CHAPTER IV.—THE ANTHEM OF THE BELLS.

It was a solemn gathering when two hours later, the physician entered Bertram’s room in company with Squire Peregrine, Colonel Lindsay, and Gertrude. The change in the Squire was marvellous; his sternness had left him; he followed his daughter and his old friend; he hung upon every word which fell from the lips of the man of science; and during the time when the doctors were alone with their patient and Nathan, he paced his room in a state nearly bordering on mental distraction. Meeting the doctors as they at length emerged from the sick-room, he grasped them by the arm. ‘Will he live? will he live?’ he reiterated wildly. ‘Tell me the truth. My son, my son!’

In vain they urged him to be calm; his reasoning powers seemed to have deserted him.

‘He must not die; he shall not die!’ he repeated; until Colonel Lindsay, laying his hand upon his shoulder, whispered: ‘There is hope. Do not despair. My old friend, remember how much yet remains to be done for him. The active cause of mischief is at last removed.’ He produced a small piece of the blade of a knife, at the sight of which the Squire shuddered. ‘Humanly speaking, you owe his life twice over to Nathan Boltz. As to the perpetrator of the outrage, he will be dealt with according to his deserts; at present, we have no clue to his whereabouts.’

This speech of the Colonel’s was intended to answer two purposes—to give the Squire time to recover himself, and to arrest any remarks which might fall from the medical men, who were to remain all night at the Hall. It had the desired effect; they saw that private family affairs were connected with this murderous attack and remained silent, only insisting that Nathan (whom Bertram had faintly recognised) should remain with him. The Squire sent for him, and in the presence of all his family, grasped him by the hand and begged him to stay. How he overcame all his scruples, how he placed himself in the position of a debtor, was made plain to all who heard him; and Gertrude felt her heart throb almost to pain as she sat by listening to the words of her father, the proudest of the Peregrine race.

Therefore it was that Nathan took his place in the sick-room, surrounded by every luxury which appertains to wealth. It was a strange position; but he entered upon it with his usual large-hearted earnestness, believing he was fulfilling his promise to the mother of the sick man.

In the meantime, Patricia was undergoing a torment of fear and suspense. A week had elapsed, Oliver had not returned, and no inquiry had as yet been made concerning him. She dared not question any one, and though many an eye was bent upon her in a half-pitying manner, she would not for worlds betray her wretchedness. She asked not to be confirmed in her miserable doubts and horrible fears, for she felt certain her lover was somehow concerned in her brother’s illness. Yet why this change in her father? She could not understand; and pondering day by day, became pale and ill, restless and depressed.

Christmas-day came and went much in the same way as other days. There were no decorations in the church, and no sound of the sweet loud bells of Linden Tower, for Bertram lay hovering between life and death, and all bell-ringing was suspended on his account. Another week passed on; wearily dragged the hours; when at the close of a dark day of rain and wind, a messenger arrived with a note for Patricia, which caused her heart to throb and her pulse to rebound with agonising pain. The writer of the dirty ill-spelt letter begged her to go at once to a farm-house ten miles distant, where Oliver Peregrine lay dying. Now Patricia knew she must put away her mask for ever. With eager haste she ran with the summons to her father, and the utter wretchedness in her face made him full of pity for her.

‘Jenkyns shall bring the carriage for you, my darling, immediately. I know the spot; close to the stone quarries—a dangerous place. Be brave, Patricia. But you must not go alone; Colonel Lindsay will accompany you.’

She made no reply; her white lips moved, but no sound came forth. After a vain attempt to speak, she left the room, and shortly after was handed by Colonel Lindsay into the carriage. Their drive was accomplished in silence. Patricia’s agonising suspense was too great for speech; and her gallant companion felt too much to attempt commonplaces.

When they arrived at the farm, Patricia descended from the carriage, and entered the house alone. In an inner room a woman was busy making a clearance of such articles as she could stuff away in corners and behind chairs, while a faint moaning told that the unhappy man occupied the apartment.

‘I found the gentleman lying at the bottom of a quarry,’ said the man who lived on the farm. ‘It’s a fortnight back, sir, that going round the place as late as ten o’clock, I heard as it were close to me some one groaning as if in dreadful pain. It was some time before I could find out where the noise came from. At last my wife and me together got down to the bottom of the quarry, and managed between us to drag him to the top. He was wonderful bad, but refused to tell his name or let a doctor be fetched, and only let my boy run with the note because he felt he was dying. We have done what we could, sir; but you see we don’t know many folks about here, or we might have helped him more.’

