tionate patience, he showed when suffering under feverish attacks. His heart seemed then to open to the whole world. He would form the most noble projects for execution after his recovery."

There is a little bit of foot-note here, which must be quoted to show how simple the Royal story is. Herr Florschütz says "he never had the whooping-cough," and we read below: "Note by the Queen.-This is a mistake. He certainly had it."

He had attacks of boyish fun too. At a public entertainment we read of his getting his instructor in chemistry to fill a number of small glass vessels, about the size of a pea, with sulphuretted hydrogen, which he threw about the floor of the room in which they were assembled, to the great annoyance and discom. fiture of the audience, at whose confusion he was highly delighted.

On another occasion he filled the pockets of the Princess Caroline's cloak with soft cheese; but the Princess paid him out, for she put a basketful of frogs into his bed at Rosenau and spoiled his night's rest-a bitter revenge, because he was one of those who "sleep o' nights," and could hardly keep awake if the palace festivities kept him up.

In 1832 the Princes went together to Brussels, and Albert began to see the world. The educational standing to which he had attained will best be gathered from a very interesting memorandum drawn up by his instructor, Herr Florschütz. From this it appears the Prince's regular lessons commenced at six years old. At first he was only taught one hour a day. From his seventh to his ninth year he was taught three hours; from his ninth to his eleventh year, four hours. Bodily exercises and amusements occupied the remainder of the day. Even after he went to Bonn his regular lessons did not exceed five hours. So long as he was at home even this time was greatly interrupted; for his father seems to have been of very restless habits, and it was his custom to breakfast during the summer months in the open air, generally at a different place every day. In fact, the Prince had generally to make an excursion to his breakfast, and as the morning was his time for study, his work was frequently disturbed. The Queen says that he often complained of this himself in after-life. It must not be supposed, however, that his studies were confined to his regular lessons. He was indefatigable in his own improvement. At the age of 14 he drew

This includes, says his tutor, all his self-imposed tasks; and well it may. It will be seen that, if it were carried out, it involves six and sometimes seven hours' work a day before 2 o'clock, and two hours' work in the evening. It affords also an interesting description of the general character of his instruction. It will be noticed that the ancient languages were far from eccupying the exclusive place they hold in our English education, but that modern languages and what we should consider accomplishments, receive quite as much attention.

In connexion with the voluntary entry in this programme of religious subjects, it is most gratifying to read the testimony of his tutor, who warmly speaks of "the earnestness with which the Prince prepared for his eonfirma. tion and of the deep solemnity with which he engaged in it." This ceremony took place on Palm Sunday, 1835, and the Court Chaplain, the well-known Dr. Jacobi, presided. After the choir had begun the service by singing the hymn, "Come, Holy Ghost," the Prince and his brother sustained a public and apparently extempore examination, and it is stated “their strict attention to the questions, the frankness,

decision, and correctness of their answers, produced a deep impression on the numerous assembly." The following extract indicates the sincerity and earnestness of his profession :

"The profession now made by the Prince he held fast through life. His was no lipservice. His faith was essentially one of the heart, a real and living faith, giving a colour to his whole life. Deeply imbued with a conviction of the great truths of Christianity, his religion went far beyond mere forms, to which, indeed, he attached no especial importance. It was not with him a thing to be taken up and ostentatiously displayed with almost pharisaical observance on certain days or at certain seasons, or on certain formal occasions. It was part of himself. It was ingrafted in his very nature, and directed his every-day life."

Another memorandum of personal reminiscences, drawn up at the Queen's request, by one of his cousins, Count Arthur Mensdorff, who was occasionally the Prince's playfellow, furnishes, perhaps, the most lively picture of his character during the period at which we are glancing.

The memorandum reads thus:

"Albert, as a child, was of a mild, benevolent disposition. It was only what he thought unjust or dishonest that could make him angry. Thus I recollect one day when we children, Albert, Ernest, Ferdinand, Augustus, Alexander, myself, and a few other boys (if I am not mistaken Paul Wangenheim was one), were playing at the Rosenau, and some of us were to storm the old ruined tower on the side of the castle, which the others were to defend. One of us suggested that there was a place at the back by which we could get in without being seen, and thus capture it without difficulty. Albert declared that this would be most unbecoming in a Saxon knight, who should always attack the enemy in front,' and so we fought for the tower so honestly and vigorously that Albert, by mistake, for I was on his side, gave me a blow upon the nose, of which I still bear the mark. I need not say how sorry he was for the wound he had given me.

