"the dying, the wounded, the widow, and the orphans." Every one came back delighted; and how satisfactory it is to come back from church with such feelings! The servants and the Highlanders - all - were equally delighted.

September 7, 1855.

At a quarter-past seven o'clock we arrived at dear Balmoral. Strange, very strange, it seemed to me to drive past, indeed through, the old house; the connecting part between it and the offices being broken through. The new house looks beautiful. The tower and the rooms in the connecting part are, however, only half finished, and the offices are still unbuilt: therefore the gentlemen (except the Minister1) live in the old house, and so do most of the servants; there is a long wooden passage which connects the new house with the offices. An old shoe was thrown after us into the house, for good luck, when we entered the hall. The house is charming: the rooms delightful; the furniture, papers, everything perfection.

September 8, 1855.

The view from the windows of our rooms, and from the library, drawing-room, &c., below them, of the valley of the Dee, with the mountains in the background which one never could see from the old house, is quite beautiful. We walked about, and alongside the river, and looked at all that has been done, and considered all that has to be done; and afterwards we went over to the poor dear old house, and to our rooms, which it was quite melancholy to see so deserted; and settled about things being brought over.

BETROTHAL OF THE PRINCESS ROYAL.

September 29, 1855.

Our dear Victoria was this day engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia, who had been on a visit to us since the 14th. He had already spoken to us, on the 20th, of his wishes; but we were uncertain, on account of her extreme youth, whether he should speak to her himself, or wait till he came back again. However, we felt it was better he should do so; and during our ride up Craig-na-Ban this afternoon, he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of "good luck"), which he gave

1A Cabinet Minister is always in attendance upon the Queen at Balmoral.

Saturday, September 26, 1857. Albert went out with Alfred for the day, and I walked out with the two girls and Lady Churchill, stopped at the shop and made some purchases for poor people and others; drove a little way, got out and walked up the hill to Balnacroft, Mrs. P. Farquharson's, and she walked round with us to some of the cottages to show me where the poor people lived, and to tell them who I was. Before we went into any we met an old woman, who, Mrs. Farquharson said, was very poor, eighty-eight years old, and mother to the former distiller. I gave her a warm petticoat, and the tears rolled down her old cheeks, and she shook my hands, and prayed God to bless me: it was very touching.

I went into a small cabin of old Kitty Kear's, who is eighty-six years old-quite erect, and who welcomed us with a great air of dignity. She sat down and spun. I gave her, also, a warm petticoat; she said, "May the Lord ever attend ye and yours, here and hereafter; and may the Lord be a guide to ye, and keep ye from all harm." She was quite surprised at Vicky's height; great interest is taken in her. We went on to a cottage (formerly Jean Gordon's), to visit old widow Symons, who is 'past fourscore," with a nice rosy face, but was bent quite double; she was most friendly,

66

shaking hands with us all, asking which was I, and repeating many kind blessings: May the Lord attend ye with mirth and with joy; may He ever be with ye in this world, and when ye leave it." To Vicky, when told she was going to be married, she said, "May the Lord be a guide to ye in your future, and may every happiness attend ye." She was very talkative; and when I said I hoped to see her again, she expressed an expectation that "she should be called any day," and so did Kitty Kear. 1

We went into three other cottages: to Mrs. Symons's (daughter-in-law to the old widow living next door), who had an “unwell boy;" then across a little burn to another old woman's; and afterwards peeped into Blair the fiddler's. We drove back, and got out again to visit old Mrs. Grant (Grant's2 mother), who is so tidy and clean, and to whom I gave a dress and handkerchief, and she said, "You're too kind to me, you're over-kind to me, ye give me more every year, and I get older every year." After talking some time with her, she said, "I am happy to see ye looking so nice." She had tears in her eyes, and speaking of Vicky's going, said, “I'm very sorry, and I think she is sorry hersel';" and, having said she feared she would not see her (the Princess) again, said: "I am very sorry I said that, but I meant no harm; I always say just what I think, not what is fut" (fit). Dear old lady; she is such a pleasant person.

Really the affection of these good people, who are so hearty and so happy to see you, taking interest in everything, is very touching and gratifying.

ASCENT OF BEN MUICH DHUL.

Friday, October 7, 1859. Breakfast at half-past eight. At ten minutes to nine we started, in the sociable, with Bertie

1 She died in January 1865.

2 Head-keeper. He had been nearly twenty years with Sir Robert Gordon, nine as keeper; he was born in Braemar, in the year 1810. He is an excellent man, most trustworthy, of singular shrewdness and discretion, and most devotedly attached to the Prince and myself.

He has a fine intelligent countenance. The Prince was very fond of him. He has six sons,-the second, Alick, is wardroberan to our son Leopold: all are good, welldisposed lads, and getting on well in their different occupations. His mother, a fine, hale, old woman of eighty years, "stops" in a small cottage which the Prince built for her in our village. He himself lives in a pretty lodge called Croft, a mile from Balmoral, which the Prince built for him.

