Two doubts press upon us--who is to receive her Majesty; and how are they to do it? They who have large houses generally happen to have small fortunes, and among the few who have adequate means, there is scarcely one who could accommodate one half of the royal suite. In Scotland, everything worthy of being seen lies in a ring-fence. The Highlands comprise all that is remarkable in the country; and thus the tour of them presents a quick succession of picturesque beauty without the interval of even half a day's journey devoid of interest. Now, how many weary miles must her Majesty travel in Ireland from one remarkable spot to another--what scenes of misery and want must she wade through from the south to the west. Would any charms of scenery--would any warmth of hospitality--repay her for the anguish such misery must inflict upon her, as her eye would range over the wild tract of country where want and disease seem to have fixed their dwelling, and where the only edifice that rises above the mud-cabin of the way-side presents the red brick front of a union poor-house? These, however, are sad topics--what are we to do with the Prince? His Royal Highness loves sporting: we have scarcely a pheasant--we have not one capercailzie in the island; but then we have our national pastimes. If we cannot turn out a stag to amuse him, why we can enlarge a tithe-proctor; and, instead of coming home proud that he has bagged a roe, he shall exult in having brought down a rector. How poor and insignificant would any _battue_ be in comparison with a good midnight burning--how contemptible the pursuit, of rabbits and hares, when compared with a “tithe affray,” or the last collision with the military in Tipperary. I have said that the Scotch have a national costume; but if _semi_-nakedness be a charm in them, what shall be said of us, who go the “whole hog?” The details of their ancient dress--their tartan, their kilt, their philabeg, that offered so much interest to the royal suite--how shall they vie with the million-coloured patches of an Irishman's garment? or what bonnet that ever flaunted in the breeze is fit to compare with the easy jauntiness of Paddy's _caubeen_, through which, in lieu of a feather, a lock of his hair is floating? “Nor clasp nor nodding plume was there;” “But for feather he wore one lock of hair.” Marmion. Then, again, how will the watch-fires that blazed upon the mountains pale before the glare of a burning haggard; and what cheer that ever rose from Highland throats will vie with the wild yell of ten thousand Black-feet on the march of a midnight marauding? No, no; it is quite clear the Scotch have no chance with us. Her Majesty may not have all her expectations fulfilled by a visit to Ireland; but most assuredly a “touch of our quality” will show her many things no near country could present, and the probability is, she will neither have time nor leisure for a trip to New Zealand.