Patricia listened intently as the man gave these particulars, and made her way alone to the side of her cousin. He lay upon a bed placed hastily on the floor, his face worn to a shadow with intense suffering of mind and body. As Patricia gazed upon the helpless sufferer, all her love for the man burst forth; she knelt down, covered her face with her hands, and wept piteously.

The woman who stood by, with true woman’s instinct, guessed the nature of her sorrow, and said gently: ‘You see, miss, the gentleman would not say who he were, or we should ha’ sent before. I have done what I could; but I fear he’s very, very bad.’ She wanted to break the truth as gently as she could, for her experienced eye had noted every change.

‘I am dying,’ said Oliver in a low voice. ‘’Tis nearly over, Patricia; but the pain has almost left me; and if I have strength, I must tell you a very painful story, for I need your forgiveness, as you will find. Do not grieve for me, Patricia.’ He paused. ‘Are you alone?’

Patricia shook her head.

‘Who is with you?’

‘Colonel Lindsay.’

‘Tell him to come here.’

At this crisis, wheels were heard outside, and Colonel Lindsay returned with Patricia, bringing with them Mr Downes, the surgeon.

‘Mr Downes is here,’ said the Colonel, ‘through a message which I sent him previous to leaving home; he will probably think it advisable to remain with us for a time.’

Then Patricia knew that the surgeon was there not only in his medical capacity, but as a witness to whatever might fall from the lips of her lover; and yet her dread of any unpleasant revelation was intensified by her great love for the man whose humiliation and shame she would fain have spared. Mr Downes having carefully examined the patient, administered a restorative, and Oliver related with pain and difficulty the following story.

‘You know that Bertram and I were in college at the same time, where my naturally extravagant habits led us both into debt. When we left college, my uncle, believing me all that I ought to be, begged me to remain at the Hall as companion to his son; at the same time he proposed that I should qualify myself for the Church, and behaved to me with the kindness of a father. I managed to fix the burden of our debts upon Bertram, whose easy disposition and generous nature led him to trust me thoroughly. During a London season we again became steeped in difficulties beyond our power to remove. Returning to the Hall, I fancied myself fascinated by the beauty of Ruth Boltz. How I overcame her scruples, and finally induced her to fly to London with me, I have no strength to tell; nor how I beguiled her to remain there, leading her to hope for marriage. I had come to town for more purposes than one. While at the Hall, our creditors had become clamorous; and Bertram, in despair of obtaining any help from his father, and not daring to tell of his entanglements, took counsel with me as to what was to be done. By degrees I opened up my plan, filled in a cheque, and forced Bertram by threats of exposure to forge his father’s name. This done, I took care that he himself should present it at the banker’s. My uncle who was unusually precise and correct in all business matters, at once discovered the fraud. It was easy to cast the blame on Bertram, whom I had persuaded to remain in London; and the fact of his absence sealed his guilt. Ruth’s flight was at once connected with his; and enraged beyond expression, his father forbade him the house, tore up his letters unopened, and refused ever to acknowledge him again. In vain Bertram appealed to me to speak for him; I only traduced him the more while appearing to shield him; and persuaded him to go abroad while he had the means of doing so. Seven months later, poor Ruth came home and applied to me in her distress. Again I promised her marriage, and from time to time made her an allowance. She promised to keep my secret; yet her presence in the village was a continual annoyance to me, for I feared that some time, in her despair, she might reveal the truth. But I could not prevail upon her to leave the neighbourhood, and I waited year after year before I could mature my plans to secure the position which I had always coveted. At last she died, worn out with trouble, and would no doubt have spoken out at last. But sending for my aunt, the latter arrived too late. Poor suffering Ruth was dead.’...

Here the sufferer paused in mental agony, and after partaking of stimulant, resumed his dread confession. ‘Then I was elated with my false freedom. My uncle had long since erased Bertram’s name from his will, and named me as his heir. I soon proposed to my cousin Patricia, and we were on the point of marrying, when my aunt’s death postponed it. In the midst of all my prosperity, I had a vague terror of Nathan Boltz, believing that he knew my secret, and I hated him for his supposed knowledge of it. Once more my marriage was about to take place, and again Hilda’s death interposed, and saved Patricia from a life of shame. Bertram returned; and deceived by his sister, Nathan believed that in him he saw her betrayer. Then the grand principle of his life was worked out—forgiveness. The return of Colonel Lindsay helped on my ruin. I made a desperate effort to retain the prize which I felt slipping from my grasp. After that dreadful scene in the church, I fled in frantic haste across the country, eager to escape from myself. But the hand of God was upon me; I could not elude that; and believing that I had been a murderer, I looked upon myself as paying the penalty of my sin, for I knew from the first that I must die. I have no more to add, only to express my grief and my repentance, and to pray that God may pardon my fearful sin.’

