126 Idylls of the Field. 



grand ravine, ' We have a Yosemite and a Niagara, 

 but we have no Cheddar Cliffs.' 



The cliffs, at their base an almost unbroken wall of 

 rock, but separated towards their summits into pic- 

 turesque masses like towers of Cyclopean masonry, 

 skirt one side of a long, winding ravine — a rift that 

 runs into the very heart of the hills, not, as an old 

 writer says, the work of Nature 'in one of those 

 moments when she convulsed the world with the 

 throes of an earthquake, burst asunder the rocky ribs 

 of Mendip and tore a chasm across its diameter of 

 more than a mile in length,' but slowly sculptured by 

 water, of whose action it bears abundant traces. 



The height of the cliffs is often overstated. A late 

 inhabitant who measured them with a line and plum- 

 met found the highest point to be not more than 

 360 feet above the road. But their beauty does not 

 depend upon their altitude ; Cheddar is one of those 

 places which never disappoint, and of which no de- 

 scription can surpass the reality. 



Beautiful even when trees are bare and skies are 

 grey, when snow lies white along the ledges, and icy 

 fringes glitter in the wintry sun, it is in springtime that 

 the cliffs are at their best; when the foliage that 

 softens all their stern and rugged faces is brightening 

 in the sun of May ; when all the thousand tenants are 

 busy round their castles in the air. 



Then, in the twilight, wander down the gorge, while 

 the flush of sunset lingers still upon the rocky steeps. 



