h
had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one
glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediaeval 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