Life is for ever changing, and doubtless everything is for the best in this best of possible worlds; but the antiquary may be forgiven for mourning over the destruction of many of the picturesque features of bygone times and revelling in the recollections of the past.  The half-educated and the progressive—­I attach no political meaning to the term—­delight in their present environment, and care not to inquire too deeply into the origin of things; the study of evolution and development is outside their sphere; but yet, as Dean Church once wisely said, “In our eagerness for improvement it concerns us to be on our guard against the temptation of thinking that we can have the fruit or the flower, and yet destroy the root....  It concerns us that we do not despise our birthright and cast away our heritage of gifts and of powers, which we may lose, but not recover.”

Every day witnesses the destruction of some old link with the past life of the people of England.  A stone here, a buttress there—­it matters not; these are of no consequence to the innovator or the iconoclast.  If it may be our privilege to prevent any further spoliation of the heritage of Englishmen, if we can awaken any respect or reverence for the work of our forefathers, the labours of both artist and author will not have been in vain.  Our heritage has been sadly diminished, but it has not yet altogether disappeared, and it is our object to try to record some of those objects of interest which are so fast perishing and vanishing from our view, in order that the remembrance of all the treasures that our country possesses may not disappear with them.

The beauty of our English scenery has in many parts of the country entirely vanished, never to return.  Coal-pits, blasting furnaces, factories, and railways have converted once smiling landscapes and pretty villages into an inferno of black smoke, hideous mounds of ashes, huge mills with lofty chimneys belching forth clouds of smoke that kills vegetation and covers the leaves of trees and plants with exhalations.  I remember attending at Oxford a lecture delivered by the late Mr. Ruskin.  He produced a charming drawing by Turner of a beautiful old bridge spanning a clear stream, the banks of which were clad with trees and foliage.  The sun shone brightly, and the sky was blue, with fleeting clouds.  “This is what you are doing with your scenery,” said the lecturer, as he took his palette and brushes; he began to paint on the glass that covered the picture, and in a few minutes the scene was transformed.  Instead of the beautiful bridge a hideous iron girder structure spanned the stream, which was no longer pellucid and clear, but black as the Styx; instead of the trees arose a monstrous mill with a tall chimney vomiting black smoke that spread in heavy clouds, hiding the sun and the blue sky.  “That is* what you are doing with your scenery,” concluded Mr. Ruskin—­a true picture of the penalty we pay for trade, progress, and the pursuit of wealth.  We are losing faith in the testimony of our poets and painters to the beauty of the English landscape which has inspired their art, and much of the charm of our scenery in many parts has vanished.  We happily have some of it left still where factories are not, some interesting objects that artists love to paint.  It is well that they should be recorded before they too pass away.