friend.  We have not met for many years, but the friendship remains unweakened; for there are things that Time the destroyer is powerless to injure.  Like myself, G. G. comes of the middle class.  His parents, like mine, were by no means affluent, but they were Scotch and held education in veneration, and were ambitious, as Scottish parents are, for their sons.  They gave him a University education, and afterwards apprenticed him to the law.  He became, and is still, a prosperous lawyer in Glasgow.

Then came J. B., a young lawyer too, who blossomed into the pleasant and important position of Senior Deputy Town Clerk of the City of Glasgow.  He, too, had sprung from the great middle class.  Well versed in classical lore he was a delightful companion.  He had travelled much and benefited by his travels; was a sociable being, exceedingly good-natured, and peered through spectacles as thick as pebbles, being very short-sighted, and without his glasses would scarcely recognise you a yard off.  Yet he could see into the heart of things as well as most men, for he was a shrewd Scotchman, and had a pawky humour.  If he possessed a fault it was a love for a game of cards.  We played nap in those days, and when a game was on it was hard to get him to bed.  He has gone over to the majority now.  His sudden death a year ago came as a great blow to his family and a large circle of friends.  Next to G. G., as intimate friends, came H. H. and F. K. They were in the company’s service though not in the railway proper, but connected with the management of the hotel department.  Of foreign birth, sons of a nation with whom we are now, alas! at war, they were youths of fine education, disposition and refinement, and I became greatly attached to each.  H. H. preceded and F. K. followed me to Ireland, where he (F.  K.) still resides, honoured and respected, as he deserves to be.  He and I, throughout the years, have been and are the closest of friends.  Once, not very long ago, in a grave crisis of my life, when death seemed near, he stood by me with the devotion of a brother.  My auctioneer friend (G.  F.) was, perhaps, the most interesting man of our circle; certainly he possessed more humour than the rest of us put together.  Fond of literature, with a talent for writing, he was a regular contributor to the Glasgow Punch, The Bailie.  But his greatest charms were, his dear innocence, his freshness of mind, his simple inexpensive tastes, his enjoyment of life, and his infectious laugh.  In years he was our senior, but in worldly knowledge junior to us all.  He lives still and is, I believe, as jocund as ever.  Another of these Glasgow friends I must mention—­a poet, and like Burns, a son of the soil.  His name was Alexander Anderson.  When first I met him he was in the railway service, a labourer on the permanent way, what is called a surfaceman in Scotland, a platelayer in England and a milesman in Ireland.  Self taught,