He stopped, greatly exhausted; and Mr Downes again did what he could for his relief. All through the night, Patricia sat holding his hand in hers, assuring him of their forgiveness, and ministering to his wants; and Oliver Peregrine blessed her with the solemnity of a dying man. At daybreak it was all over. Patricia’s watching had been a short one; but she knew that henceforth she would walk through life alone.

Oliver Peregrine was buried in Linden churchyard; and Nathan, at the Squire’s urgent request, witnessed the last rites, and stood uncovered while the earth was filled into the grave of the man who had so wronged him. Never again, however, would he prepare the narrow resting-place in which dust mingles with its kindred dust, or stand in the belfry tower as master of the bells. Nathan had parted from the old life, which would know him no more. After Bertram’s recovery, he travelled with him for two years, and learned to know him as a brother. On their return, the village people could scarcely recognise the quondam bell-ringer in the accomplished gentleman and travelled man of the world. The soil had been ready to receive the seed; but while the intellect was enlarged the heart of the man remained the same. Thus it came about that on a certain happy day, Nathan, who was the affianced husband of Gertrude, stood once more in the belfry tower; and with her by his side, and the ringers clustered round, while Bertram and Colonel Lindsay looked on from the doorway, he begged that he might try his hand again. A proud consent was given, and prouder than ever were the ringers, of him who had been their chief. After a slight pause, Nathan’s hand, now white and shapely, grasped the rope once more. ‘Now lads!’ he cried—‘now!’ and the bells chimed out a right merry peal.

[UNDER FIRE.]

Most men who have been under fire will frankly confess that the sensation is anything but a pleasant one. But inspired by a sense of duty and a lively enthusiasm, the anxious feeling soon passes off. The skirmishers load and fire, the gunners work their guns without much thought of their own danger. Indeed it is well if this indifference does not go too far, for then reckless excitement and careless haste take the place of soldierly deliberation and prudence.

At Waterloo the fighting between two armies armed with old weapons of short range was all at what we now call close-quarters. The most effective range for artillery was about five hundred yards, and musketry-fire was exchanged at less than half that distance. Rifled weapons of long range have changed all this, and the introduction of breech-loading small-arms has worked a perfect revolution on the battle-field. In 1866 the Prussian needle-gun shewed in the fighting in Bohemia the terrible effects that can be produced by rapid rifle-fire. Every army in Europe was soon provided with breech-loading rifles; and in the war of 1870, for the first time two great armies thus formidably armed met in battle. In the first conflicts of the war the Prussians attacked in close order, as they had done in 1866; but in the great battle of Gravelotte, fought on August 18, 1870, they learned a lesson which made them completely change their tactics; and every European army (but one) has followed their example. The lesson was dearly bought. On that day the French army, one hundred and twenty thousand strong, lay along the hills to the west of Metz, where it was attacked by two hundred thousand Germans. The village of St Privat, on holding which the security of the whole French position depended, was held by Marshal Canrobert’s corps. The village is surrounded by long gentle slopes; and in fighting it is always found that it is more difficult to storm such a place than one that stands upon a steep hill. The very steepness of the ascent in some degree protects the attacking party as they ascend, by making the fire of the defenders more vertical; whereas on a gentle slope each bullet has a longer course and more chances of doing harm. As a preparation for the attack on St Privat, and in order in some degree to destroy the steadiness of the defenders, the place was bombarded for some time with one hundred and twenty guns; then when it was hoped that the artillery-fire had cleared the way, three brigades of the Guards, the picked men of the German army, were ordered to carry the village.

