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Amazed and overjoyed as I was at seeing Olga, who, I supposed, had merely come to visit me, it may be imagined how my feelings were intensified when I learned that I was free. I don't think I saluted the officer, or thanked him, or took notice of anybody; I simply walked out into the clear cold spring air, with the lady on my arm, like a man in a dream. Then I began to thank her; but she stopped me.

'No,' she said; 'you must thank Ivan. He brought me the news, and gave me a letter stating where you were, and the assumed name under which he himself was known to the police; and applying for your release. He told me to remind you of what he had said when he left the school, that he would show himself grateful for your kindness to him. So he is now known to be Ivan Dolomski, instead of Peter Ivanovitch. It was terrible news to me. I have often heard of Ivanovitch, but never dreamed that he was my own brother!'

Then Ivan has gone off?' I said. 'Yes,' replied Olga.

He only saw me for a few minutes. He was in great haste, and disguised.'

I shook my head sadly. 'I fear he is desperate,' I said; yet he is a noble fellow.'

'He has only done his duty,' said Olga. 'He got you into this trouble, and it was fair he should get you out of it.'

'Yes, that's right enough, Olga,' I said. 'But how many men would have acted as he has done, under similar circumstances? Besides, I don't think I should have been in prison long. You or your father or the ambassador would have heard that I, an innocent man, was confined.'

'Ah, Richard,' exclaimed Olga-this was the first time she had called me by my Christian name you don't know what it is to put your head into the mouth of the Russian Bear.'

The colonel received me of course with the most profuse apologies. He urged as his sole excuse the fact that circumstances were SO entirely against me, and whispered confidentially 'Not that I believe you would have been kept prisoner for long.' Then he expressed his utmost surprise that the notorious Peter Ivanovitch should be none other than his old friend Colonel Dolomski's son; admitted that but for this accident his identity would probably never have been established; and complained that in his position as chief of police it was hard to be so continually wounding the hearts of friends and acquaint

ances.

And so I settled down to my usual life. Olga and I were constantly together, and before long it was no secret that we were betrothed. Of Ivan I heard and saw nothing, and his parents knew not even whether he was in Russia or not.

A year passed, during which time my relative died, and I found myself comfortably off, if not rich. I went to England for the funeral and to attend to the winding up of his affairs; but my heart was in Russia, and I determined to return thither as soon as I could. This was in 1881, the year of the assassination of Alexander II., when, after that terrible tragedy had been enacted, the bloodhounds of the government were let loose upon all suspected persons with a keenness and ferocity hitherto unexampled. I returned to St Petersburg at a moment that was both unlucky

and lucky. Olga, to whom I had telegraphed, met me at the station with swollen eyes and a tear-stained face. Ivan had not been at home for months; he had appeared suddenly a few nights previously, and had been arrested the next day, as being implicated in the plots against the late Czar.

'Perhaps you can save him, Richard,' said the girl; and I believe it will change him, if you could but take him away from those terrible men, in whose hands he is too pliant a tool. I think your influence over him is sufficient to alter him for the better.' This was all she said; but the sorrowful earnestness with which she spoke went to my heart. After our

I went to the colonel's directly. first greetings, I said to him: Colonel, I hear very bad news of young Dolomski.'

The old soldier shook his head confirmingly. I continued: 'I want you to do me an extraordinary favour'

If it is to release him, it is impossible,' interrupted the colonel.

But remember,' I went on, if he had not told me about that attempt on your house, I could not have warned you. If you had not thus been given time to go elsewhere, nothing could have saved you and the other officers.'

'That is true,' said the officer; but it was not out of affection for me that he did it, remember.'

While we were conversing, a servant brought in a message. The colonel read it and changed colour. He translated it aloud thus: From the Governor of the Citadel to Colonel Koltorf, chief officer of police.-The prisoner Dolomski has been attacked by a fellow-prisoner, and is dying.'

The colonel and I hastened to the Citadel, that huge fortress built by Peter the Great as a protection for the city, now used as a state prison, and were shown into the cell wherein Ivan lay.

