cannot see, may be driven to Punch and elsewhere, and then I am sure his anger will be appeased. He will be grateful, indeed, to Canon Hole for what he has said of his friend, and the friend of us all.

I cannot end without most affectionate and sorrowing mention of two dear dead friendsThomas Constable, who had a true literary faculty as well as palate, and of whom it may be said as of too few-that to him to live was to love; and Miss Fleming, the sister of Pet Marjorie, who survived her seventy years, and who, I believe, seldom passed a day without thinking, and I dare say without speaking, of her darling, who had lain at her heart all these years.

RUTLAND STREET,
Jan. 3, 1882.

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

I

SHOULD before now have thanked Dr. W.

F. Skene, Historiographer for Scotland, and facile princeps of Celtic scholars, for the material of 'A Jacobite Family,' written by his father, Sir Walter's friend, and the grandson of our fine old lady of Stoneywood. My readers, I am sure, will thank him too.

I also thank the 'North British Review' and 'The Scotsman' for such of the ingredients of the following dish-which Meg Dods would have called Potted Head-as had already appeared in them.

For putting Biggar' in, my excuse is that I am a Biggar callant.

J. B.

March 15, 1882.

THE RESTORATION:

UNPUBLISHED VERSES

BY THOMAS DAVIDSON,

'THE SCOTTISH PROBATIONER.'

My love, she walked yon forest glade,
At the waning of the year,

She lifted a leaf from off the ground—
A leaf full dry and sere.

My love, she bore it in her hand-
It lived through every vein.
My love, she placed it on her breast,
And it straight grew green again.

My love, she wears it at her heart;
Will wear it till she die.

My love thou hast been life to me,
-For I trow that leaf am I.

PEASE GLEN, near CockburNSPATH,

Sept. 1865.

1 'The Scottish Probationer,' by James Brown, D.D. A worthy record of a man of rare genius-' dead ere his prime.'

Morning breaks as I write, along those Coniston Fells, and the level mists, motionless and grey beneath the rose of the moorlands, veil the lower woods, and the sleeping village, and the long lawns by the lake shore.

'Oh that some one had told me, in my youth, when all my heart seemed to be set on these colours and clouds, that appear for a little while and then vanish away, how little my love of them would serve me, when the silence of lawn and wood in the dews of morning should be completed, and all my thoughts should be of those whom, by neither, I was to meet more!

'BRANTWOOD, 12th Feb. 1878.'

'J. RUSKIN.

'THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD dog yet,' etc. ETC.