Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an age, of ideas, of a state of manners—lovely, but transitional—which had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern Individualism—from that form of society where thousands clustered devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden age—I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy—the feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal, overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man—the humblest man—as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings, like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?

Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past, present, and future—all are divine—all are parts of a celestial scheme—none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it is "our own." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial haloes—he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal, fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock. If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness; why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven—"a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."

CONTENTS.