He was deadly pale, and his head was bound with bloody rags; in his eye still burned that energetic fire which had led to his destruction. He said with difficulty: I have just asked for you, colonel, so that I may leave you and every one else with a better impression of me than you can have had hitherto. Three years ago, I bound myself by the most terrible oaths oaths which cannot be broken-to serve and stand by the people's cause. I was a redhot enthusiast. I hated the government, and would have risked any danger to subvert it. Then, when it was too late to repent, I cooled down. It was my lot to place that machine against your house. The machine was of my own invention. I tried to evade the terrible duty, but could not. I was able, however, by the accident of meeting and warning my old friend, Mr Cormell, to minimise the chance of awful results as much as possible. The Brotherhood suspected me, when it was known that you and the other officers had escaped; and by way of further testing me, they deputed me to cast the bomb at the Czar. I escaped. The government and the Brotherhood were equally in pursuit of me, and I was captured by the government emissaries. In the Brotherhood, there is but one punishment for the renegade that is, Death! A man recognised me as I was being conveyed

hither to-day; he got himself arrested, and attempted my life. He has succeeded !' His voice was faint now, but he gathered his strength with an effort and said: Do you forgive me? Tell Olga Then his head sank back, and he

was dead.

I had to break the news to Olga; and a heartrending scene ensued. However, I did my best to mitigate her grief, and to enable her to bear more bravely the loss of a brother whom she loved in spite of all his mad ways, by reminding her, firstly, that he had been wicked latterly from terror rather than from evil design; and secondly, that in me, whom she had blest with her love, she would possess more than a brother.

CURIOUS EPITAPH S.

THE supervision which is now exercised over the inscriptions upon tombstones has caused a great change from the epitaphs of a hundred or more years ago. In 1799 an essayist wrote: 'Too frequently do we see reason and truth set at open defiance in the very monuments which, in respect to art, are indeed elegant, but are neither consonant to the faith of the Christian spectator, nor to his recollections of the character of the person to whom it is dedicated.' Certainly when an inscription is sixty lines in length, as in the case of an epitaph upon Sir Thomas Dennison, from the pen of the Earl of Mansfield, there is no lack of room for adulation. The old essayist goes on to wish for the very supervision which is now exercised. He says: I wish that the minister of every parish would exert himself to prevent such epitaphs as we generally see from appearing upon tombs;' and in justification of his wish, he quotes several in which orthography, metre, sense, or decency, is violated. Among them are the first four.

In Wear-Gifford churchyard, Devon :

God left us not to mourn one for the other,

We was laid here

Both in one day together,
Were we must sleep
untill our heavenly King
Doth call us up
his praises for to sing.

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Southwell churchyard, Nottinghamshire, is said to contain the following:

WILLIAM CLAY,

died 4th Oct. 1775, aged 53 years.

Here lies a sportsman, jolly, kind, and free
From the cares and troubles of this world was he;
When living, his principal and general pride
Was to have a fowling-bag slung at his side,
And in the fields and woods to labour, toil, and run,
In quest of game with Pero, Cobb and gun;
But now, poor mortal! he from hence is gone,
In hopes to find a joyful resurrection.

Thomas Tipper appears to have been popular. Perhaps he was an innkeeper; if not, it is difficult to say what he was, his knowledge appears so extensive, if we are to believe his epitaph in the churchyard of Newhaven, Sussex :

He departed this life May 14th, 1785, aged 53 years.
Reader! with kind regard this grave survey,
Nor heedless pass where TIPPER's ashes lay.
Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt and kind,
And dar'd to do what few dare-speak his mind;
Philosophy and Hist'ry well he knew,
Was versed in Physic and in Surg'ry too;
The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold,
Nor did one knavish act to get his gold;
He play'd thro' life a varied comic part,
And knew immortal Hudibras by heart.
Reader! in real truth such was the man;
Be better-wiser-laugh more if you can.
In the Old Churchyard, Plymouth, is the
following:

Grieve not for me, my parents dear;
Grieve not for me, I pray;

For the thing which proved to be my death
I received upon the Quay.

John Bidwell's epitaph at Datchet, near Windsor, reads almost like the rollicking chorus of a song:

Here lies the body of JOHN BIDWELL,

Who when in life wish'd his neighbour no evil :
In hopes up to jump,

When he hears the last trump,

And triumph over Death and the Devil.

