mope; and it will be much pleasanter to me."

"Yes," she said, "I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances's way; but still I will take your advice, papa. I'm sure you are right in what you say."

"I am glad you think so, my dear. If you cannot have everything you want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy."

away from everything and everybody she knew. Poor little Fan! He thought a little about her; but he thought a great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear capable of disturbance? The cir. cumstances were all very different now. Frances, who would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her mother's companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to escape from which he had given up the world and (almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be his companion would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner, the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn Frances that her father was not to be discussed with my lady. But what was the use of saying anything, when letters would come and go continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled to put up with it, though nothing could be more un"Good-pleasant. If these girls had been boys,

"Then I shall be a true philosopher," she said with a laugh. The laugh was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. "But I must not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her menu, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I knew all about it. By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should like to have a piano, if I might." "That_will not be very difficult," he said. "Can you play?"

At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored. "You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, papa; you have quite restored me to myself. I can't knit you socks, like Frances; and I am not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other. Goodnight."

"This is sudden," he said. night, if you think it is time for that ceremony."

"It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations to make in my room, now that now that at present when I am quite settled and see my way."

He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of very little consequence. Indeed, it was perhaps well that she should go and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost grateful to Constance for taking herself away. He thought a little of Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had ever taken, and such a journey,

this would not have happened. It was perhaps the first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys were far more objectionable to his fine tastes than girls, gave more trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that unprofitable exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would require that he should write. But this, except once or twice, perhaps, to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him to do.

Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She had never betrayed the consciousness in any

way, being high-bred and courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with that intention of self-martyrdom with which so many good people exasperate their neighbors. She would have been quite as comfortable in the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no longer the impress of Frances's mind, but of her own. She took down a number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any longer possible, did not return at first. Her father's words, which she understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them to him to justify herself. "Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight than another." She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much glee, laughing to herself under her breath: "If you cannot get what you want, you must take what you can get." How astounded he would be if it should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas - which were so true! Her father's arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word, that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a strong, unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham's face disappear, and realized that he was gone, actually gone, and

had left her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest.

After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her fa|ther, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten o'clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a succession of entertainments under her mother's wing; but she had nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still audible without, people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone benches on the Punto, just those same delights of society which happy people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance regretting her village. Oh, if they could have but changed places! To think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night air blowing in her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep along; then Paris, London, at last! She shut the persiane almost violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She felt like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prision, and never more to go free.

But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her father had said: "If you cannot get what you want, you must take

what you can get." There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this arid place. She had her father's sanction for making use of her opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her sister's bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the corners of her mouth ; although, after all, the thought of the travellers came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying herself to sleep.

From The Scottish Review.

THE AMERICAN LOYALISTS.*

A PECULIAR interest always attaches to the fortunes of those who fought gallantly in a struggle they did not provoke, and the misfortunes of loyalty on the losing side, in a special degree, secure our sympathy. Vixtrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Ca. toni, was the haughty judgment of the unconquerable Roman, and the votaries . of a religion which tells us that "offences must come," and that man is fallen, may often, without irreverence, feel inclined to re-echo his sentiment, when confronted with the crude philosophy that proclaims vox populi vox dei. In every great convulsion there are those whose action is decided by considerations of personal duty, more restricted than the arguments which sway senates, or the profound reflections which historians make after the event. The one step which honor and obligation demand must be taken is clear, and they confuse not their consciences with speculations on the distant scene. Alas! it is too often on such that the chief burden falls of defraying the reckoning for the mistakes of monarchs and the madness of multitudes. And too often to exile, confiscation, and the scaffold, there is added the more enduring penalty of misconstruction and misrepresentation. All the more grateful then is the task of answering to

1. Stedman's History of the American War. 2 Address to the Historical Society of New Bruns wick, 28th August, 1883. General de Peyster, U S. A. 3. Memoir of Brig. Gen. Sir John Johnson, Bart. General de Peyster, U.S.A.

4. The Affair at King's Mountain, 1780. General de Peyster, U S.A. 5. King's Mountain and its Heroes. Lyman C. Draper. Cincinnati, 1881.

the call which bids us lift for a moment
the curtain that shrouds their cause and
sufferings. Even the mocking muse of
Butler has something Olympian in her
strain, when she turns from the "chief of
domestic knights and errant," from the
"politician with more heads than a beast
in vision," and from the "haberdashers
of small wares in politics and State af-
fairs" to sing of those in whom,

Although outnumbered, overthrown,
And by the fate of war run down,
Their duty never was defeated,
Nor from their faith and oaths retreated;
For loyalty is still the same,
Whether it win or lose the game,
True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shined upon.

