In half-an-hour, after having seen many curiosities by the way, we reached the celebrated “Bottomless Pit.” Much curiosity regarding this pit prevails among those who have only heard it spoken of: therefore, I will remark that its very name is a contradiction in terms. A pit, in order to be _bottomless_, must have no bottom at all; but this pit has one bottom, in a very good state of preservation, and, therefore, cannot be bottomless. If the word _bottomless_ is an adjective of the comparative order, I would say of the “Bottomless Pit;” “There are no doubt bottomlesser pits in the world than it is, but it is the bottomlessest pit I ever saw.” Directly over the Pit is constructed a wooden bridge, which—for every thing is named there—is called the “Bridge of Sighs.” It might be termed the “Bridge of rather small Size,” for it is not much wider than a darkey’s foot. We stepped upon this structure—which the guide assured us was perfectly safe—and stood directly over the center of the yawning pit. While we stood there he lighted a piece of peculiar paper he carried with him for the purpose, and dropped it from the bridge. Away it went, glaring, flaring, blazing, fluttering, down, down, down, till it reached the bottom of the pit that has no bottom. I do not mean to make light of it—in fact, it is too dark and gloomy to be made _light_ of—for it is grand and terrible even as it is. Its depth is probably one hundred and fifty feet. It is round, like a well, and about twenty feet in diameter. Water a few inches deep stands silently on the bottom, and the loose stones—probably such as have been cast down from time to time—can be seen peeping above the surface. The guide showed us another pit called “Side-saddle Pit”—so named because to see into it one must thrust his head through a small aperture, the lower part of which is in shape very similar to a side-saddle. This pit is very little wider than an ordinary well, and is, we were informed, more than one hundred feet deep. Not far from this we arrived at a wide place in the subterraneous passage called “Revelers’ Hall;” because it is customary for visitors to stop there awhile, rest from their rambles and drink each other’s, or somebody else’s health—if they have anything to drink it with. I happened to have about my person somewhere—say in the breast pocket of my coat, for example—a willow-encased receptacle containing a strong unmixed toddy, without water or sugar. I produced it, and my companion, the guide and I imbibed all our healths, the healths of all other visitors, the healths of distant friends, the health of the owner, and finally of the Cave itself, with all its curiosities and wonders. If I had thought of it at the time, I would, moreover, have proposed Horne Tooke’s regular after-dinner sentiment: “All kings in h—l; the door locked, _the key lost_!”