The following punning eulogium graces an actor's grave in the churchyard of Gimingham, Norfolk. Jackson belonged to the Norwich Company of comedians, and in 1777 was engaged by Colman at the Haymarket :

Sacred to the Memory of THOMAS JACKSON, Comedian, who was engaged, December 21, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters in this great Theatre, The World; for many of which he was prompted by nature to excel. The season being ended, his benefit over, the charges all

paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in the full assurance of being called once more to Rehearsal; where he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable by Him who paid the great stock debt for the Love he bore to performers in general.

Very few men or women have the privilege of reading their own epitaph, but this was enjoyed by a famous huntsman named Amos Street, at Bristol, near Leeds. The stone was bought and the epitaph inscribed on it while he was yet living, and placed over his grave when he died, which event occurred in 1777.

This is to the memory of old Aмos,

Who was, when alive, for hunting famous;
But now his chases are all o'er,

And here he 's earth'd, of years fourscore.

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The epitaphs in which-we presume, for the sake of rhyme, or to give vent to a spiteful feeling -the character of the deceased is defamed, are legion. A Scottish churchyard furnishes the following specimen of this kind of epitaph :

Here lyes MESS ANDREW GRAY,
Of whom nae muckle good can I say.
He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit;'
He was nae Papist, for he had nae merit;
He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine;
He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine.
For forty years he preached and lee'd,

For which God doom'd him when he dee'd.

On a tombstone in St Nicholas' churchyard at Brighton is the following story, which speaks for itself:

PHOEBE HESSELL, who was born at Stepney in the year 1713.

An Irishman wrote the following oft-quoted lines for his epitaph:

Here I lays,

PADDY O'BLASE,

My body quite at its aise is,
With the tip of my nose

And the points of my toes

Turned up to the roots of the daisies.
A tailor has the following epitaph :

Fate cuts the thread of life, as all men know;
And Fate cut his, though he so well could sew.
It matters not how fine the web is spun,
'Tis all unravell'd when our course is run.

In a French cemetery there are the following concise inscriptions on one tombstone. The epitaph is on husband and wife:

I am anxiously expecting you.-A.D. 1827.
Here I am!-A.D. 1867.

At Eling, near Southampton, is the following circumstantial statement:

Pray, reader, stop, and read my fate,
What caused my life to terminate;
For thieves one night, when in my bed,
Broke in my house and shot me dead.

The following, which is rather hard upon the deceased lady, is said to adorn some churchyard in Manchester:

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She served for many years as a private This other one is slightly invidious:

soldier in the Fifth Regiment of Foot in different parts of Europe, and in the year 1745 fought under the command of the Duke of Cumberland at the Battle of Fontenoy, where she received a bayonet-wound in her arm. Her long life, which commenced in the reign of Queen Anne, extended to that of King George the IV., by whose munificence she received support and comfort in her latter days. She died at Brighton, where she had long resided, December 12, 1821, aged 108.

A Cornwall churchyard is enriched with the following dainty verses:

Here lies entombed one ROGER MORTON,
Whose sudden death was early brought on;
Trying one day his corn to mow off,
The razor slipped and cut his toe off.

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Here lies MARGARET SEXTON,

Who never did aught to vex one;

Not like the woman under the next stone.

At Ockham, Surrey, a wood-cutter thus describes his final exit :

The Lord saw good; I was lopping off wood,
And down fell from the tree;

I met with a check, and I broke my neck,
And so Death lopped off me.

A photographer has this rather pat inscription over him:

Here I lie, taken from life.

In St Peter's churchyard, Isle of Thanet, is an epitaph written by some elegiac rhymster who was very careful not to stand committed to the facts:

Against his will,

Here lies GEORGE HILL,

Who from a cliff

Fell down quite stiff.

When it happened is not known,

Therefore not mentioned on this stone.

The following refers to an individual who,

And in Eldon churchyard another greatly- though placed in a menial situation, was cele relieved individual says:

Here lies my wife in earthly mould,

Peace! wake her not, for now she's still;

Who when she lived did naught but scold.

She had, but now I have my will,

brated in the neighbourhood of the Royal Exchange for his arithmetical knowledge and accurate information respecting the funds, lotteries, finance, &c. :

In Memory of a faithful servant of a kind and

In Worcester churchyard is the following affect- benevolent master. Placed in a humble station, he ing double kind of compliment:

Martha and I together lived

Just two years and a half;

She went first, and I followed after-
The cow before the calf.