Massed in close order, with a front of two thousand paces, and covered by clouds of skirmishers, the Guards began their advance up the slopes. In ten minutes the attack was over, and had utterly failed. Brief as it was, it was a terrible time. The German official Report does not deal in exaggerated language, and it speaks of the ‘storm of bullets that came beating down from St Privat’ and forced the Guardsmen to crowd together in every hollow and behind every wave of the ground. The French used their chassepots to deadly purpose; in those ten minutes six thousand of the Prussian Guard had fallen. But the rapid fire of the French had all but emptied their cartridge-boxes, and the defective arrangements made by the staff had not provided properly for supplying the deficiency. This is always a danger to which men armed with the breech-loader are liable, and it is an awkward one, for in modern war the man who is without cartridges is virtually disarmed. The cartridges of the dead and wounded were collected and distributed; but this was a poor resource. The enemy had formed new columns of attack, composed of Saxon and Prussian troops, and these, though not without heavy loss, carried the village, and decided the battle which shut Marshal Bazaine and his great army up in Metz. The day after Gravelotte was fought and won, the German headquarters staff published an order that an attack in heavy masses like that which had won Sadowa but had failed at St Privat should never be attempted again.

The deadliness of breech-loading fire has produced another effect upon tactics in battle. The spade has taken a place second only to the rifle, and no General occupies a position in battle even for a couple of hours without rapidly strengthening it with light intrenchments. These consist generally of a shallow trench, the earth from which is thrown up towards the enemy, so as to form a little parapet in front of it. This is the shelter-trench which we hear of so often in war correspondence. Effective shelter-trenches can be constructed in from eighteen minutes to half an hour, according to the nature of the ground and the skill of the men engaged in the work; and they have this advantage, that they can be continually improved, the trench being deepened, the parapet raised, and a ditch formed outside it, if the position is occupied long enough; so that what was at first a mere shelter-trench, gradually becomes a formidable line of earthworks. A trench is a very efficient protection against artillery-fire, for unless the shells drop actually into it, or upon the parapet, the fragments are not likely to hurt the men crouching or lying down in it; and such accurate hits are rare, most of the projectiles falling a little behind or a little short of the line aimed at.

It is a fact that the actual number of men put hors de combat by artillery-fire is very few in any case. It really is meant to produce an effect on the morale of the troops attacked; that is to say, to make them nervous, excited, liable to panic, and apt to give way before a sudden onset. Hundreds of shells exploding on the ground and in the air, and scattering showers of fragments on all sides, dropping neatly over walls and barricades, crashing through walls and roofs, and searching woods and thickets, are apt to gradually break down the nerve of all but the steadiest men.

As a matter of actually killing and maiming a large number of the enemy, it is coming to be believed that the old artillery of Napoleon’s days used at close quarters, that is at about four hundred yards, against heavy masses, was more deadly than the modern rifled gun. Artillery is now effective up to two thousand five hundred yards, and sometimes even beyond that range. Rifle-fire generally begins at four hundred yards, though picked marksmen may be engaged at longer ranges. The ordinary fighting range of the rifle is thus now equal to that of the field-gun of thirty years ago, and the accuracy of the fire is increased in even a greater ratio. With the old musket the chances of a bullet finding a human billet were extremely uncertain. At one hundred yards there was a deviation of two feet to right or left, which at two hundred yards had increased to more than six feet. The average deviation of the Martini-Henry is about seven inches at three hundred yards, a little less than a foot at five hundred, and about twenty inches at eight hundred; or less than the error of the old musket at one hundred yards. Without aiming, a rapidity of fire equal to twenty-five shots per minute has been obtained with the Martini-Henry with which our army is now furnished. How different from the weapons used in the Peninsula and at Waterloo.

Yet it is singular that the proportion which the loss in battle bears to the number of men engaged is on the whole decreasing, notwithstanding (or perhaps in consequence of) improved armaments. At Marengo in 1800 the loss in killed and wounded amounted to one-sixth of the effective force engaged; at Austerlitz (1805) it was one-seventh; at Preuss-Eylau (1807), as much as one-third; at Wagram (1809), rather more than one-ninth; at Borodino (1812), one-fourth; and at Waterloo (1815), rather more than one-sixth. Coming now to more recent battles, we find that at Solferino (1859) the loss was only one-fourteenth; at Sadowa (1866), one-eleventh; at Gravelotte (1870), one-ninth; at Sedan, only one-seventeenth. It would seem that the diminution of the loss is the result of the open order, the use of cover, and the briefness of the struggle at the decisive points, where, on account of the severity of the fighting, it cannot last very long. Men will stand longer under a fire that knocks over only one man in a minute, than they will under one that kills a score in the same time. The heavy fighting at Plevna before its fall, was an exception to this diminution of loss, for in one of their attacks the Russians lost as much as one-fifth, but this was the result of their fighting in heavy columns, in defiance of the experience of 1870. Statistics from both the Russian and the German armies shew that at all times the officers in proportion to their numbers lose more than the men. Naturally they are liable to attract attention and to be picked off by the enemy’s marksmen.

