house_, not built by him” (the Prince), “nor hallowed by his memory. But I am sure his blessing does rest on it, and on those who live in it.” Another of these little houses, a much smaller one, with only two rooms and a kitchen, is Glengeldershiel; it is within a short drive from Balmoral. In the neighborhood of these retired cottages the Queen could walk, accompanied by her friends, her children, and her dogs, without the fear of the tourist or the much-dreaded reporter before her eyes. It must not, however, be represented that it was only in Scotland that Her Majesty found any means of social enjoyment. The following letter from Thomas Carlyle (first published in _The Athenæum_, in January, 1895) shows that this was not the case. It is too picturesque to be cut up; the ill-natured and unjust references to Lady Augusta Stanley and Mrs. Grote must be tolerated for the sake of the rest of the letter. It would not be characteristic of Carlyle if it were bowdlerized so as to leave the impression that he was in charity with all mankind. The letter is addressed to his sister, Mrs. Aitken:-- CHELSEA, March 11th, 1869. DEAR JEAN,--Mary, I find, has inserted for you a small letter along with the one that belongs to the Doctor. I have nothing of my own in the form of news beyond what that “child of Nature” will have said. All busy here,--March winds “snell” as possible (one’s new cape not useless), but not unwholesome: fine, dry, and cold, instead of the wet, tepid puddle we have long had, and, in consequence, sleep a little better than then. But my present business is to tell you exclusively of the Queen’s interview, for which great object I have only a few minutes. Swift then, if my poor hand but would! “Interview” took place this day gone a week. Nearly a week before that the Dean and Deaness (who is called Lady Augusta Stanley, once Bruce, an active, hard and busy woman) drove up here and, in a solemnly mysterious, half-quizzical manner, invited me for Thursday, 4th, at 5 P. M.--“must come; a very high, indeed highest personage has long been desirous,” &c., &c. I saw well enough it was the Queen’s _incognita_, and briefly agreed to come. “Half-past four, come you,” and then went their ways. Walking up at the set time, I was ushered into that long drawing-room in their monastic edifice. I found no Stanley yet there; only at the further end a tall old year-pole (?) of a Mrs. Grote, the most wooden-headed woman I know in London, or the world, who thinks herself very clever, &c., and the sight of whom led me to expect Mr. too, and perhaps others, as accordingly in a few minutes fell out. Grote and wife, Sir Charles Lyell and ditto, Browning and myself: that I saw to be our party. “Better than nothing,” thought I, “these will take off the edge of the thing, if edge there be”--which it hadn’t, nor threatened to have.