Drove The day

and Alice and our usual attendants. along the opposite side of the river. very mild and promising to be fine, though a little heavy over the hills, which we anxiously watched. At Castleton we took four posthorses, and drove to the Shiel of the Derry, that beautiful spot where we were last year— which Albert had never seen-and arrived there just before eleven. Our ponies were there with Kennedy, Robertson, and Jemmie Smith. One pony carried the luncheon baskets. After all the cloaks, &c., had been placed on the ponies, or carried by the men, we mounted and began our "journey." I was on "Victoria," Alice on "Dobbins." George M'Hardy, an elderly man who knew the country (and acts as a guide, carrying luggage for people across the hills "on beasts" which he keeps for that purpose), led the way. We rode (my pony being led by Brown most of the time both going up and down) at least four miles up Glen Derry, which is very fine, with the remnants of a splendid forest, Cairn Derry being to the right, and the Derry Water running below. The track was very bad and stony, and broken up by cattle coming down for the "Tryst." At the end of the glen we crossed a ford, passed some softish ground, and turned up to the left by a very rough, steep, but yet gradual ascent to Corrie Etchan, which is in a very wild rugged spot, with magnificent precipices, a high mountain to the right called Ben Main, while to the left was Cairngorm of Derry. When we reached the top of this very steep ascent (we had been rising, though almost imperceptibly, from the Derry Shiel), we came upon a loch of the same name, which reminded us of Loch-na-Gar and of Loch-na-Nian. You look from here on to other wild hills and corries-on Ben A'an, &c. We ascended very gradually, but became so enveloped in mist that we could see nothing-hardly those just before us! Albert had walked a good deal; The mist got worse; and it was very cold. and as we rode along the stony, but almost flat ridge of Ben Muich Dhui, we hardly knew whether we were on level ground or the top of the mountain. However, I and Alice rode to the very top, which we reached a few minutes past two; and here, at a cairn of stones, we lunched, in a piercing cold wind.

Just as we sat down, a gust of wind came and dispersed the mist, which had a most wonderful effect, like a dissolving view-and exhibited the grandest, wildest scenery imaginable! We sat on a ridge of the cairn to take our luncheon, our good people being grouped with the ponies near us. Luncheon over,

Albert ran off with Alice to the ridge to look at the splendid view, and sent for me to follow. I did so; but not without Grant's help, for there were quantities of large loose stones heaped up together to walk upon. The wind was fearfully high, but the view was well worth seeing. I cannot describe all, but we saw where the Dee rises between the mountains called the Well of Dee-Ben-y-Ghlo-and the adjacent mountains, Ben Vrackie-then Benna-Bhourd-Ben A'an, &c.—and such magnificent wild rocks, precipices, and corries. had a sublime and solemn effect; so wild, so solitary-no one but ourselves and our little party there.

It

Albert went on further with the children, but I returned with Grant to my seat on the cairn, as I could not scramble about well. Soon after, we all began walking and looking for "cairngorms," and found some small ones. The mist had entirely cleared away below, so that we saw all the beautiful views. Ben Muich Dhui is 4297 feet high, one of the highest mountains in Scotland. I and Alice rode part of the way, walking wherever it was very steep. Albert and Bertie walked the whole time. I had a little whisky and water, as the people declared pure water would be too chilling. We then rode on without getting off again, Albert talking so gaily with Grant. Upon which Brown observed to me in simple Highland phrase, It's very pleasant to walk with a person who is always 'content.' terday, in speaking of dearest Albert's sport, when I observed he never was cross after bad luck, Brown said, "Every one on the estate says there never was so kind a master; I am sure our only wish is to give satisfaction." I said, they certainly did.1

Yes

By a quarter-past six o'clock we got down to the Shiel of the Derry, where we found some tea, which we took in the "shiel," 2 and started again by moonlight at about half-past six. We reached Castleton at half-past seven-and after this it became cloudy. At a quarter-past eight precisely we were at Balmoral, much delighted and not at all tired; everything had been so well arranged, and so quietly, without any fuss. Never shall I forget this day, or the impression this very grand scene made upon me; truly sublime and impressive; such solitude.

1 We were always in the habit of conversing with the Highlanders-with whom one comes so much in contact in the Highlands. The Prince highly appreciated the good-breeding, simplicity, and intelligence, which make it so pleasant and even instructive to talk to them. 2Shiel" means a small shooting-lodge.

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland, Maine, 27th February, 1807. The most popular of American poets. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in which he became professor of modern languages in 1826. Nine years afterwards he was appointed professor of belles-lettres in Harvard College; and he continued to discharge the duties of that office until 1854, when he retired. He has visited Europe several times, and his works are almost as highly valued in this country as in his own. His principal prose works are: Outre-Mer, a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea; Hyperion, a romance; and Kavanagh, a tale. Of his poems it will be enough to mention Evangeline; The Song of Hiawatha; The Golden Legend: The Spanish Student; Tales of a Wayside Inn; Voices of the Night; Ballads: The Seaside and the Fireside; Birds of Passage; Flower-de-Luce; Three Books of Song (from which we quote); and Aftermath. Mr. E. P. Whipple, the American critic, sums up Longfellow's general characteristics thus: "He idealizes real life; he elicits new meaning from many of its rough shows; imagery; he embodies high moral sentiment in beautiful he clothes subtle and delicate thoughts in familiar

and ennobling forms; he inweaves the golden threads of spiritual being into the texture of common existence; he discerns and addresses some of the finest sympathies of the heart but he rarely soars into those regions of abstract imagination, where the bodily eye cannot follow, but where that of the seer is gifted with a 'pervading vision.""]

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision-
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendour brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,

In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind he healed,
When he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,

Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus thou deignest

To reveal thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the centre

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came

All the blind and halt and lame-
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who, upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy

Of divinest self-surrender,

Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest-
Slight his visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;

Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"
Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the blessed Vision bent.
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who, amid their wants and woes,
Hear the sound of doors that close,

And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavour,
Grown familiar with the savour
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine

Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying-
"Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!"

Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the blessed Vision said,
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

THE WAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 'Whither, thou turbid wave? Whither with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou?"

"I am the wave of life, Stained with my margin's dust; From the struggle and the strife Of the narrow stream I fly To the sea's immensity, To wash from me the slime

Of the muddy banks of Time."