The sylvan glories of yonder stretch of woodland renew themselves each autumn, regal as ever.  It is only the old enchantment that is gone; banished by the matter-of-fact deity, who has stolidly settled exactly where Lord A.’s shooting ends and Squire B.’s begins.  Once, no such petty limitations fettered the mind.  A step into the woodland was a step over the border —­ the margin of the material; and then, good-bye to the modern world of the land-agent and the ``Field’’ advertisement!  A chiming of little bells over your head, and lo! the peregrine, with eyes like jewels, fluttered through the trees, her jesses catching in the boughs.  ’Twas the favourite of the Princess, the windows of whose father’s castle already gleamed through the trees, where honours and favours awaited the adventurous.  The white doe sprang away through the thicket, her snowy flank stained with blood; she made for the enchanted cot, and for entrance you too had the pass-word.  Did you fail on her traces, nor fox nor mole was too busy to spare a moment for friendly advice or information.  Little hands were stretched to trip you, fairy gibe and mockery pelted you from every rabbit-hole; and O what Dryads you have kissed among the leaves, in that brief blissful moment ere they hardened into tree!  ’Tis pity, indeed, that this sort of thing should have been made to share the suspicion attaching to the poacher; that the stony stare of the boundary god should confront you at the end of every green ride and rabbit-run; while the very rabbits themselves are too disgusted with the altered circumstances to tarry a moment for so much as to exchange the time of day.

Truly this age is born, like Falstaff, with a white head and something a round belly:  and will none of your jigs and fantasies.  The golden era of princesses is past.  For your really virtuous ’prentices there still remain a merchant’s daughter or two, and a bottle of port o’ Sundays on the Clapham mahogany.  For the rest of us, one or two decent clubs, and plenty of nice roomy lunatic asylums. ``Go spin, you jade, go spin!’’ is the one greeting for Imagination.  And yet —­ what a lip the slut has!  What an ankle!  Go to:  there’s nobody looking; let us lock the door, pull down the blinds, and write us a merry ballad.

’Tis ungracious, perhaps, to regret what is gone for ever, when so much is given in return.  A humour we have, that is entirely new; and allotments that shall win back Astræa.  Our Labor Program stands for evidence that the Board School, at least, has done enduring work; and the useless race of poets is fast dying out.  Though we no longer conjecture what song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, yet many a prize (of guineas galore) awaits the competitor who will stoop, week by week, to more practical research. ``Le monde marche,’’ as Renan hath it, ``vers une sorte d’americanisme....  Peut-être la vulgarité générale sera-t-elle un jour la condition du bonheur