In our opinion, this catastrophe is not the product of an hour, nor of an age. We go farther back for the primal cause. As a matter of history, we find that the leading and most influential religious machinery of this country was composed of the dislocated fragments of long-established European institutions, broken off by convulsions, not wanting virtue so much as order, symmetry, and consistency. The virtue was strong, and while its character of firmness was maintained, it could better dispense with a fixed and well-ordered machinery, sanctioned by time, and having a reasonable claim to apostolic origin. But the rapid growth and the fervid condition of our social organization, have put the new theory to a test too stern for a felicitous development. DEATH OF ROB ROY. 'WHEN this chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: 'Raise me up, buckle on my arms, then admit him!' The guest was received with cold civility, and in a short time departed. 'Now,' said Rob Roy, 'call in the piper.' The piper came, and he expired with the voice of war pealing around him.' WITH heather pillowing his head, The dying outlaw lay, And plaided clansmen round his bed Stood watching in dismay. Wild throes of dissolution shook His worn and wasted frame, But native lordliness of look Distemper could not tame. The walls of his rude dwelling-place Were hung with weapons bright-- With branching antlers of the chase, And trophies won in fight. His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth, Acute of eye and ear, Slept idly on the lighted hearth, Forgetful of the deer. Cold dew--that herald which precedes The winding-sheet, and wail Of mourning ones--in clammy beads, Stood on his forehead pale. Faint grew the swell of his proud breast, And dim his falcon-eye, But manfully his lip suppressed The groan of agony. While ran his blood with feebler flow, Strode in a clansman stout, And told the chief, in accents low, 'A stranger waits without!' Then syllabled the name--a word Unwelcome to his ears, Which darkly in his bosom stirred The hoarded hate of years. 'No member of a hostile clan, While heart or pulse can beat, Shall see me,' said the dying man, 'In posture of defeat. Array me in the spoils I took From enemies laid low; Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook The presence of a foe.'