With the immense armies of our day the total loss of men is enormous. At Sadowa the Prussians lost 10,000 men out of 215,000 engaged; the Austrians and Saxons 30,000 out of 220,000. At Gravelotte the French, 120,000 strong, lost 14,000; the Germans 20,000 out of 200,000. At Sedan the losses of the Germans were 10,000; of the French, 14,000. The heaviness of the German loss at the battle of Gravelotte was as we have already said, largely due to the failure of the Guards at St Privat.

From these statistics of loss in battle it may be imagined what a painful task and what severe labour are thrown upon the army which remains in possession of a battle-field at the end of the fight. The length of the lines in a general engagement like Sadowa is enormous, ranging from ten to fifteen miles; and the depth of the tract over which the fighting rolls perhaps from two or three to five or six miles; so that the ‘battle-field’ is a tract of country from thirty to eighty square miles in extent, and this immense tract is strewn with thirty or forty thousand killed and wounded. Here they lie scattered, so that it is a long walk from one fallen man to another; but over there on that hill-side, or in that village where the fight was close and hot, they are thrown together in little heaps, and there is no need of searching for them. Wherever there is water, wounded men are sure to be found, who have dragged themselves down to it. Perhaps they are dead at the brink. There is little blood to be seen; the rivers of blood shed on the battle-field exist only in poetry. Of the actual blood in a pool here and there on the field, most has come from cavalry or artillery horses killed by shell-fire.

The victors in the fight have thrown on their hands not only their own wounded, but those of the enemy. The hurried telegram which announces their success gives also in round numbers a rough estimate of the loss on both sides; generally it is an unintentional exaggeration, for it is hard to judge correctly. In two or three days the real numbers are known; for the dead have been collected, counted, and buried, with great mounds of earth that will mark the battle-field for centuries, and shew too where the fight was hottest. The wounded, much more numerous than the dead, have been collected in the field-hospitals, and as many as possible are being sent off by train to the great hospitals of distant cities, in order to relieve the strain upon the resources of the medical staff and the volunteer aid societies working in the field. Hard work it is to deal with the immense mass of suffering men. Think what it is to have to arrange suddenly for even two cases of severe illness in an ordinary household, and then try to imagine what labour, care, and forethought are required to provide for many thousands of wounded men in the open country.

The care for the wounded begins while the fight is actually in progress. No help is so efficient as that which comes at once. A man is hit. If the wound is slight, he perhaps does not know anything about it till the fight is over, when he perceives that there is something wrong with his leg or his side; or if he does perceive it, he is able to bandage it at once with a handkerchief, or the bandage that now is carried by almost every soldier. The surgeon of the battalion gives him his assistance if he is at hand; but most men have to do without him if the work is hot, for he cannot multiply himself or be everywhere, though he does his best to accomplish something like it. In most armies, if the men are attacking, he can only attend to the slightly hurt, who are able to keep up with the rest. It is only when the battalion is halted or on the defensive that he can attend to the more seriously injured who fall, for they must not be left behind. The first help is always the most important; given at once to a slightly wounded man, it saves him from having to go into hospital and keeps him in the ranks; given to a fallen man, it probably saves his life. The great danger is exhaustion from loss of blood or from the nervous shock that follows a bullet-wound, which makes a man seem as if he were dying, though with a little help it soon passes off. To stop the bleeding with a tourniquet or a bandage, to give a drink of water or a little brandy, is the aid needed at the outset. This is done actually under fire.

