Of course, the man in such a case-unanchored, without the restraint and beneficial discipline of wholesome responsibilities, and soon prone to regard the world merely as a picture gallery which the Creator has opened for his diversion-is likely to develope briskly into an egotist of the first water. It could not be other wise. He is the centre of the solar system, Sun, moon, and stars are provided directly for his use. He resents, as a freak of atmospheric impertinence, the intervention of a cloud when, for instance, he goes to see the Colosseum by moonlight. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and other similar disastrous phenomena of Nature, interest him as spectacles only. He is not prone to sympathise deeply with the sufferings of the wretched beings who have been overwhelmed by such displacements of the earth's surface. If it rested with him to determine whether this or that catastrophe should or should not be attended with loss of life, I fear he would vote unscrupulously for the loss of life. In short, though it may seem little less than amazing exaggeration to say so, he is a civilised monster. The ghoul or cannibal of savagedom is not exactly an amiable being; but I think he appeals more to the sympathies than the established man of the world as sight-seer, whose heart's blood is, by his own deliberate course of life, dried within him. gotten. He remembers only its many graces: the charm of free breath in the open; the glint of unstinted sunshine; the voices of men and women, loud and unrestrained; the luxury of a good meal; the smiles in the eyes and on the lips of those whom he loves. He longs for the day when he shall be set outside his prison walls as, perhaps, heretofore, he has longed for nothing. Not so the sight-seer in the thrall of his passion. He is comparable to the despot whose every wish is fulfilled, and who eventually, therefore, finds life so futile and joyless, that he despises it. Hence, like the despot of old, he is soon sure to be at the mercy of his evil passions. His system demands strong entertainment, or none at all. But, it may be asked, is not this, after all, only a fancy portraiture? Surely we do not, in actual life, meet with men so perverted in disposition as this man? and by such means? No; it is not merely a fancy portraiture. It is representative of a type that abounds. The colours may be strongly marked; that is all. Of course a man does not carry his character on his sleeve, so that all who pass may read it. You would not think that the mild-faced person next to you in the compartment of a railway carriage was Did he but know its consequences, our a murderer; and yet he might be. The friend would assuredly have preferred a science of thought-reading must become spell of years at the treadmill to the life he general, and an inherited instinct, ere we are has chosen to lead. For my part, indeed, I able to form true conceptions of our neighthink the criminal, who is not lost to bours. And it will then prove to be such shame, has some very fine opportunities of an insufferable accomplishment that all sober happiness during the dull round of civilisation will probably combine to banish his prison life. The world is shut off from its professors to Tristan d'Acunha, or some him. He has little chance of being re-equally remote place, where their noxious united with it for some months or years. influence may not be exercised. This separation from it soon hallows it in his memory. He comes to regard it as one is apt to think of a dead relation or friend. The relation, or friend, is sure to have had a few faults when he was alive; but now that he is no longer with us, we are oblivious of his defects, and mindful only of his virtues, which we magnify. And so also the criminal finds his affections daily stronger and stronger towards the world from which he is temporarily severed. The world may have treated him very scurvily when he was in the midst of it. Its treatment of him may indeed have been so cruel, that this, and nothing else, impelled him to commit the crime for which he is incarcerated. Yet all this is for Thus the man of the world, with no stationary interest, is, to the eye, and, possibly, to the convictions, very far indeed from being an objectionable person. He has his moods of amiability, like every one else. At such times he can stimulate the imagination of other people in the liveliest and most delightful manner. The statue of the Laocoon may be more communicative to you than it is to him; but he has seen it with his own eyes, whereas you have only read about it. If, however, you bother him with questions about his theory of the interpretation of this statue, he will soon leave you to yourself. He really does not care two straws whether the old priest is in the last agony precedent hand from vexing him. On the contrary, to death; whether he is making the em she acknowledges that it is his due; and pyrean echo with his screams of pain; or, if he has not thought of conciliating her whether the suffering of his face is due to on behalf of his later years, it is his affair, his effort to suppress, as unmanly, the not hers: she cannot always favour him, wails he is impelled of nature to utter. I dare say, had our friend seen his own Ask him if he knows that the frog's legs welfare more clearly, he would at the outhe eats at Bignon's were snipped from set have rejected the career which he the living frog, and he will shrug his adopted. He would have chosen rather to shoulders with the like indifference. The practise self-sacrifice "as the last refineLaocoon is what you please to make ment of a judicious luxury." But it is of it; the frog's legs are good. What now somewhat