THE QUEEN AT BALMORAL.

BALMORAL, the summer retreat of the

Queen, the Prince Consort, and the royal family is now generally well known. Instead of describing the place it will be more interesting to the readers of "The Cottager" to give them a short account of the tenantry and of the kind treatment they receive. The following particulars are given by one well acquainted with the place and the people.

So soon as the property was obtained, the Prince Consort sought to promote the comfort and happiness of the tenantry by the encouragement of industry, and in various ways; and the Queen, by acts of personal kindness, and loving sympathy, ever providing for the wants of the poor. Thus, new and improved cottages were built, and two neat schoolhouses; and gardens were laid out and cultivated, and a hopeful spirit was awakened in the people. In the course of a few years the appearance of the district was much changed, so that the visitor of Deeside cannot fail to be struck with the number of beautiful cottages which stud the low lands and dot the hill sides around Balmoral.

But all the cottages on the estate are not yet of this kind. Like other highland districts, Balmoral had its crofters-that is, families occupying small cottage-cabins, of the rudest. sort, and renting a few acres of land. Some of these cottages were so low, that one had to bend to get in at the door, and the accommodation was of the worst. When the Prince Consort came to possess Balmoral, these cottages were improved; but cottagers in Scotland cling so much to their thatched little dwellings that the most unpopular act which a new proprietor can do is to compel them to go into comfortable houses, even though offered rent free.

The Queen and Prince, however, have, as far as they could, consulted even the prejudices of the poor cottagers, and sought to make the present houses, where the older crofters dwell, as comfortable as they can be; and these changes have had the happiest results. The year before last, for example, scarlet fever appeared among the tenantry, and it was thought that the royal family would not go to Balmoral that season. But the Queen gave command to have the best medical attendance provided for the cottagers, and every boxed-in bed taken out, and new iron bedsteads, with new bedding, put into every cottage; the buildings themselves being whitewashed, and every comfort provided for the poor families who were thus afflicted. All this was carefully done, and the fever soon disappeared. The royal family went to Balmoral as usual. Nor was this all.

The Queen, with warm-hearted sympathy,

visited many of the cottagers herself, and sometimes, accompanied by one or more of the royal children, bestowed her gifts with a kind word of comfort; and before leaving for

the south, took care to see that there should be no want among the cottagers during the winter.

Nor is this the only way in which the Queen shows her kindness to the poor. When out taking her walk, Her Majesty will recognise the humblest person who comes in her way; and once, as we happen to know, a poor aged woman, who had walked more than forty miles to see the Queen in the hope that Her Majesty would receive a small present which she had made for the royal lady, was very cordially received; while another who had travelled many a weary foot, on an errand of mercy, was not only graciously received, but sent home at the Queen's own expense, with a lighter heart than when she left it.

The attention of the Queen and Prince Consort to the young has already been noticed; but it may be further stated, that, besides the schools built for the children generally on the estate, a school has been opened for girls, where they are not only taught what is proper for a woman's education, but are trained for service.

The thoughtful kindness of the royal family are further seen in their care for the moral and spiritual wants of the people in general. While her Majesty never interferes with the freedom of religious conviction, she sets such an example in a diligent attendance on all the means of grace as is likely to do much good. likely to do much good. In no other part of her Majesty's dominions is the Sunday more religiously observed than at Balmoral, and by no family in the kingdom are its public and private duties more regularly attended to. Morning and evening worship are duly offered, while all the outward duties are faithfully discharged; for it would rain hard, and blow harder than it has yet done, even in this stormy region, before the royal pew in the little kirk of Crathie would be without the Queen. Happy would it be for England if every family were as careful to attend to their duties!

Besides all this, there is a public free library for the tenantry, and an abundant supply of popular literature and useful periodicals, the Queen and her family esteeming it both a duty and a privilege to promote the circulation of every work calculated to improve the taste, raise the standard of intelligence, promote the health, and above all, the moral and religious well-being of the cottagers of Balmoral.

ONE MAY DO WITHOUT.

PART I.

