Photo by Bamforth, Holmfirth.
PLAN AND SECTION OF THE GREAT CAVERN OF LAMB'S LAIR.
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Our party of four had been engaged in some arduous work near Wells, and a descent into Lamb's Lair meant a long drive across Mendip, nearly to East Harptree. We were dropped by our waggonette, with a great pile of apparatus, at a gate into a field. The field was part of the Lamb's Bottom ravine, and we had some difficulty in locating the entrance to our cavern among the innumerable workings and natural depressions that cut up the surface. At length we caught sight of the end of a ladder sticking out from a hole that was buried in brushwood, and straightway we found ourselves on the brink of the 60-foot shaft. The uppermost ladder was broken six feet from the top, and so was the second; neither was fit to be trusted. We supported the broken part of the top ladder with a forked branch, and I took up my station on a ledge 15 feet down, to steady the things as they were lowered. Each man was roped for the descent, for the crazy ladders, the decayed woodwork, and the loose stones in the shaft all threatened disaster. At last all our paraphernalia was safe at the bottom, and now a muddy progress began through a narrow, dripping cleft into a low tunnel, that brought us, after many windings, to the top of a fourth ladder. This one was not so high, but it was quite as shaky as the others, and a member of the party got a nasty blow on the shoulder from a beam connected with it, that gave way whilst we were passing the luggage from hand to hand.
Descending still through an irregular passage, we suddenly entered a roomy vault with stalactites on the roof. Here the glories of Lamb's Lair begin. In a few moments we shall be at the threshold of the incomparable Beehive Chamber, and thence, to a point far beyond what we can attain to-day, the poetry and witchery of cave scenery are at their finest. Stumbling over the irregularities of the crystal floor, we see dimly, by the light of our candles, great luminous arcs bending over our heads; and then, catching sight of a regularly shaped hemisphere rising out of the darkness and dwarfing the cave with its enormous proportions, we realise that this is the Beehive Chamber. When the limelight is brought in, and its fierce beams play upon the wild arcades and groining of this fantastic vault, we are astounded by the wealth and brilliance and extraordinary variety of the incrustations: not a rib, not a corner of bare rock remains visible; every inch of floor and walls and roof has been thickly coated with the calcareous enamel. The Beehive itself, 12 feet high and enormous in girth, is not more astonishing for its size than for the regularity of its shape. It is probably the largest boss of stalagmite in England. The sides are streaked with white and yellow bands, which enhance the weird symmetry and polish of its appearance; and, on the summit, wide enough for a man to walk about, we noticed that a number of stalactites, fallen from the vault above, had become embedded in its mass, and were slowly being crusted over with the ceaseless deposits. All over the chamber there is a continuous patter of water-drops, carrying on the work of the ages, and laying film after film of lustre on the imageries of this hidden shrine, which man has visited so rarely. To right and left of the Beehive the uneven floor descends into deep recesses—which we see as we draw nigh to be rocky porches adorned with the most magnificent incrustations—leading into two passages. These two porches, the arch by which we have entered, and the wild vaulting that rises to an apex over our heads amid a profusion of glistening stalactites, are the dominant features of this piece of fairy architecture. But who can count or describe the gleaming volutes and scrolls that wind over the walls in brilliant confusion, the clustered corbels whence random ribs spring towards the roof, the lace-like fringe of delicate stalactites that hangs from every ridge, or the gnome-like fingers and ghoulish faces, staring and pointing downwards, that one seems to discern amid the disordered sculpture of roof and walls?
A broken bottle of paraffin and some pieces of cotton-waste, evidently the relics of the last party who had used them to light up the Beehive Chamber years ago, were lying in a corner just as they were left. In one of the galleries I noticed the marks of fingers and the impress of the clothes of a man who had crawled along the clay floor—as fresh as if he had been there an hour ago. This changelessness of everything fills one with a certain awe; but what impresses one as still more wonderful is that all this consummate beauty and grandeur should lie concealed and unknown in the midst of modern England, only a few miles away from important cities, but unvisited by a soul for long periods of years, while the country people seem hardly aware of the cave's existence. Were the cave easily accessible, one can hardly question that crowds of sightseers would be attracted, and much of the charm would be dispelled, even if its treasures were not ransacked. For the present these are perfectly safe.