late in the day. He is more need be said? And so, if you would keenly indisposed to face the trials with profit by his better moments, and the which matrimony is sure to confront him, talent that is in him, you must allow our much as he would like to be allied to a friend to be just what he is, and expect good and gentle woman, whose sole aim in nothing more than he offers to you. He life would be the advancement of his is like a variegated mosaic agreeable own happiness, and the warding off of enough as a work of art the designs, the various arrows of discomfort which coloured materials, and operatives for wing through the air to harass mankind. which may have come fom afar-but not Nor has he very much that is acceptable to to be disturbed. If you dig up the mosaic, offer, on his own behalf, to the virtuous and you destroy all. There is nothing but gentle woman whom he would like to clods underneath. call his wife. The time is past. He has enjoyed by himself. He must now suffer by himself. He will do his best to avoid suffering-that may well be assumed It is when he is no longer young, when, indeed, he begins to grow old, that the professional sight-seer realises to the full that he has not done his duty to himself. What an active past he has lived, to be sure! Yet what has he to show for it? Other men with whom he started in life on an equality, or even with points in his favour, are now in every way his betters. An hour's conversation with one of them humbles him to the dust. He has been sipping the honey; they have done the work. They have gained knowledge by actual intercourse with the world; strength by battling with it; wisdom through their double experience of the world's warfare and the world's ways. But he has spent his years skimming over the world's surface, indulging his curiosity. He is really no wiser than when he began his singular career; and he has attained the age when wisdom is to man what beauty is, in her prime, to woman. His rank among men is very low. His friends are astonished to find that it is so. He himself is appalled, enraged, humiliated to the core. Nor is this the worst. He has spent his best years journeying for his amusement, so that he has never thought of matriculating in that school of self-sacrifice whence it is well to pass forth with honours. He has feared to give hostages to fortune in the guise of wife and children, lest his own pleasure should be imperilled. Fortune, now that she begins to tire of indulging him, has no inducement to withhold her -but he cannot escape the common lot. There is nothing that is enviable in the second half of his life, however much or little in the earlier half. Our hapless friend in his old age-if he does nothing better-offers us, for our service, a very fine, though somewhat ancient moral. Here, as in other kindred tracks through life, a man, in effect, wrongs himself by following the path which he thinks promises to be merely the most agreeable. He pursues pleasure, and, when he has caught the butterfly, he crushes it in his hand. It is thus the old story. Had he not gone in such peremptory quest of happiness, he might have chanced to meet with happiness. A LOYAL LADY. IN those dark days of English history when King strove with Parliament-the "divine right" of the anointed sovereign with the just liberties of the subjectthere were not wanting on either side noble instances of loyal heroism and steadfast self-devotion. Lord Falkland, Sir John Eliot, Montrose, died on the battle-field, in prison, on the scaffold, for that which each deemed the right. These men, and many others like them, were the heroes of their time; the same spirit animated them, though they met, sword in hand, to fight for opposed principles, rival interests. Each of these men did, or tried to do, his duty in the cruel confusion of the Civil Wars, and, whether he died for King or Parliament, he died nobly, and as a faithful soldier should; and his loyalty and devotion lit up the sombre annals of those troubled times with a glorious radiance which still shines through the pages of history. England had her heroines, too, in those days of danger and privation: such devoted women as Mrs. Hutchinson and the eccentric Duchess of Newcastle. True, their "heroic actions" were not "" 'performed publicly in the field," as the Duchess puts it, "but privately in the closet." Theirs was the womanly devotion of wifely love, the loyal courage of domestic self-sacrifice. Such a heroine was Lady Anne Fanshawe, who, all unconsciously, has sketched her own character in her charmingly frank and unaffected "Autobiography." "It is a character," to quote Mr. Davenport Adams, "which one cannot but respect and admire. A tender and loving disposition was combined with a courageous heart; and her whole life, which was darkened at one time by many dangers and privations, was informed by a spirit of the truest and tenderest piety." Anne Harrison, the eldest daughter of Sir John Harrison, of Balls, in the county of Herts, was born in St. Olave's, Hart Street, London, on the twenty-fifth of March, 1625; and there she passed the first fifteen winters of her life, until her mother's death in 1640. Her education had been wisely and carefully directed by this excellent lady, and all the advantages "that time afforded" were placed within her reach. Thanks to her mother's training, our heroine might well say with Portia : Happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn. But Anne had an active nature, and loved riding and running.. "In short," she says, "I was that which we grown people call a hoyting girl; but, to be just to myself, I never did mischief to myself or people, nor one immodest word or action in my