The next help is provided by the field ambulances, or as they are very appropriately called in our service, ‘dressing-stations;’ these are established in shelter-places upon the actual battle-field in rear of the fighting line. Sometimes an inn, a farmhouse, or some barn is available for this purpose; if not, there are hospital tents or the shade of trees. Here is to be found a staff of surgeons and dressers, with appliances for the more necessary operations, and a store of stimulants and sustaining food. To bring the wounded men out of the firing, there are attached to each regiment a few trained bearers with stretchers. These bearers being provided, no man is allowed to leave the ranks to help the wounded; otherwise, every man that fell would be the means of withdrawing two others from the fight, and whole companies might melt rapidly away. The bearers remove as many as they can to the dressing-stations; they take those nearest to hand, and the wounded man who attracts their attention is lucky. Many more less fortunate than he have to wait till the battle is over, for comparatively few can be carried off during the actual fighting. Some, though too disabled to remain in the fight, can themselves make their way to the stations. They ask their way of any bearers they meet; or if they meet none, they look out anxiously for the white flag with the red cross that flies over the little harbour of refuge of which they are in search. The wounded men who are thus brought or come into the stations have their wounds dressed by the surgeons, with the help of chloroform if necessary; a record of the nature of the wound and of the treatment so far, is rapidly written on a card; and if the man will bear removal, his stretcher is placed in an ambulance-wagon, and an easy journey of three or four miles places him in the field-hospital, established in tents or buildings well out of even long-range artillery-fire.

These field-hospitals, rapidly organised with matériel that is conveyed with every well-organised army, can accommodate several hundreds of men; and while the battle proceeds, fresh field-hospitals are being got ready wherever buildings or tents are available, for the night will bring in a host of patients. At first there are few men in them; most of the wounded that have been treated are still at the field ambulances. In the evening they arrive more rapidly; next day they come in crowds, and the hospitals are encumbered with them. And now the railway system of the country comes to the help of the overburdened medical staff. Hospital trains—that is to say trains fitted with hanging-beds or stretchers, and provided with nurses and surgeons—carry back to the hospitals of great cities in the rear, all those of the wounded who can safely bear the journey. Gradually death, recovery, or removal clears the field-hospitals; one by one they are closed, their matériel and appliances are packed in the wagons of the hospital service, and with their staff of surgeons, dressers, and nurses, they follow the armies in the field. Meanwhile the hospital trains have distributed the wounded into the permanent hospitals at home or into special ones provided for the war. If the army is an English one, ships comfortably fitted up as hospitals have received the wounded at the nearest coast to the battle-field, and they are lying in comfortable hammocks, between airy decks, perhaps at anchor in some roadstead, or better still, going rapidly under sail and steam towards home.

We can dwell with satisfaction on this work of mercy, in which so many willing hands engage to repair, as far as can be done, the wreck and ruin of war. It is a work of mercy which ought to bind nations together, for men of many lands meet to labour under the red cross of mercy wherever war devastates Europe. For many, alas! the help comes too late; the bullet has done its work swiftly and surely; life is gone; or the wound is mortal and the sufferer dies, and will lie under the long green battle-mound. An officer will look at the tablet under his uniform that gives the name and corps of the fallen man, and make an entry in his list of dead; and the news is sent to his friends far away at home. These are the messages that give more pain even than the bullet or bayonet, and terrible it is to think that when men meet in battle the rapid fire of the rifle is doing its work not only in the field, but far away in distant cities and villages, where the sound of the fighting cannot be heard; and where there are women and children and old men to whom that fight will bring sorrow and pain and even death, as surely as if the rapid rifle-fire itself had swept them down. This is perhaps the darkest side of the picture, the portion of the loss caused by war, which our statistics cannot touch.

[A NARROW ESCAPE.]

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS’ ‘LE MAÎTRE D’ARMES.’

The death of the famous dog Sutherland—thus named after the Englishman who had made a gift of it to the Empress Catharine II. of Russia—nearly caused a tragic mistake, in so far as it nearly cost the donor, a celebrated banker, his life. The occurrence took place at St Petersburg.

One morning, at daybreak, Mr Sutherland, the gentleman who had presented the dog to the Empress, and who was consequently a favourite with that august personage—was suddenly awoke by his man-servant.

‘Sir,’ said the footman, ‘your house is surrounded with guards, and the master of the police demands to speak to you.’

‘What does he wish with me?’ exclaimed the banker, as he leaped from his bed, somewhat startled by this announcement.

‘I know not, sir,’ answered the footman; ‘but it appears that it is a matter of the highest importance, and which, from what he says, can only be communicated to you personally.’

‘Shew him in,’ said Mr Sutherland, as he hastily donned his dressing-gown.

The footman departed, and returned some minutes afterwards with His Excellency Mr Reliew, upon whose face the banker read at the first glance some formidable intelligence. The worthy banker, however, maintained his calmness, and welcoming the master of the police with his usual urbanity, presented him with a seat. His Excellency, however, remained standing, and in a tone the most dolorous which it was possible to assume, said:

‘Mr Sutherland, believe me when I assure you that I am truly grieved to have been chosen by Her Majesty, my very gracious sovereign, to accomplish an order, the severity of which afflicts me, but which has without doubt been provoked by some great crime.’

