_Amidst the Lowther Hills, on a slope rising from the Shortcleugh Burn, the friends of the late Henry Chancellor of Newton and Shieldhill have erected in his memory and to mark the spot where, he was found dead on the 1st of April, 1915, a stone seat, which is a centre of interest to visitors in this district. On paying my first visit on a fine Autumn day to Chancellor's Seat, as it is called, I was deeply impressed by the circumstances of his death and the wild beauty, solemnity and solitude of the scene of his passing, In front, the main Lowther Slope rising steeply to its lofty summit, its still smooth sides dressed in soft springy grey green turf; from the right, the Shortcleugh Burn springing from the rocks of the Five Cairns, winding its way down the Glen; to the left, the purple heather clad hills stretching as far as the eye could see, and in close proximity the Reservoir, its surface water moved by the wind, and sparkling in the rays of the sun--the whole made a scene that could not fail to soothe the jaded spirit, weary with the vexations and troubles of life. Such, with its Spring instead of its Autumn dressing, was the scene of the passing of Henry Chancellor._ Amidst the everlasting hills He loved so well, He met his end; what pain he bore No tongue could tell; No earthly friend was standing by, No loved one over him to sigh, No tender human heart was nigh With grief to swell. And, yet, his greatest Friend was there, In yon' lone glen, Who holds Creation in His care And lives of men; To comfort and uphold him, till The Angels winged adown the hill To bear his spirit from all ill And mortal ken. IN MEMORIAM. THE LAST OF THE OLD BAN'. _Lines suggested by the death of John Dixon._ Gone is the last o' a guid auld Ban' That played in the glen langsyne; "Buirdly an' bauld like the hills o' their hame," Stalwart in body an' min'; For anything clever an' manly At gala or market or fair They could haud the croon o' the causey, Frichtit for naebody there. Gracies, M'Millans, an' Tyler, Nicol an' Dixon, M'Kane, Hastie an' Harkness an' Shankland, Their like we may ne'er see again. Weel could they han'le their trumpets, Their notes a' sae sweetly in tune; Nae Ban' could tae them haud a can'le Tho' ye'd socht for a hunner mile roon. An' yet they said naething aboot it, Sae modest an' manly were they: They never were guid at the braggin', Tho' difficult pairts they could play. They played at the sports an' the picnic, They played at the concert an' dance. Weel pleased if by honest endeavour They could oor bit pleasures enhance.