(From _Ladies’ Realm_ Magazine.)
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]
* * * * *
To my mind the magic of Stonehenge is never more powerfully felt than
during the wild, tempestuous autumnal gales, that usually sweep across
the Plain in October. Great clouds roll above, enfolding the circle in a
shadowy purple mantle, sometimes tipped with gold. Thoughts rise up
suddenly, of the many tragedies, feasts, sacrifices, mysterious rites
that must have been enacted here in far-off bygone days. One wonders if
beautiful golden-haired Guinevere passed this way, on her flight to
safety, at the Convent at “Ambresbury” (the Land of Ambrosius), or if sad
King Arthur tarried there on his lonely homeward journey?
I prefer to picture to myself, Stonehenge, in happy, thoughtless Pagan
days, Druid priests and priestesses forming grand processions; crossing
the “rushing Avon” and winding up from the valley to Stonehenge, clothed
in pure white, and holding gleaming sickles in their hands, chanting
hymns on their way to perform the sacred rite of cutting the mistletoe.
Perhaps they sang and chanted through the short summer night, waiting for
the sun to rise (over the pointed outlying stone) on the day which marks
the solar half-year (June 21st), and which bathes the altar-stone in
golden light. Probably this was the signal for sacrifice, the death of
the victim, and the appeasing of wrathful gods. In mid-winter the stones
appear like black masses, in the midst of driving snows. The least
interesting time of year, in this enchanted place, is the bright, clear,
commonplace summer, when no mysteries abound (except by moonlight). The
old gods are sleeping, everything is orderly, agriculture and its
implements surround us, and Romance seems dead for the moment. Farewell.