life." With her mother's death came the consciousness of greater responsibility, and the "hoyting girl" began to reflect, and flung away "those little child nesses which had formerly possessed her, and took charge of her father's house and family, which she ordered to his entire satisfaction." But troubled times were at hand. Her father espoused the Royal cause, and followed the Court to Oxford. Thither he summoned his daughters, for-with London in the hands of the Puritans—he did not think it safe for them to remain where they were. His estate had been sequestered by the Parliament, and they were reduced to great poverty: "living in a baker's house in an obscure street, and sleeping in a bad bed in a garret, with bad provisions, no money, and little clothes." Such were the straits to which their devoted loyalty reduced the faithful followers of the King. "We had the perpetual discourse," she says, "of losing and gaining towns and men; at the windows, the sad spectacle of war; sometimes plague, sometimes sicknesses of other kind, by reason of so many people being packed together, as, I believe, there never was before, of that quality; always in want, yet I must needs say, that most bore it with a martyrlike cheerfulness. For my own part, I began to think we should all, like Abraham, live in tents all the days of our lives." He On the 18th of May, 1644, Anne was married to Mr. Richard Fanshawe, a cultivated gentleman, and loyal Cavalier, she being then in her twentieth year, while her husband was about thirty-six. had been appointed Secretary of War to the Prince of Wales, with a promise from the King that he should be preferred as soon as an opportunity offered; but "both his fortune," to quote his wife, "and my promised portion-which was made ten thousand pounds-were both at that time in expectation; and we might truly be called merchant adventurers, for the stock we set up our trading with did not amount to twenty pounds betwixt us. But, however, it was to us as a little piece of armour is against a bullet, which, if it be right placed, though no bigger than a shilling, serves as well as a whole suit of armour. So our stock bought pen, ink, and paper, which was your father's trade; and by it, I assure you, we lived better than those that were born to two thousand pounds a year, as long as he had his liberty." Early in the following March, Mr. Fanshawe attended the Prince to Bristol. The circumstances under which he left his wife rendered this first separation peculiarly painful to them both: "It was the first time we had parted a day since we married," she says, with pathetic simplicity. "He was extremely afflicted, even to tears, though passion was against his nature; but the sense of leaving me with a dying child-which did die two days after-in a garrison town, extremely weak, and very poor, were such circumstances as he could not bear with, only the argument of necessity. And, for my own part, it cost me so dear, that I was ten weeks before I could go alone. But he, by all opportunities, wrote to me to fortify myself; and that as soon as the Lords of the Council had their wives come to them, I should come to him; and that I should receive the first money he got, and hoped it would be suddenly. By the help of God, with these cordials, I recovered my former strength by little and little; nor did I, in my distressed condition, lack the conversation of many of my relations then in Oxford, and kindnesses of very many of the nobility and gentry." Mrs. Fanshawe rejoined her husband in May, and in April, 1646, they accompanied the Prince to the Scilly Islands. Here the devoted pair endured hardships and sufferings that far surpassed any they had undergone at Oxford. The accommodation was wretched, and there were but three beds in the house which they occupied. The house itself consisted of two low rooms, and two little lofts, to which the sole access was by a ladder. One of these lofts -where the owner of the house kept the dried fish, in which he dealt-became the sleeping-quarters of Mr. Fanshawe's two clerks; while the other was occupied by "the rest of the servants." Of the two rooms, one was allotted to Mrs. Fanshawe's sister. But, miserable as this lodging appeared, it had yet other drawbacks; for the first night our heroine slept there she felt intolerably cold, and discovered next morning that her bed "was near swimming with the sea." This, however, the owner reassuringly informed her, "it never did but at spring-tide." Moreover, they were practically destitute of all the necessaries of life, having neither clothes, meat, nor fuel; and, to quote Mr. Davenport Adams, "May be said to have begged their daily bread of God, for they thought every meal their last." Well may he add: "The loyalty which, without murmur, endured these privations, must, after all, have been something more than a sentiment; it may be said almost to have assumed the proportions of a religion." After various wanderings, Mr. Fanshawe's employment in the Prince's service ceased; and his wife came to England, where she succeeded in obtaining permission for her husband to compound for his estates in the sum of three hundred pounds, and also to return. Thus it fell to his lot to wait frequently upon the King during his detention at Hampton Court, where Mrs. Fanshawe also went three times to pay her duty to the captive monarch. "The last time I ever saw him," she says, "when I took my leave, I could not refrain weeping. When he had saluted me, I prayed to God to preserve His Majesty with long life and happy years. He stroked me on the cheek and said: 'Child, if God pleaseth, it shall be so; but both you and I must submit to God's will, and you know what hands I