"Love he hath brought to a maiden fair, Hate hath sundered a loving pair, Gauds that glitter, And memories bitter, Each of us born hath his fated share. "Life is evil, the wise man saith. Joy comes but at the last-drawn breath, Earth's false pleasures Yield no treasures, There is no gift like the gift of death." Perhaps it is due to the way we live now, or possibly to the inherent restlessness of the present generation, but Time certainly seems to pass more rapidly with us than it did with our grandfathers. They lived in a delightfully leisurely fashion, not without its charm, and either stayed complacently at home, or, if they did travel, went in a sober-sides mode by stage coach and sailing vessel. If they did make a journey through Europe, it was called a Grand Tour, and seemed to have been somewhat after the style of a royal progress, Judging from the stately manner in which it was conducted. Ah, there is, no doubt, our steady-going ancestors knew the value of being idle, an art which we have quite lost, and took life in a wonderfully sedate way, sauntering, as it were, in an idle fashion, from the cradle to the grave. We, alas, have changed this somnolent existence, and made the latter end of this nineteenth century somewhat trying to a man whose health is not of the best, or to him who desires to shine among his fellow creatures. The struggle for existence is keener, the survival of the fittest more certain than ever, and the art of enjoyment has resolved itself into a series of hurried glances at a multiplicity of things. If we want to travel, steam whirls us from one end of the world to the other, giving us no time to examine things; if we wish to read, hundreds of books, fresh from the press, call for attention; if we desire to enjoy ourselves, theatres, balls, picture galleries, all offer their attractions in such profusion, that it is difficult to know where to begin. We have gained many aids to enjoyment, yet it is questionable if those very aids have not lost us the faculty itself; for a breathless scamper after pleasure, with a hurried glance here, and a momentary pause there, can hardly be called true enjoyment. The world, and we who live therein, are so busy getting things in order for the beginning of the next century, that all hands are pressed into the service, and no one has a moment to be idle, or to admire the profusion of good things spread before him.