by a bright and tranquil river. The road is dark with trees, and children are at play amid the tangled roots and mossy stems. And now we pass through village after village, till we turn off along the winding bottom between two round hills, and come in sight of a pair of cottages overhung with trees, and backed by a fir clump, where clothes are fluttering in the wind that brings us now and then faint cadences of childish laughter, or snatches of the louder voice of some matron busy with the many cares of a young family. Those white walls form the homestead of a genuine "Shepherd of Salisbury Plain"-a quiet, simple, weather-beaten man, who thinks his caste the noblest upon earth. And well he may, since Abraham, and Job, and David were of it. He knows his sheep and loves them; and the rough weather of the hills is health and music to his hardy frame.

We climb the slope, and thread the avenue of firs before us. Huge conical mounds, evidently artificial, and shaped with nicest symmetry, are before and around us. The grass that covers them is harsh, and dry, and brown. They loom on us sullenly in all directions, and we feel an awe, painful at first, but suggestive of curious and interesting and vast thoughts. We are entering a huge Necropolis. The dead of former ages are around us, “at rest with kings and counsellors of the earth who built desolate places* for themselves." They have gone down to the grave with their weapons of war, and have laid their swords under their heads. Whichever way we turn, the hills are billowy with these tumuli. Stukely, from one point of view, counted upwards of a hundred, and they all, according to him, "regard" Stonehenge as their central point. "Up hill and down dale" still! We are in sight of Stonehenge!

We had used these expressions before reading Dr. Kitto's last volume of Daily Bible Illustrations, noticed more at length in another part of this number. Speaking of these "desolate places," he says, "the term in Hebrew is desolations or destructions, and comes from a root that signifies to dry up." He then proceeds to give his opinion that these desolate places signify the magnificent tombs which the great are wont to build for the reception of themselves and families. Whether the gigantic tumuli or barrows of the early nations of Northern Europe and Asia can with propriety be included in this category, we do not pretend to decide, though they seem to be the very embodiments of barrenness and drought. The contrast between the dry and discolored, but frequently rank, herbage that covers them, and of the surrounding plain is often very conspicuous, especially on those old British tombs noticed in the text.

Is that all? A broken circle of grey stones-some standing-some leaning-some prostrate-and all is told. All is told, if the visitor have come to please the eye alone. But what deep and awful chords are touched within the minds of those who come to think. Standing before him, he sees the actual realities of primitive British history-not merely a flimsy and distorted or disguised reflex. Those very stones were reared by Druid hands, and beneath the barrows that surround them, lie the stalwart forms of those who raised them. You tremble as you stand beneath those gigantic trilithons, bearded with lichens and honey-combed by the ruthless teeth of Time. An old shepherd is limping in and out among the ruins, and he tenders his services in introducing you to each and all the more important stones, for which he has a special name. But you covet to be left alone with your own thoughts, and the "measuring reed" you have provided. Twenty-one feet is the height of that leaning stone behind the altar, and the weight of these three together cannot be less than seventy or eighty tons. You are astounded at the achievements of what you call Physical Force; but a moment's thought tells you that a greater power lay behind it. Mechanical power was a mere instrument—a tool, in the hands of that Religious Element which burned so fiercely in the savage bosom of the old Briton. To worship was as much his business as to live, and he wrought like a Titan, if haply he might feel after God and find Him. In this awful temple, hoary with years, and beaten down by flood, and wind, and storm, and the specious alternations of the seasons, you have the visible embodiment of his hopes and fears-the Epiphany of his Faith. We will approach it by the road marked out in our engraving, which leads to Heytesbury. Tumuli, like mole hills, are seen on every slope, and a huge bell-barrow stands directly before us. It has been opened, in common with many others, which have furnished us with several facts of interest. Beside the road stands a huge stone, leaning towards the temple, and having much the appearance of a white-robed, long-bearded Druid, in the act of worship. At first sight, every visitor to Stonehenge is disappointed. From its isolated position, we have nothing to compare it with, unless a straggling flock of sheep, per

chance, should be cowering beneath its shadow. And even when we wander in and out amongst the ruins, and examine it in detail, the interest it awakens is rather due to what we think, than to what we see-to the imaginative, rather than the perceptive faculties. To many minds the fact that we know so little about it gives zest to a pic-nic among the fallen stones, or a careful and laborious survey of its details. For ourselves we value it only for what we know or may know about it. We have no sympathy with antediluvian, or astronomical, or mythological speculations: we look on it as a lone wreck of visible history belonging to days otherwise unregistered, unchronicled, unknown.

