again. And with but little assistance from the direct testimony of history, one has to grope one's way along this comparatively modern formation, guided chiefly, as in the more ancient deposits, by the clue of circumstantial evidence. In at least its leading features, however, the story embodied is remarkably clear. First, we have evidence that in those remote times when the northern half of the island had just become a home of men, the land was forest-covered, like the woody regions of North America, and that its inhabitants were rude savages unacquainted with the metals, but possessed of a few curious arts which an after age forgot,—not devoid of a religion which at least indicated the immortality of the soul,—and much given to war. The extensive morass, in which huge trunks lie thick and frequent,—the stone battle-axe,—the flint arrow-head,—the Druidic circle,—the vitrified fort,—the Picts' house,—the canoe hollowed out of a single log,—are all fossils of this early period. Then come the memorials of an after formation. This wild country is invaded by a much more civilized race than the one by which it is inhabited; we find distinct marks of their lines of march,—of the forests which they cut down,—of the encampments in which they intrenched themselves,—of the battle-fields in which they were met in fight by the natives. And they, too, had their religion. More than half the remains which testify to their progress consist of sacrificial altars, and votive tablets dedicated to the gods. The narrative goes on: another class of remains show us that a portion of the country was conquered by the civilized race. We find the remains of tesselated pavements, baths, public roads, the foundations of houses and temples, accumulations of broken pottery, and hoards of coin. Then comes another important clause in the story; we ascertain that the civilized people failed to conquer the whole of the northern country; and that, in order to pre-
