of
the inn. Here we were to pass the night, or rather the remainder of it,
the mail going on to Nashville, and taking our foetid bodkin on with it.
But, alas! the two more disagreeable passengers before alluded to
remained, as they had suddenly made up their minds to stay and visit the
Mammoth Cave.

Old Bell is a venerable specimen of seventy odd years of age, and has
been here, I believe, half a century nearly. One of his daughters, I am
told, is very pretty. She is married to a senator of the United States,
and keeps one of the most agreeable houses in Washington. The old
gentleman is said to be worth some money, but he evidently is determined
to die in harness. As regularly as the mail arrives, about one in the
morning, so regularly does he turn out and welcome the passengers with a
glass of mixed honey, brandy, and water. The beverage and the donor
reminded me forcibly of "Old Crerer," and the "Athole Brose," with which
he always welcomed those who visited him in his Highland cottage. Having
got beds to ourselves--after repeated requests to roost two in a nest,
as the house was small--I soon tumbled into my lair, and in the blessed
forgetfulness of sleep the miseries of the day became mingled with the
things that were. The next morning, after breakfast, we got a conveyance
to take the party over to the Cave, a distance of seven miles. One may
really say there is no road. For at least one half of the way there is
nothing but a rugged track of rock and roots of trees, ever threatening
the springs of the carriage and the limbs of the passenger with
frightful fractures. However, by walking over the worst of it, you
protect the latter and save the former, thus rendering accidents of rare
occurrence.

The hotel is a straggling building, chiefly ground floor, and with a
verandah all round. The air is deliriously pure, and in summer it must
be lovely. It is situated on a plateau, from the extremity of which the
bank descends to the Green River. On both sides is the wild forest, and
round the giant trunks the enamoured vine twines itself with the
affectionate pertinacity of a hungry boa-constrictor, and boars its head
in triumph to the topmost branches. But vegetable life is not like a
Venus who, "when unadorned, is adorned the most;" and, the forest having
cast off its summer attire, presents