Two facts at least have come down to us with regard to its age and builders which ought not to be passed over. In some of the barrows which surround it, chippings from the stones of which it is constructed, have been found. One of these barrows is crossed by a Roman road, and must, consequently, have existed before it, so that Stonehenge must be at least two thousand years old-the lone survivor of the times of aboriginal Britain-a silent witness to the prowess, "the acts and faits," of a rude barbarian race, of whom we know next to nothing. These stone-chippings were associated with the bones of horses, dogs, hares, boars, deer, and goats, the very animals mentioned by ancient authors in connection with the usual pursuits of our aboriginal ancestors.

Yes. The elysium of the early untaught hordes of Britain was a well stocked hunting-ground, and the faithful hounds and horses of the deceased reeked upon the funeral pyre, that they might bear him company beyond the grave. Nor was this the darkest page in his dark history. A sanguinary priesthood taught him that human blood was necessary to appease the blind fury of his gods, and he acted out literally cry of all heathendom-" Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression; the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul ?"

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There is something in the severe and savage grandeur of Stonehenge, wonderfully significant of the dread, stern, features of Druidism, with its horrid rites, its merciless sacrifices, and its intolerant and intolerable priestcraft. It seems to frown down the strange and baseless notion that the

Druids were pure monotheists, of a mild, genial, philosophical cast of mind, when in fact, almost the only thing we know about them, is the heartless cruelty of their sacrificial rites. Cæsar mentions that they offered human victims by hundredssome on the eve of warfare-others in cases of threatening sickness. So Pomare, King of Tahiti, before engaging in his last exterminating war, offered one of our first missionary converts to Oro, the god of war; and on the serious illness of Moomooe, the reigning chief of Tongataboo, one of his own sons was in like manner sacrificed. The pantheon of paganism overshadows one hideous Field of Blood, strown with dead men's bones and all uncleanness. However philosophy may refine, or speculation divert, or erudition and philology misinterpret, the Bible stands unassailably secure in its testimony, that the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty.

Our day with the Druids is drawing to a close. With saddened feelings we watch the soft serene light of the declining sun warming up the ashy grey of those old stones, and bringing out their broad, bold shadows in strong relief. Sepulchral mounds, which we had not seen before, catch the horizontal light, and stand out from the undulating plain. The mighty men of old lie buried around us, and their works, still extant on all sides, thrill us with undefinable emotion. The landscape is certainly not of nature's loveliest, but much that may be known of God is evident from its half-opened page.

We walk homewards, and from the bald downs, drop into the leafy valley once more, wondering how man in any age could so misread God's teachings as to change his truth into a lie, and to worship and serve the creature more than the Creator.

DARING AND COURAGE,
A memorable fact.

There is something particularly exhilirating in the first breaking up of winter, and the early lengthening days; people feel more physically disposed to enterprise and exertion which are differently manifested according to the age and circumstances of the adventurer.

One fine afternoon in such a season, a joyous party of young people gladly availed themselves of the extended twilight, for a ramble through some pleasant grounds, agreeably diversified with hill and dale, wood and water. Mirth and fun prevailed amongst them as they threaded the tangled footpaths of nature's wilderness, or art's labyrinth, and as their spirits rose, they "dared one another," (as the phrase is), to attempt feat after feat, of more difficult accomplishment. After a while they reached the borders of a small lake, whose smooth frozen surface invited to a sliding match. Their skates had been left at home, as a thaw had commenced, and they did not expect to find so much ice, still apparently undisturbed. As they flocked down to the water's edge, however, they were seen by one of the gardeners, who immediately advised them to retreat, warning them that the ice was too thin to bear their weight.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Marcus, "I am sure the old man is mistaken, look! that stone rests securely," he added, pointing to one he had flung to the centre of the tempting lake.

"But I heard an ominous cracking sound when it touched the surface," remarked Caleb, " and no doubt the gardener who is used to this sport knows better than comparative strangers. We ought to be prudent, and attend to his advice."

"What a coward you are Caleb!" replied Marcus, "you always spoil our fun by some preachment about prudence, perhaps you think it a capital blind to conceal your want of courage;" he added in a sneering tone, and with a gesture of mock compassion, which made all his companions laugh, and determined two or three waverers to desert the prudent leader they had previously felt inclined to follow.

"Come on!" said Marcus, "now is the time to test your courage! who will go and bring back that stone again, before the ice melts? now Caleb, I dare you to venture!"

"No!" answered Caleb firmly, "it would be a fool-hardy trip for no earthly use. If it were to save a fellow creature's life, I hope I should dare to risk my own.”

"A fine put off truly! you know you are as timid as a hare! I'll have it back in a minute!"

"Pray do not attempt it Marcus. It is not likely the ice will bear your weight after the thaw of to-day, and you heard