I USED to think and to say that a man

could not be expected to work hard without keeping up his strength with plenty of strong beer. This was when I was a young man. I had to work hard; there

was no mistake about that: and, though I had never in my life been drunk, I was in the habit of carrying out the notion I have just mentioned.

One day I was in a public-house, with my pint of beer before me, when a man came into the tap-room. I did not know him, nor did he know me; but he began to talk to me. He was clearly what is sometimes called "half-seas over." He was not thoroughly drunk; but what he had taken was enough to influence both his speech and his actions. Consequently he talked a great deal of nonsense, and behaved very foolishly; so much so, that I was ashamed of him and for him; I was ashamed of myself, too, for being in his

company.

I fancy that the man, who was a shabbygenteel, dirty looking object, saw my disgust and my unwillingness to have anything to say to him; for he soon left off talking, and stared me in the face. Presently, I saw that his eyes were filled with tears, and he seemed agitated. At length, he opened his lips again :

"Young man," he said, and his voice was thick and husky, "you think me to be a fool, do you not?"

I laughed. "I don't think much about it, master," said I.

"Yes you do," he said sharply; "I know you do, and you cannot help it. Well, I'll tell you a bit of a secret: I am a fool.”

"Are you, master? But that's a pity, isn't it?" I said this, and I really did pity the man, he looked so down-hearted like.

"Yes, it is a pity," he continued; "and do you know what makes me such a fool ?”

"Well, master," I answered, "if I must say it, I think you have taken a few drops too much this morning."

"That's it," said he.

"And what do you go on drinking for then?" I asked, bluntly: for the man had called for a pint of stout, and was sitting with it before him.

"Because I know I am a fool," he said, angrily, "and I hate to know it; and when I have had another pint or two, I shall know nothing at all about it:-there." And saying this, he drank.

I did not stop to hear any more, for I had had my pint; but I saw the man afterwards as drunk as drunk could be, and I found out who he was too. He was a man of good family; he had been well brought up; he was always reckoned uncommonly clever, and had had a wonderful many opportunities of doing well for himself; but he had lost them all, one after another, by drunkenness. I was told, also, that when he was sober, which was not very often, he could talk with the greatest possible sense about the folly and the sin of drinking; and that, sober or not sober, the knowledge of his degradation always haunted him, and made him miserable.

What effect this information had on me, 1 will tell another time.

HOW TO DEAL WITH A SURLY
NEIGHBOUR.

WILLIAM LADD had a fine field of

grain growing upon an out-farm, some distance from his homestead; but whenever he rode by, he saw his neighbour Pulsford's sheep in the field, destroying his hopes of a harvest. These sheep were of the gaunt, long-legged kind, active as spaniels: they could spring over almost any fence. William Ladd complained to his neighbour himself, and also sent him several messages, but all without avail. Perhaps the sheep would be kept out for a day or two; but the legs of the intruders were long, and the tender blades of wheat were more tempting than their own scanty pasture.

Mr. Ladd rode by again, and again he found the trespassers trampling down his corn. What was to be done? Naturally enough the injured farmer felt aggrieved, and in the first impulse of his anger he told his men to set the dogs on the sheep, and if that did not keep them away, to shoot them.

But Farmer Ladd was a man of a thoughtful turn of mind, and not one to indulge feelings of wrath and malice. He was in the habit of reading the Bible, and he loved the lessons he learned from that best of all books. In other words, the farmer was a Christian. So when he reached his home, with his anger cooled down, William Ladd began to think calmly. While he thought of his own field of wheat trampled down and ruined, his mind turned to his neighbour's sheep, torn and bleeding and dead. Neither picture was pleasant; but of the two, the latter was more painful to him.

The farmer's better feelings began to prevail. He knew where it is written, "The discretion of a man deferreth his anger," and "let not the sun go down upon your wrath." At any rate, the more he thought of what had passed, the more dissatisfied he was with himself, and the more his compassion and forbearance were stirred up in favour of his neighbour.

