manner, still affirm that the stones of Carnac are the soldiers of an army petrified by St. Cornelius. But these old legends, like the places to which they refer, are now forgotten and despised. One thing, however, can be said in their behalf: they are most of them as probable as many of the conjectures of the grave and professional antiquarians. The supposition of Inigo Jones is not less absurd than the tale told by Walter de Mapes. Stonehenge itself well repays a visit. Its situation is commanding, and a near view fills the spectator with wonder as to the manner in which such huge blocks of stone were placed in such a position. An outer circle of enormous upright blocks, having others on them, has enclosed a space of a hundred feet in diameter. The upright stones in this circle had been originally thirty, but now only seventeen are standing. Within this great circle there is another formed of smaller stones. Of these there had originally been forty, though only twenty can now be discovered. It is difficult now to trace the plan of the building, but it is probable that in all there were four inclosures. The third was formed of only ten stones, arranged in the shape of a horse-shoe. The stones forming the outer circle are of the same kind with those which are found in various parts of the Wiltshire downs, and are those called sarsen stones, by which is meant, stones taken from their native quarry in a rude state. By some it has been conjectured, that the inner circles alone are genuine druidical remains, and that the outer ones were added by the colonies of the Romans or Belgæ. Mr. Richman, in a paper published in the Archælogia for 1840, maintains that the avery circus could not have been designed, nor the Stonehenge temple perfected, until after the Romans had established themselves in Britain. But it was not with these thoughts that we smoked our cigar under the shade of one of the enormous stones of which Stonehenge is composed. Stonehenge was to us more than a fruitful subject of learned and ingenious discussion. We thought of the many summers' suns and winters' snows they had seen and felt; we thought of the many generations of men that had come there to gaze, to scoff, to wonder, or to pray; of the old religions they had seen die out; and we wondered, as we thought of what was to come. There, where we were, had the Druids worshipped the golden light of day, and vainly sought to win the favour of our common Father by the sacrifice of men formed in his image and fashioned by his power. There had come the bannered hosts of Rome, with their milder creed and more universal toleration. All along that plain had echoed the sound of the vesper bell, as the hour of prayer drew nigh, and England's old and young, rich and poor, hastened to obey the summons and perform the ceremonies of that old creed to which, arrayed as it is with all of gorgeous, or beautiful, or thrilling that art can command, the heart of man has ever been so prone. Then came a change, and the creed that taught charity and alms-giving, and one body and one church, made way for a Bible which all might read, and which, though not granted freely, all might understand. There had come the stern and ascetic Puritan, to whom all art was profane, all earthly temples filled with corruption, all earthly crowns and sceptres of little worth, who despised them as the baubles of the hour; who felt that though he was born in sin and shapen in iniquity, yet that he had been elected by the sovereign mercy of God to eternal life, and that his, therefore, was a glory such as no earthly gold could win, or no earthly power could rival or destroy. There, where we were, had come the modern Englishman, with the deep religious feeling of the past worn out, clean gone, with his "useful knowledge," and his modern science: dry, dogmatic, shallow, noisy, empty as a "tinkling cymbal." And yet all this time Stonehenge has stood and defied the powerful storms and yet more powerful revolutions that have swept across our country's soil. We thought of these things, and not of Dr. Stukely on Stonehenge, or Sir C. Hoare's Antiquities of Ancient Wiltshire. Viewed as we viewed it, Stonehenge is the work of no one set of men, but of all;-it is a temple, not for the Druid of the past, but for the Saxon of the present,-it is typical of one universal desire. There have been changes, but still Stonehenge remains. There have been old creeds torn to rags,-old temples turned to ruins,old gods given to the moles and the bats, but still man, in his loftiest moods, is true to his religious yearnings,—still, like the old Druid, he sees in the sun that shines by day, and moon that rules by night, the presence and the power of a spirit whose favour he does well to gain,-still from this world of change and toil he looks forward to the eternal and the true. Each age has had its own creed, but the spirit in which such creed had its birth still remains the same. Every new age, every fresh light thrown on the world within, or the world without, may modify, if not destroy, the former. The latter must live, "Whilst life, and thought, and being last ;" whilst man can love and hate, and hope and fear. In the last church, duly consecrated, with its painted windows, and its pealing organ, we but see the same impulse that, in a mightier form, planted Stonehenge on the wide Wiltshire downs,-that in Greece and Rome made every silvery stream the home of some spirit not of earth, and that led the old Norseman, in his wild Scandinavian haunts, to see on every mountain's brow the footsteps of a god. Stonehenge is a type and symbol of man's religiousness. Let August, 1847.