During last century Great Britain was involved in two civil contests, which ended in the complete triumph of one party, and the unavoidable ruin of many individuals who had adhered to the other. But here the parallel betweeen the Jacobite insurrections and the struggle which ended in the independence of the United States ceases, for after the lapse of a few decades the Jacobites were judged with a leniency, which has scarcely yet been extended to those who in America adhered to the crown and the connection with the mother country. Many reasons might be sug gested to account for what at first appears strange, for the American Tories would seem to have merited more allowance being made for them than the Jacobites. The Jacobites raised the strife; the others took their side when it had begun; the Jacobites had been recalcitrant and sullen under an established government; the Loyalists had grown up with their neighbors under a supremacy hitherto unquestioned; they suffered for not moving with the times. But the strife had been more envenomed. In Scotland the insurgents had been led by gentlemen of high name and lofty character; a father on one side and a son on the other were strong incentives to discourage rapine; and both parties had every reason to destroy each other in as conservative a spirit as possi ble. Even the desolations of the Highland glens by the rude soldiery of Cumberland exacted a terrible revenge not so much for the sufferings of the Lowlands as the terror of the capital and the pertur bation of the court. In America it was very different. The backwoodsmen from beyond the Alleghanies, and the settlers of the Mohawk, were less amenable to discipline than even the clansmen of Bad

enoch and Lochaber, or a feudal following | est; but there was another and more im from the uplands of Aberdeenshire. Fam- portant reason. It is true, as Chatham ilies were divided, but brother shot down declared, after Burgoyne's disaster, that brother, the nearness of the ties that were "a very considerable part of America was severed only intensified the savagery of yet sound, the middle and southern provthe strife, and the long and bitter struggle inces," but the activity of many loyalists left in the minds of the actors an abiding across the Atlantic was doubtless also animosity. In Scotland the conflict was determined by the distinction which waged with somewhat of the stately cour- swayed the mind of the veteran states. tesy that marked the encounter of the man. "The Americans, contending for French and English Guards at Fontenoy. their rights against arbitrary exactions, I In America the spirit was that fierce ardor love and admire, . . but contending for that animated the fanatical levies of the independency and total disconnection from Directory. But the real reason lies deeper England, I cannot wish them success." yet. It was given to Washington to make The disavowal of the supremacy of the the old plantations of this country a great crown, the importation of French aid, disand mighty nation; nor should we wonder tasteful even to some in arms against the if the feelings of the father still animate king, would raise the loyal spirit of many the frame of the child. In Washington's who had viewed the Stamp Act with hos references to his countrymen who took tility, and resented the closing of the port the other side, there are expressions which of Boston. surprise us, coming from so great and magnanimous a man. How deeply the passions which left their lines on him, must have affected others, and is it strange that a nation which but recently issued from the mould, full-cast, should show some traces of its cracks amid the carvings?

Yet some might expect that those who make liberty their watchword would be more tolerant of opposition, than the maintainers of an established monarchy. It is not so the Jacobites are forgiven more easily than the Jacobins forgive, and the emigrés of France are pursued by an animosity which spares the exiles of Scotland. The New England "sons of lib. erty" are no exception to the rule that in revolutions liberty is rarely justified of her children.

Even before the resort to arms, those whose feelings were with the old order had significant intimations of what awaited them in internecine strife. A system of terrorism was organized in Boston, and those who supported the government were tarred and feathered, a mode of constitu tional argument which Philadelphia had afterwards the honor of applying to the wife and daughter of a Loyalist captain. And there is a good deal of information as well as humor in the writer who describes the mob "crying liberty and property, which is their usual notice of their intention to plunder and pull down a house." In New York later on we find a method of treatment applied towards suspected loyalists, which has been compared to the ostracism of the Greeks, but has a much closer resemblance to the "boycot Men's ideas of past events are so gov- ting" of which Mr. Parnell was the aposerned by the coloring of what has followed, tle. Engagements were signed "renouncthat we feel inclined, when we look more ing all ties of business or friendship with closely into the details of that great con- them," and individuals found themselves flict, to echo the surprise of La Fayette, arbitrarily arrested and sent to distant though not perhaps in the same terms, places of confinement, for an offence for "When I was in Europe, I thought that which, Lord Stanhope truly remarked, here almost every man was a lover of lib-"the language of England scarcely affords erty. You can conceive my astonishment when I saw that Toryism was as openly professed as Whiggism itself." Indeed, it may be questioned whether the majority of the population was not favorable to the crown. And as the struggle is prolonged, the armies of the mother country seem to receive more support from local volunteers. How far this was owing to the superior enterprise of the later command ers, and how far accounted for by the prevailing temper of the localities in which they operated, are considerations of inter

a name, nor its history a precedent: it is best expressed in the Frenchman's phrase during their first revolutionary period, soupçonné d'être suspect." Now it has been nationalized among the varied associations which cluster round the classic name of Kilmainham.

New England had commenced the contest, and was throughout most hostile to the crown. Yet when the British troops evacuated Boston, one thousand royalists were carried as fugitives in the royal fleet. "If they thought," wrote Washington,