DADDY HOLE. 293 



bloom. As I stand, gazing down, a blackbird, with 

 shrill, clamorous scream, rushes up from the obscurity, 

 and at the same moment a couple of butterflies the 

 pretty tawny, black-chequered sort which collectors 

 call the " Wall" rush out from some hanging herb- 

 age, and perform playful evolutions in the midst, 

 their forms and colours seen in fine relief against the 

 dark background of the chasm. White-rumped 

 martins shoot to and fro through the narrow fissure, 

 snapping up the humming gnats and minute beetles 

 that are playing on the wing. 



I walk along the margin, obtaining new and chang- 

 ing peeps of the depths, till I reach the southern extre- 

 mity, where a rough, broken, zigzag sort of stair pro- 

 mises access. I essay it, pressing through the briery 

 bushes, occasionally making some awfully long steps, 

 and finding my heavy vasculum somewhat embarrass- 

 ing, till, after some scrambling and slipping, I find 

 myself at the bottom. 



A feeling of solemn awe creeps over me as I stand 

 between these rugged walls, in the bowels of the 

 living rock. It is so still and silent, that the sound 

 of my walking-stick, set down on the ringing blocks 

 of stone, falls startingly on the ear. I look up to the 

 huge buttresses and angular groins of stone projecting 

 into and narrowing the space, and admire the pellucid 

 greenness of the out-springing ferns seen against the 

 slender line of bright sky. Thridding my path among 

 the fallen masses, I make my way to the other end, 

 and manage to climb out by a devious fissure upon 