am in.' Then, turning to Mr. Fanshawe, he said: 'Be sure, Dick, to tell my son all that I have said, and deliver those letters to my wife; pray God bless her! I hope I shall do well' And taking him in his arms, said: Thou hast ever been an honest man, and I hope God will bless thee, and make thee a happy servant to my son, whom I have charged in my letter to continue his love and trust to you,' adding, 'I do promise you that, if ever I am restored to my dignity, I will bountifully reward you both for your service and sufferings.' Thus did we part from that glorious man, that within a few months after was murdered, to the grief of all Christians that were not forsaken by God." In the following October, on the day before their embarkation from Portsmouth, the Fanshawes had a narrow escape. They were walking by the seaside, when two Dutch men-of-war shot bullets at them so near that they heard them whistle past. On this Mrs. Fanshawe called to her husband to make haste back, and very prudently began to run; but he never altered his pace, merely remarking, calmly: "If we must be killed, it were as good to be killed walking as running." Some time later, they passed six weeks in Paris, where they received much gratifying notice from Queen Henrietta Maria and the loyal and noble exiles who formed her suite. At Calais, the Governor feasted them very hospitably, and much excellent discourse passed-the largest share of the talking being done by Sir Kenelm Digby, who indulged in extraordinary narratives, to the mingled astonishment and admiration of the After our heroine had again ventured to England, in the hope of raising money for her sorely-pressed family, she and her children rejoined Mr. Fanshawe in Ireland, where, for six months, the wanderers enjoyed a well-earned repose, which must have been welcome indeed to the wife-not yet twenty-five years of age who in her short married life had passed through so many terrible experiences, and borne so much suffering with such quiet courage and heroic endurance. The respite was of brief duration. Cromwell landed in Ireland, and crushed the unhappy country with an iron hand. Cork declared for the Commonwealth in November, 1649. Mr. Fanshawe was away at Kinsale, and his wife, who was lying ill in bed with a broken wrist, had to face this unexpected danger alone. "At midnight," she says, "I heard the great guns go off, and thereupon I called up my family to rise, which I did as well as I could in that condition. Hearing lamentable shrieks of men, women, and children, I asked at a window the cause. They told me they were all Irish, stripped and wounded, and turned out of the town; and that Colonel Jeffries, with some others, had possessed themselves of the town for Cromwell. Upon this I immediately wrote a letter to my husband. . . . persuading him to patience and hope that I should get safely out of the town. and desired him to shift for himself. . . with the promise that I would secure his papers. . "So soon as I had finished my letter I sent it by a faithful servant, who was let down the garden wall of Red Abbey, and, sheltered by the darkness of the night, he made his escape." Mrs. Fanshawe next packed her husband's papers, money, and other things of value : "And then, about three o'clock in the morning, by the light of a taper, and in that pain I was in, I went into the market place with only a man and maid, and, passing through an unruly tumult, with their swords in their hands, searched for their chief commander, Jeffries. . . . He instantly wrote me a pass. . . . and said he would never forget the respect he owed Mr. Fanshawe. With this I came through thousands of naked swords to Red Abbey, and hired the next neighbour's cart, which carried all that I could remove; and myself, sister, and little girl, Nan, with three maids and two men, set forth at five o'clock, in November, having but two horses amongst us all, which we rid on by turns but by little and little, I thank God, we got safe to the garrison, where I found your father." In February, 1650, Mr. Fanshawe and his wife embarked on board a Dutch ship for Malaga. But a Turkish galley bearing down on the ship, the captain called for arms, and cleared the deck, resolving to fight. was "This," as Mrs. Fanshawe says, sad for us passengers; but my husband bid us women be sure to keep in the cabin, and not appear, which would make the Turks think that we were a man-of-war ; but if they saw women, they would take us for merchants and board us. He went upon the deck, and took a gun and bandoliers and sword, and, with the rest of the ship's company, stood upon deck expecting the arrival of the Turkish man-of-war. This beast, the captain, had locked me up in the cabin. I knocked and called long to no purpose, until, at length, the cabinboy came and opened the door. I, all in tears, desired him to be as good as to give me his blue and brown cap he wore, and his tarred coat, which he did, and I gave him half-a-crown; and putting them on, and flinging away my night-clothes, I crept up softly and stood upon deck by my husband's side, as free from sickness and fear as, I confess, from discretion; but it was the effect of that passion which I could never master. "By this time the two vessels were engaged in parley, and so well-satisfied with speech and sight of each other's forces, that the Turk's man-of-war tacked about, and we continued our course. But when your father saw it convenient to retreat, looking upon me, he blessed himself, and snatched me up in his arms, saying, 'Good God! that love can make this change!' And though he seemingly chid me, he would laugh at it as often as he remembered that voyage." Again was this noble wife's devotion to |