THE Great Druidical Temple, or (as some hold) Phœnician Observatory, composed of gigantic, beautifully-coloured, hewn stones, stands in the middle of Salisbury Plain. These stones have been measured, counted, defaced, praised, depreciated, commented upon, by numerous authorities on countless occasions, but (to my knowledge) no account of their poetical and picturesque aspects, at different seasons of the year, has been attempted. I shall feel satisfied if I succeed in conveying feebly in words what David Cox (the artist) did ably in colours, with his glowing brush. I do not propose to enter into any statistics, as to the “Market value of Stonehenge to the nation,” or to tell you the number of miles that lie between it and the town of Salisbury, the goodness or inferiority of the roads to it, the number of visiting tourists, &c.; I only wish to place before you some impressions I have felt of its grandeur and charm, through many seasons, in all sorts of weather, and varying moods. There is always a constant surprise and delight to me in the manner in which Stonehenge bursts upon one, approach it as one may, from various points across the undulating Plain which surrounds it. Starting upon one’s “Pilgrim’s Path” to visit it, from any side, at first there is nothing to be seen but the crisp crackling grass underfoot, and the white glittering roads; then, as one advances nearer, unexpectedly, dark, mysterious forms seem to start up, which gradually shape themselves into the incompleted circle we call “Stonehenge.” The late spring, and early summer, are enchanting periods; myriads of starry white flowers, and gorgeous yellow and blue ones, wave together with a glowing harmony of colour, as they are swayed by soft breezes, whilst a “Hallelujah Chorus” of skylarks sing overhead, making the air full of scent and sound. In this setting, the old stones seem all yellow and grey in the brilliant sunshine. Picturesque shepherds, wrapped in their great dark-blue cloaks, appear upon the horizon; tinkling sheep bells are heard, reminding one of the Roman Campagna; evening falling, brings a sense of peace and stillness, chimes from the old Church at Amesbury float across the valley. The light comes and goes, and the world seems far away. [Picture: Stonehenge and a Great Trilithon] * * * * *