to the Pyramids,—others of course accompanying you,—and talking to you with that studied ease which is intended to show that, though she is an unprotected female, she knows what she is about, and can enjoy herself without any fear of you, or of Mrs. Grundy. You find her to be very clever, and then think her to be very pretty; and if,—which may probably be the case,—you are in such matters a fool, you say a word or two more than you ought to do, and the unprotected female shows you that she can protect herself.

But Miss Thompson is wrong for all this, and I think it will be admitted that I have made the best of Miss Thompson's case. The line which she has taken up is one which it is impossible that a woman should follow with ultimate satisfaction. She cannot unsex herself or rid herself of the feeling that admiration is accorded to her as a pretty woman. She has probably intended,—honestly intended,—to be quit of that feeling, and to move about the world as though, for her, men and women were all the same, as though no more flirting were possible, and love-making were a thing simply good to be read of in novels. But if so, why has she been so careful with her gloves, and her hat, and all her little feminine belongings? It has been impossible to her not to be a woman. The idea and remembrance of her womanly charms have always been there, always present to her mind. Unmarried men are to her possible lovers and possible husbands,—as she is also a possible wife to any unmarried man,—and also a possible love. Though she may have devoted herself to celibacy with her hand on the altar, she cannot banish from her bosom the idea which, despite herself, almost forms itself into a hope. We will not ask as to her past life; but for the future she will be what she is,—only till the chance comes to her of being something better. It is that free life which she leads,—which she leads in all innocency,—which makes it impossible for her to be true to the resolution she has made for herself. Such a woman cannot talk to men without a consciousness that intimacy may lead to love, or the pretence of love, or the dangers of love. Nor, it may be said, can any unmarried woman do so. And therefore it is that they do not go about the world unprotected, either at home or abroad. Therefore it is that the retreat behind mamma's ample folds or beneath papa's umbrella is considered to be so salutary.

You, my friend, with your quick, impulsive, and, allow me to say, meaningless expression of admiration, received simply the rebuke which you deserved. Then there was an end of that, and Miss Thompson, being somewhat used to such misadventures, thought but little of it afterwards. She has to do those things when the necessity comes upon her. But it does happen, sometimes, that the unprotected female,—who has a heart, though other women will say that she has none,—is touched, and listens, and hopes, and at last almost thinks that she has found out her mistake. The cold exterior glaze of the woman is pricked through, and there comes a scratch upon the stuff beneath. A tone in her voice will quaver as though everything were not easy with her. She will forget for the moment her prudence, and the usual precautions of her life, and will dream of retiring within the ordinary pale of womanhood. She will think that to cease to be an unprotected female may be sweet, and for a while she will be soft, and weak, and wavering. But with unprotected females such ideas have to pass away very fleetly. I am afraid it must be said that let a woman once be an unprotected female, so she must remain to the end. Who knows the man that has taken an unprotected female to his bosom and made her the mistress of his home, and the chief priestess of his household gods? And if any man have done so, what have his friends said of him and his adventure?

And so the unprotected female goes on wandering still farther afield, increasing in cleverness every year, and ever acquiring new knowledge; but increasing also in hardness, and in that glaze of which I have spoken, till at last one is almost driven to confess, when one's wife and daughters declare her to be an old soldier, that one's wife and daughters are not in justice liable to contradiction.

THE UNITED ENGLISHMEN WHO TRAVEL FOR FUN.

The United Englishmen who travel for fun are great nuisances to other tourists, are great nuisances to the towns they visit and the scenes they disturb, are often nuisances in a small way to the police, are nuisances to people saying their prayers in churches, are nuisances to visitors in picture galleries, are nuisances to the ordinary travellers of the day, and are nuisances to the world at large—except the innkeepers and the railway companies; but they generally achieve their own object, and have what the Americans call a good time of it. A United Englishman travelling for fun should not be over twenty-five years of age, but up to that age what he does, though he be a nuisance, should be forgiven him. Though we ourselves may be annoyed by the freaks of such travellers, shocked by their utter disregard of apparel, stunned by their noises, and ashamed of them as our countrymen, yet we are well pleased that our sons should be among their number, and are conscious that amidst all that energetic buffoonery and wild effrontery, education is going on, and that much is being learned, though the recipient of the learning would himself be ashamed to own any such fact to himself.

The men of whom I am now speaking are generally gentlemen by birth,—who have been educated or missed being educated, as education is obtained or missed by the sons of English gentlemen,—are pleasant fellows who have learned to love each other at school or college, and have nothing about them that is mean or in itself ignoble; but they are young of their age, men for whom nature has hitherto done more than art, who have hardly as yet learned to think, and are still enjoying all the irresponsible delights of boyhood at a time of life at which others less fortunate are already immersed in the grievous cares of earning their bread. I do not know that any country except England produces such a crop. We see United Frenchmen on their travels; but they are discreet, well dressed, anticipating the life of middle age rather than adhering to the manners of boyhood,—much given to little attentions to women, and very decorous in their language. And young German tourists are encountered everywhere, though more often alone than in union; but the German tourist is almost always a German student. Life is a serious thing to him, and he is resolved that he will not lose this most precious period of it. United Germans, rough in their pleasures, and noisy in their demonstrations, may no doubt be found; but they are to be found in their own cities, at their universities, among their own people. It does not come in their way to go forth and exhibit their rowdiness among strangers. And as to Americans, who has ever seen a young American? An American who travels at eighteen, travels because he is blasé with the world at home, tired of democratic politics, and anxious to see whether anything may still be gleaned from European manners to improve the not yet perfected institutions of his own country. Among tourists of the order of United Englishmen an American young man is altogether out of his element. He will attempt sometimes to live as they live, but will soon retire, disgusted partly by them and partly by his own