"Poor Pulsford," thought he, "is not so much to blame, perhaps, after all. It may be he cannot prevent his sheep from straying; and even if he can, what business have I to take his punishment into my own hands? He is a poor man, too, and an injury inflicted upon him will increase his poverty; while God has so prospered me, that even the loss of the entire crop of my field will scarcely be felt. Besides this, if I cannot forgive a wrog, even if intentionally done, where is my Christianity? And where is it I am told that I am not to render evil for evil, but contrariwise, blessing? It will not do; I have gone the wrong way to work with my poor neighbour. I will try another plan."

Mr. Pulsford was an ugly-tempered man; surly, and unwilling to oblige. This was his natural disposition, and trouble had made

him still more cross-grained. It seemed to him that everybody had a spite against him; but he had never, perhaps, thought that if a man would have friends, he must show himself friendly.

He was in a particularly ill-humour on one particular morning. He had heard of the threats of his richer neighbour, and the direction he had given about his poor sheep; while he was not at all aware that the hasty order given to the men about dogs and guns had been set aside hours before.

And so, fretting and fuming, he set about chopping wood in his yard, and was giving vent to some of his overboiling anger in this work, when he was stopped by a pleasant voice close by.

"Good morning, neighbour."

Pulsford looked up, and whom should he see facing him but Ladd, sitting quietly on his horse, and smiling good-humouredly. It was almost more than he could bear; but he bore it somehow, and, without replying, went on chopping his wood more furiously than before.

Certainly, I do," said Mr. Ladd; "it will be better for me to feed your sheep in my pasture on grass, than to feed them here on corn; and I see that your fence cannot keep them out.”

"They shall not trouble you any more, Mr. Ladd," said the other, in a subdued tone; "I'll take care that they don't get into your corn-field again. And if I do not accept your offer," he added, "I thank you for it all the same. It is kind and neighbourly; and when a man is neighbourly, I

can be the same."

Pulsford was as good as his word; his sheep never strayed again: by some means they were kept to their own ground. What is still better, a kindness sprang up between the prosperous farmer and his unsuccessful neighbour, which did not end in kind words, though it began with them.

remem

"And friends," said Mr. Ladd, when he once told this little history of his, ber that when you talk of injuring your neighbours, they will not only talk, but "Good morning, Mr. Pulsford," repeated think of injuring you. On the other hand, the unwelcome visitor. love will beget love; kindness, kindness; Pulsford grunted and growled, and still forbearance, gratitude. Be not overcome continued his labour. of evil, but overcome evil with good;' there

"I am come to see you again about those is no other way." sheep of yours," said Mr. Ladd.

This was too much for the angry man to endure silently. He threw down his axe, straightened his back, and looked his adversary full in the face.

"You are come to see me about my sheep," said he, wrathfully; "a pretty sort of neighbour you are, to tell your men to kill my sheep. Yes, I have heard of it, I have,-a rich man like you to go shooting a poor fellow's sheep!"

"Well, I was wrong about that," said the farmer, mildly; "and I don't mind telling you I was wrong. And since you know what I told my men, I may as well tell you now that your sheep are safe from any harm I ever intended them. But it won't do, you know," added he, good-humouredly, "to let your sheep eat all my corn; so I am just come over to make you an offer."

"Oh-an offer," still surlily and gloomily. 'Yes, neighbour; I have been thinking, and I am come over to say that, if you like, I will take your sheep to my homestead pastures, and put them along with mine. I think they will do better there than here perhaps; they won't be likely to stray, because they will be under my shepherd's care; and they will not be any further trouble to you through the summer. Then, after harvest you can bring them back again; and, meanwhile, if anything goes wrong with them, or you miss any of them, you take your pick out of my flock."

shall

The man looked confused and confounded. It seemed as though his rich neighbour was in earnest, but he was not sure; so he said, "Do you mean what you say, sir?"

FATHER WILLIAM.

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"The few locks that are left you are grey;
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man :
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly fast;
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away ;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age!"

Southey.

THE LONDON CABMAN.
OME years ago it was my lot to occupy for

some time apartments in front of a wellfrequented cab-stand. The cabmen and their poor steeds were not the most agreeable of neighbours, but in truth they disturbed me very little, while I sometimes derived some amusement from watching their curious ways of life. Ere long I was struck with the quiet orderly