"Albert never was noisy or wild. He was always very fond of natural history and more serious studies, and many a happy hour was spent in the Ehrenburg, in a small room under the roof, arranging and dusting the collections our cousins had themselves made and kept there. He urged me to begin making a similar collection myself, so that we might join and form together a good cabinet.

"This was the commencement of the collections at Coburg, in which Albert always took so much interést.

"Albert thoroughly understood the naïveté of the Coburg national character, and he had the aft of turning people's peculiarities into a source of fun. He had

a natural talent for imitation, and a great sense of the ludicrous, either in persons or things; but he was never severe or ill-natured; the general kindness of his disposition preventing him from pushing a joke, however he might enjoy it, so as to hurt any one's feelings. Every man has, more or less, a ridiculous side, and to quiz this, in a friendly and good-humoured manner, is after all the pleasantest deseription of humour. Albert possessed this rare gift in an eminent degree.

"Even as a child he was very fond of chess, and he, Ernest, Alexander, and myself often played the great four game.

"While still very young his heart was feelingly alive to the sufferings of the poor. I saw him one day give a beggar something by stealth, when he told me not to speak of it; for when you give to the poor,' he said, 'you must see that nobody knows of it.'

"He was always fond of shooting and fishing, as far as his natural kind feeling would permit, for a wounded animal always excited his warmest compassion.

"One day, out shooting at Coburg, I was hit by a chance shot, and he was the person who showed the greatest concern, and evinced the truest anxiety about my

accident.

"In later years we saw much less of each other. In 1839, when I was serving in the Austrian Lancers, we met at Töplitz, and from thence drove together to Carlsbad, to see uncle Ernest. Eôs was in the carriage. During our journey Albert confided to me, under the seal of the strictest confidence, that he was going to England to make your acquaintance, and that if you liked each other you were to be engaged. He spoke very seriously about the difficulties of the position he would have to occupy in England, but hoped that dear uncle Leopold would assist him with his advice. We were at that moment approaching the station where we were to change horses. He asked me the name of the place, which I told him was Buchau, a little village known all round as a sort of Krähwinkel, famous for all sorts of ludicrous stories about the inhabitants. We drove into the place, the postillion blowing his horn and cracking his whip. Albert seeing a large crowd assembled round the póst house, said to me, Quick, stoop down in the carriage, and we will make Eôs look out of the window, and all the people will wonder at the funny Prince.' We did so, and the people had to satisfy their curiosity with Eôs. The horses were soon changed, and we drove off, laughing heartily at our little joke.

"Some time ago I collected all the letters I have of dearest Albert's, and in one of them I found a passage most characteristic of his noble way of thinking, as shown and maintained by him from his earliest childhood: The poor soldiers,' he says, 'always do their duty in the most brilliant manner; but as soon as matters come again into the hands of politicians and diplomats, everything is again spoiled and confused. Oxenstiern's saying to his son may still be quoted: "My son, when you look at things more closely you will be

O shroud of death, so soft and pure,
Like starlight upon marble fair;
Ah, surely it is life, not death,

That in still beauty sleepeth there.
Mine be a robe more spotless still,
With lustre bright that cannot fade;
Purer and whiter than the robe

Of babe, or bride, or quiet dead. Mine be the raiment given of God, Wrought of fine linen, clean and white; Fit for the eye of God to see,

Meet for His home of holy light.

II.

LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE. Love thou the truth,

And speak the truth in love; The wisdom pure and peaceable Descendeth from above.

Hate thou the lie!
Yet without bitterness
Thy hatred of its evil speak,
Only to teach and bless.

Let not the stain
Of angry human breath

The heavenly mirror soil or dim,
Disturbing peace and faith.

All violence

Of soul, or pen, or tongue,

Not strength, nor greatness is at all, But feebleness and wrong.

Overbear none;

Trust not in sword or rod;

Man's feverish wrath commendeth not The tranquil truth of God.

The error hate,

But love the erring one;

God's love it was that brought thee back, When thou astray wert gone.

Buy thou the truth,
And sell it not again;

Count thou no price too great for it-
Part with it for no gain.

All truth is calm,

Refuge and rock and tower;

The more of truth, the more of calın—
Its calmness is its power.

Truth is not strife,
Nor is to strife allied;
It is the error that is bred
Of storm, by rage and pride.

Calmness is truth,

And truth is calmness still,

Truth lifts its forehead to the storm

Like some eternal hill.

III.

LIFE'S PRAISE.

Fill Thou my life, O Lord my God,
In every part with praise;
That my whole being may proclaim
Thy being and Thy ways!

Not for the lip of praise alone,

Nor e'en the praising heart,
I ask, but for a life made up
Of praise in every part.
Praise in the common things of life,
Its goings out and in;

Praise in each duty and each deed,
However small and mean.

