the light that comes from their
old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the
burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones
beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott
went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made
his "Last Minstrel" sing--

"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"

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 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