‘By some great crime, Your Excellency!’ exclaimed the banker. ‘And who then has committed this crime?’

‘You, doubtless, sir, since it is upon you that the punishment is to fall.’

‘Sir, I swear to you that I know not of any reproach with which to charge myself as a subject of our sovereign; for I am a naturalised Russian, as you must know.’

‘And it is precisely, sir, because you are a naturalised Russian that your position is terrible. If you had remained a subject of His Britannic Majesty, you would have been able to call in the aid of the English consul, and escape thus perhaps the rigour of the order which I am, to my very great regret, charged to execute.’

‘Tell me then, Your Excellency, what is this order?’

‘Oh, sir, never will I have the strength to make it known to you.’

‘Have I lost the good graces of Her Majesty?’

‘Oh, if it were only that!’

‘Is it a question to make me depart for England?’

‘Oh! no; even that must not be.’

‘Mon Dieu! you terrify me. Is it an order to send me to Siberia?’

‘Siberia, sir, is a fine country, and which people have calumniated. Besides, people return from it.’

‘Am I condemned to prison?’

‘The prison is nothing. Prisoners come out of prison.’

‘Sir, sir!’ cried the banker, more and more affrighted, ‘am I destined to the knout?’

‘The knout is a punishment very grievous; but the knout does not kill.’

‘Miserable fate!’ said Sutherland, terrified. ‘I see indeed that it is a matter of death.’

‘And what a death!’ exclaimed the master of the police, whilst he solemnly raised his eyes with an expression of the most profound pity.

‘How! what a death! Is it not enough to kill me without trial, to assassinate me without cause? Catharine orders, yet’——

‘Alas! yes, she orders’——

‘Well, speak, sir! What does she order? I am a man; I have courage. Speak!’

‘Alas! my dear sir, she orders—— If it had not been by herself that the command had been given, I declare to you, my dear Mr Sutherland, that I would not have believed it.’

‘But you make me die a thousand times. Let me see, sir, what has she ordered you to do?’

‘She has ordered me to have you STUFFED!’

The poor banker uttered a cry of distress; then looking the master of the police in the face, said: ‘But, Your Excellency, it is monstrous what you say to me; you must have lost your reason.’

‘No, sir; I have not lost my reason; but I will certainly lose it during the operation.’

‘But how have you—you who have said you are my friend a hundred times—you, in short, to whom I have had the honour to render certain services—how have you, I say, received such an order without endeavouring to represent the barbarity of it to Her Majesty?’

‘Alas! sir, I have done what I could, and certainly what no one would have dared to do in my place. I besought Her Majesty to renounce her design, or at least to charge another than myself with the execution of it; and that with tears in my eyes. But Her Majesty said to me with that voice which you know well, and which does not admit of a reply: “Go, sir, and do not forget that it is your duty to acquit yourself without a murmur of the commissions with which I charge you.”’

‘And then?’

‘Then,’ said the master of the police, ‘I lost no time in repairing to a very clever naturalist who stuffs animals for the Academy of Sciences; for in short, since there was not any alternative, I deemed it only proper, and out of respect for your feelings, that you should be stuffed in the best manner possible.’

‘And the wretch has consented?’

‘He referred me to his colleague, who stuffs apes, having studied the analogy between the human species and the monkey tribe.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, sir, he awaits you.’

‘How! he awaits me! But is the order so peremptory?’

‘Not an instant must be lost, my dear sir; the order of Her Majesty does not admit of delay.’

‘Without granting me time to put my affairs in order? But it is impossible!’

‘Alas! it is but too true, sir.’

‘But you will allow me first to write a letter to the Empress?’

‘I know not if I ought; my instructions were very emphatic.’

‘Listen! It is a last favour, a favour which is not refused to the greatest culprit. I entreat it of you.’

‘But it is my situation which I risk.’

‘And it is my life which is at stake.’

‘Well, write; I permit it. However, I inform you that I do not leave you a single instant.’

‘Thanks, thanks. Pray, request one of your officers to come, that he may convey my letter.’