Praise in the common words I speak,
Life's common looks and tones,
In intercourse at hearth or board.
With my beloved ones.

Not in the temple-crowd alone,
When holy voices chime,
But in the silent paths of earth,
The quiet rooms of time.
Upon the bed of weariness,

With fevered eye and brain;
Or standing by another's couch,
Watching the pulse of pain.
Enduring wrong, reproach, or loss,

With sweet and stedfast will;
Loving and blessing those who hate,
Returning good for ill.
Surrendering my fondest will

In things or great or small;
Seeking the good of others still,
Nor pleasing self at all.

Fill every part of me with praise,
Let all my being speak,

Of Thee and of Thy love, O Lord,
Poor though I be, and weak.

So shalt Thou, Lord, from me, e'en me,
Receive the glory due,

And so shall I begin on earth

The song for ever new.

So shall each fear, each fret, each care,
Be turned into song;

And every winding of the way
The echo shall prolong.
So shall no part of day or night
From sacredness be free,
But all my life, in every step,
Be fellowship with Thee.

M M

OW strangely prone we are to repeat the old question about an afflicted neighbour, "Who did sin, this man or his parents?"

It may be that our readiness to put the query so often, notwithstanding holy cautions against false interpretations of Divine Providence, sometimes expresses a kind of instinctive homage to God's retributive justice; but it is never safe for the best of us to attempt a judicial decision in the case of a suffering brother. There is but One who knows all that is in man: but One, therefore, who has a right to judge. Yet how easily are the most kind and loving spirits sometimes betrayed into an invasion of their Redeemer's rights! The amiable Walton even-he who so loved the memory of John Donne-ventures to hint that his friend's domestic sufferings might prove "his marriage" to be "the remarkable error of his life" and, says he, "doubtless it had been attended with a heavy repentance, if God had not blessed them with so mutual and cordial affections as in the midst of their sufferings made their bread of sorrow taste more pleasantly than the banquets of dull and low-spirited people."

O Isaac Walton! is obedience to that "mutual and cordial affection" which Heaven has ordained as the most holy warrant and bond of matrimony, to be repented of as an error punishable with "bread of sorrow "? and are 'dull and low-spirited people" proved right in preferring marriages of mere convenience, by the fact that their expediency secures for them a life of "banquets"? Nay, such love as that of John and Anne Donne had God's own impress upon it; and though their Heavenly Father chastened them, their marriage was the prime joy rather than "the remarkable error" of their life. God gave them for a time "bread of sorrow" it is true; but who shall say how their sorrows served to deepen their mutual joy of love and to bring them into a meetness for the purer communion of Heaven? Was not their" valley of Achor" made their" door of hope"?

Nor have their trials been without fruit among those who are akin to them in mis

fortune. How many a plaintive spirit has felt itself strangely consoled while reading those touching records of home-distresses which were dated at "Mitcham." Had those records never been hallowed to others, they have been hallowed to me. Indeed, I have learnt to love the very place where they were written, and never wander over the scene without feeling as if it had a soothing air for one's spirits in moments of depression.

When Donne's home at Pirford was broken up by the death of his friend Sir Francis Wooley, he found a house for himself at Mitcham. My first sight of his chosen village was from the heights of Wimbledon. I had come from the wild undulations of the farfamed "common," where I had been indulging in a rich variety of pleasure; now, letting the soul go forth dreamily towards the distant scenes of Richmond Park; now, bending tenderly over little family groups of Drosera rotundi. folia (round-leafed sundew) in their moist dwellings on the heath; and now, in fancy, watching Roman veterans on garrison duty in the Imperial camp, or lounging at their evening mess. I was standing, by and by, on a commanding point, looking out through a break in the foliage of Ridgway upon the glorious landscape, which might help us to realize the joy of a Pisgah-sight of Canaan. In the distance were the hills of Surrey like a heaven-wrought frame stretching around the richly coloured picture; the lower heights, beginning on one hand at Norwood and extending to the Shirley and Addington hills, and still on to Banstead Common and Epsom Downs, on the right; and behind all these, the higher ridge of the great range which crosses the county, guarding and rejoicing over its most beautiful and classic retreats. Within this noble border, and immediately below, there was a wide paradise of grassy plains and wooded undulations, dotted with villas and homesteads, and gemmed with gardens and fields of fragrant herbs.

"What tower is that?" said I to my companion, "rising yonder among the trees?" That is Mitcham Church."

66

Mitcham! The name instantly acted as a charm, throwing over the lovely view a richer