— 
By the Rev. J. O. Picton. 277 
“is the petrifaction of our religion.” “ A collection of antiquities,” 
says Mr. Scrope, “is history made palpable to the senses.” It is 
the substantial expression of our imperfect conceptions—the ma- 
chinery by which we essay to dramatise, and to array in life and 
shape, and a befitting vesture, the agents of the antique world. As, 
therefore, the area for reflection is wider, and the associations num- 
berless by which we are surrounded, if we extend our vision to the 
distant expanse which lies buried in death, so a healthier tone is 
thereby imparted to our moral life, and we have a greater accession 
of warmth, as well as of light. ‘The man is little to be envied,” 
exclaims Dr. Johnson, “ whose patriotism would not gain force on 
the plains of Marathon, and whose piety would not grow warmer 
among the ruins of Iona.” We cannot tread on an empire’s 
dust without a solemn thought about those, who were once buoyant 
with hope and strength, who plotted and schemed and indulged in 
the wildest dreams, and whose plots and dreams have all followed 
their owners into the silent night, leaving behind them but a shadow 
“to point a moral and adorn a tale.” We cannot wander over the 
spots consecrated to freedom, without feeling a generous emotion— 
without sharing in the poet’s sentiment— 
‘Standing on the Persians’ grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave.’ 
The grassy hillock, thrown up to commemorate a victory or a chief- 
tain’s death ; the sacrificial altar, with its bloody rites; the grim 
castle, an emblem of rapacity and lawless domination; the hallowed 
sanctuary, with storied windows richly dight; the stately mansion 
of the baron, and the yeoman’s picturesque abode, are fraught with 
lessons, from the attentive perusal of which we cannot fail to rise 
up chastened, elevated, and subdued. I do not see how any man, 
of average reading and acquirements, can walk through the rooms 
at Wilton House without peopling it in imagination with that star 
of serenest brilliance of the constellation of Elizabeth’s court, Sir 
Philip Sidney, and the host of chivalrous worthies to whom that 
age gave birth. Can we assemble to-morrow at Longleat, without 
reverting in thought to the saintly Ken, whose life glided gently 
away under its hospitable roof, soothed by the kind attentions of 
20 
