to another with a grave appeal,—all these seemed the transparent symbols that showed the presence of a wise, benignant soul.” As a wise, benignant soul George Eliot will still remain for all right-judging men and women.—_Macmillan’s Magazine._ LORD TENNYSON. BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. I. Because Song’s brightest stars have crowned his head, And to his soul their loveliest dreams unfurled, Because since Shakespeare joined the deathless dead, No loftier Poet has entranced the world. II. Because Olympian food, ethereal wine, Are his who fills Apollo’s golden lute. Why should he not from his high heaven incline, To take from lowlier hands their proffered food? III. Free is the earnest offering! he as free To condescend toward the gift they bring; No Dead-Sea apple is a lord’s degree, To foul the lips of him, our Poet-King. —_London Home Chimes._ IN THE NORWEGIAN MOUNTAINS. BY OSCAR FREDRIK, KING OF SWEDEN AND NORWAY. _Translated, with His Majesty’s permission, by Carl Siewers._ If you will accompany us on our journey towards the snow-covered peaks of the Sogne Mountains yonder, you are welcome! But quick, not a moment is to be lost; day is dawning, and we have a long journey before us. It is still five stiff Norwegian miles to the coast in Bergen’s Stift, although we did two yesterday from the last dwelling in the valley of Lom. We ought to be under shelter before dusk; the night might be “rough” up yonder among the white-capped old peaks, so therefore to horse, and forward! We are compelled to say good-bye to the last _Sæter_ there on the silent shores of the deep gloomy mountain lake, a duty which we perform with no light heart. How strange the _Sæter_ life and dwellings appear to the stranger! How poor this long and dark structure seems at first sight, and yet how hearty and unexpectedly lavish is the hospitality which the simple children of the mountain extend to the weary traveller! Milk, warm from the cow, fresh-churned butter, reindeer meat, and a couple of delicious trout which we have just seen taken from the lake below, form a regal feast indeed; and, spiced with the keen appetite which the air up here creates, the meal can only be equalled by the luxury of reposing on a soft couch of fresh, fragrant hay. On the threshold as we depart, stand the pretty _Budejer_ (dairy maids), in the neat costume of the people in the Guldbrandsdal valley, nodding a tender farewell to us, and wishing us a hearty “_Lykke paa Reisen_.” Yes, there they stand, following us with their gaze as we proceed along the steep mountain path, till we disappear from view in the rocky glen. I said “path.” Well, that is the name assigned to it, but never did I imagine the existence of such a riding “ladder,” and it may well be necessary to have the peculiar race of mountain horses found here, for a rider to get safely to his journey’s end.