The master of the police called a lieutenant of the Royal Guards, delivered to him the letter of poor Sutherland, and ordered him to bring back the answer to it immediately. Ten minutes afterwards, the lieutenant returned with the order to bring the banker to the imperial palace. It was all that the sufferer desired.

A carriage stood at the gate. Mr Sutherland entered it, and the lieutenant seated himself near him. Five minutes afterwards they were at the palace, where Catharine waited. They introduced the condemned man to her presence, and found Her Majesty in convulsions of laughter.

It was for Sutherland now to believe her mad. He threw himself at her feet, and seizing her hand in his, exclaimed: ‘Mercy, madame! In the name of heaven, have mercy on me; or at the least tell me for what crime I have deserved a punishment so horrible.’

‘But my dear Monsieur Sutherland,’ replied Catharine with all the gravity she could command, ‘this matter does not concern you at all!’

‘How, Your Majesty, is it not a matter concerning me? Then whom does it concern?’

‘Why, the dog of course which you gave me, and which died yesterday of indigestion. Then in my grief at this loss and in my very natural desire to preserve at least his skin, I ordered that fool Reliew to come to me, and said to him: “Monsieur Reliew, I have to request that you will have Sutherland immediately stuffed.” As he hesitated, I thought that he was ashamed of such a commission; whereupon I became angry and dismissed him on his errand.’

‘Well, madame,’ answered the banker, ‘you can boast that you have in the master of the police a faithful servant; but at another time, pray, I entreat of you, to explain better to him the orders which he receives.’

The four-footed Sutherland was duly promoted to a glass case vice the banker—relieved.

[AN INTERNATIONAL POLAR EXPEDITION.]

In a former paper on Polar Colonisation we mentioned that an American enthusiast had suggested that, with a view to the achievement of greater results, the enterprise of exploring the Arctic regions should be made an international one. A somewhat similar idea appears to have occurred about the same time to Count Wilczek, and Lieutenant Charles Weyprecht, of Arctic fame. After many months of careful consideration, these gentlemen lately issued at Vienna the programme of the work which they propose should be undertaken by an International Polar Expedition. The elaborate scheme therein propounded was originally prepared with a view to its details being fully discussed by the International Meteorological Congress which was to have met at Rome in the month of September of last year, but which, owing to political events, it has been found necessary to postpone till the present year. The peculiarity of their project is that they aim at purely scientific exploration in the Arctic and Antarctic regions, and that they leave geographical discovery out of their programme, intending that it should be undertaken by a separate expedition. To accomplish the highly important end they have in view, they suggest that each of the states participating in the work should equip an expedition and despatch it to one of the stations enumerated by them. Each of the powers interested will be left to decide how long it will continue the work and what questions should be studied beyond those laid down in the international programme. The investigations to be undertaken in common will only include the phenomena of meteorology and terrestrial magnetism, auroræ boreales, and the laws which govern the movements of ice. As of course uniformity and the utmost possible accuracy in the observations to be taken are absolutely necessary for purposes of comparison, the propounders of the scheme enter into very minute details, especially as regards the magnetic observations. The following are the places which are considered the most favourable for the purposes above indicated: (In the northern hemisphere), the north coast of Spitzbergen, the north coast of Novaya Zemlya, the vicinity of the North Cape of Finmark, the north coast of Siberia at the mouths of the Lena, New Siberia, Point Barrow at the north-east of Behring Strait (occupied by Maguire 1852-54), the Danish settlement on the west coast of Greenland, and the east coast of Greenland in about latitude 75°; (in the southern hemisphere) the neighbourhood of Cape Horn, Kerguelen or Macdonald Islands, and one of the groups south of the Auckland Islands. Each state interested, it may be mentioned in conclusion, must establish a station for a year at least, and conform strictly to the terms of the programme.

[THE FIRST PRIMROSE.]

A Primrose awoke from its long winter sleep,

And stretched out its head through its green leaves to peep;

But the air was so cold, and the wind was so keen,

And not a bright flower but itself to be seen.

‘Alas!’ sighed the Primrose, ‘how useless am I,

As here all alone and half hidden I lie;

But I’ll strive to be cheerful, contented to be,

Just a simple wild flower growing under a tree.’

Soon a maiden passed by, looking weary and sad,

In the bright early spring-time, when all should be glad,

But she spied the sweet Primrose so bright and so gay,

And the sight of it charmed all her sadness away;

And the Primrose gave thanks to the dear Lord above,

Who had sent it on such a sweet mission of love.

Catharine Davidson.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.