Except in this particular, however, he determined that his blindness should make "no difference;" and it is wonderful how little it has actually affected his habits and intentions. In the very heart of London he has contrived to secure a modest house with a garden one-tenth of a mile long, where he can promenade all alone to his heart's content. He is never so happy as in the open air, and in his native Wiltshire his pedestrian feats have become almost proverbial. His topographical knowledge is so minute, that when his guides arc at fault he not unfrequently directs them,—from ear1y recollections of natural objects of course. He religiously frequents the university boat-race on the Thames, and is as heartily interested in the proceedings of the day as the keenest-eyed observer. At Cambridge he is stroke-oar of the "Ancient Mariners'" boat; and a better stroke no crew of "mariners," ancient or modern, need desire. He is a good swimmer. When the fens are frozen, he takes to his skates as naturally as a duck in the water takes to her webs. On such occasions his daughter, a graceful maiden of eleven winters, precedes her father, whistling playfully. He is likewise an ardent equestrian; and, when in residence at the university, seldom a day elapses that the professor of political economy may not be seen, accompanied by some one of his numerous friends, cantering fearlessly on Newmarket Heath or Across Hat. He occasionally even follows the hounds on a well-trained steed; and so hard a rider is he said to be, that the livery-stable keepers have two tariffs,—one ordinary for those who have not been seen in the society of Professor Fawcett, and one extraordinary for those who have. Add to this that Mr. Fawcett is one of the