-VOL. XLIX.-NO. CXCVI. I I learned antiquarians,-let fellows of archæological associations wax dull on it as they will, they cannot make it read otherwise. In this sense, Stonehenge still teaches a great truth,-for it may be said of man what Schiller makes Max Picolomini say of love, that he "Delightedly believes Divinities, being himself divine. The unintelligible form of ancient poets,- The power, the beauty, and the majesty That had their haunts in dell or dewy mountain; Or forests, by slow streams; or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths;-all these have vanished. They live no longer in the faith of reason; But still, the heart doth need a language, still Back the old names." SONG. WILT THOU LOVE ME STILL? To the beautiful old air, "Pauvre Madeline." BY MRS. CRAWFORD. Wilt thou love me still, when I'm far away? In the pensive light of thine eye betray, By the lonely Yarrow's silver stream, Wilt thou sit on the grey moss-stone, and dream Wilt thou love me still, when the fleeting years Have come and gone without me; Embalm sweet thoughts about me? Wlt thou bring me a faith as fond and sweet? WHARFDALE; OR, THE ROSER Y. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. WHARFDALE! Welcome, my own lovely valley, welcome, right welcome! I had long been a wanderer from the home of my happy childhood, the scenes of my early years. Far, far away, beneath the scorching sun of a southern sky, I had sprung up from youth to manhood; and was now rapidly advancing from manhood to infirm old age. Many and startling had been the vicissitudes of fortune I had been called upon to endure; many the dangers I had encountered-the perils I had overcome. Wearied and worn out by the toil and turmoil of a long and eventful life, I was returning, like a stricken deer, no longer able to join the browsing some herd on this busy plain, to seek out some calm retreat favourite pasture of the olden time-where I might lie me down and die. I was an old man then, my brow was wrinkled, my hair grey, and the little remnant of my life seemed dwindled to its shortest span; years, long years, have rolled away, and I still live -the man who has outlived his time! Earth for me has no bond, no hope. I have watched my firmest ties, link after link, give way. I have seen my brightest hopes bud, blossom, and decay. "Oh! had I the wings of a dove, I would fly away and be at rest." Yet, why should I repine? Now can I look on my own lovely valley; now can I sit by graves of my heart's treasured idolsthose precious creatures who have gone before; now can I trim the straggling branches of that stately yew which will soon lend its friendly covering to my own last resting-place-the quiet grave; to die amid the scenes of my childhood-to sleep, side by side, with those who have shared my best and purest affections-was once my constant prayer: thank God, that prayer is likely to be fulfilled! "Wharfdale, welcome my own lovely valley, right welcome!" It is ten years ago since these words first burst from my lips; yet how well do I remember my feelings at that moment. It was at the close of a calm summer's evening, when my own little village (situated in one of the most sheltered and picturesque nooks of the valley) first broke upon my sight. The last lingering beam of the setting sun shedding its faint light on the highest headlands of the distant hills, and the silvery fog rising in cloud-like masses from the bosom of the majestic Wharf, gave to the scene an appearance of witchery and enchantment. Though I had been absent for many years, there was not a cottage-nay, I may almost say a tree -that did not awaken in my mind some tender recollection,some treasured story of the past. The plain old church, with its ivy-covered turret; the romantic burial ground, with its many homely and unsculptored tablets-the parsonage, with its pretty little flower garden, and well-trimmed hedge-rows; and Oh! above all, that most exquisite little cottage-the home of my childhood! all, all were as I had left them. Overcome by my feelings, I gazed on them, spell-bound for a moment; then quickening my pace, I hurried away to the inn, repeating as I did so those chaste, yet unpretending stanzas from the pen of Thomas Hood, "I remember, I remember, The house where I was born; |