Added the strictest Sobriety to inflexible Honesty, allowing no Subtraction from his Vigilance and Care, but Dividing with his master all his anxious thoughts, although he thereby Multiplied his own. He always made his own Sum a Stock of Intelligence, a fund of Information to others. He Consolidated his mind by

Journal

Fortitude, and Reduced every Calamity by Patience. Whether things were better or worse, he constantly looked upwards; and with that serenity which_marked him truly wise, he was not to be raised by a Fraction, nor depressed with a Shade. As it was his master's Interest, so he made it his Account to satisfy all, and to render to every one his due. Though surrounded by the advocates of Chance, he never denied the dispensations of Providence. Valuing the hits of fortune as unexpected prizes, no blank would he ever suffer in his mind; but was ever full of gladdening hope, and cheerful expectation that he should, on the great Settling Day, either first or last, be drawn from the grave, to receive the reward of a good and faithful

servant.

The following on Robert Gray is of an entirely different stamp:

Taunton bare him; London bred him;
Piety trained him; virtue led him;

Earth enriched him; heaven possessed him;
Taunton blessed him; London pressed him.
This thankful town, that mindful city,
Share his piety and pity.

What he gave, and how he gave it,
Ask the poor, and you shall have it.
Gentle reader, may heaven strike
Thy tender heart to do the like;
And now thy eyes have read this story,
Give him the praise, and God the glory.

The last six lines of this epitaph are exceptionally good, and it would be well if gravestones always exhibited similar sentiments, instead of so dubious an expression as occurs on a massive tomb in an ancient churchyard in the south of

Ireland:

In Memory of JULIA MOORE, who departed this life on the 16th day of July 1793, aged 49 years.-This stone was erected by her loving husband, James Moore. We have both found peace at last.

The next example differs from those preceding it in one important particular-that is, it was written by the person to whom it referred, and was evidently after the pattern of that on Robert Gray above quoted. He was one of the vicars of Kendal in Westmoreland, and the epitaph was inscribed on his tomb by his friends:

London bred me; Westminster fed me;
Study taught me; living sought me ;
Learning brought me; Kendal caught me;
Labour pressed me; sickness distressed me;
Death oppressed me; the grave possessed me.
God first gave me; Christ did save me;

Earth did crave me, and heaven would have me.

The following, which has been frequently quoted, may be seen in Crayford churchyard,

Kent:

Here lieth the body of PETER ISNELL (thirty years Clerk of this Parish). He lived respected as a pious and a mirthful man, and died on his way to church to assist at a wedding on the 31st day of March 1811, aged seventy years. The inhabitants of Crayford have raised this stone to his cheerful memory, and as a tribute to his long and faithful services.

The life of this clerk was just 3 score and ten,
Nearly half of which time he had sung out Amen.
In his youth he was married like other young men ;
But his wife died one day, so he chanted Amen.
A second he took-she departed-what then?
He married and buried a third with-Amen.
Thus his joys and his sorrows were Treble; but then
His voice was deep Bass as he sung out Amen.
On the Horn he could blow as well as most men,
So his Horn was exalted in blowing Amen.
But he lost all his wind after 3 score and ten,
And here with three wives he waits till again
The trumpet shall rouse him to sing out Amen.

In the churchyard of the Old Parish of Churchof-Braddan, Isle of Man, fastened to the wall with the following inscription on it: Here near the eastern door, may be seen a tombstone underlyeth ye Body of ye Reverend Mr PATRICK THOMPSON, Minister of God's word forty years; at present, Vicar of Kirk-Braddan. Aged 67, Anno 1678. Deceased ye 24th of April 1689.' So that the vicar apparently had his tombstone erected eleven years before his death!

At Kirk-Santon churchyard, the following epitaph is placed on the gravestone of a man

named Daniel Teare:

Here, friend, is little Daniel's tomb.
To Joseph's age he did arrive;
Sloth killing thousands in their bloom,
While labour kept poor Dan alive.

How strange, yet true, full seventy years
Was his wife happy in her tears.

DANIEL TEARE, December 9th, 1707, aged 110 years.

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER FROM

WOOD.

Most visitors to the late Edinburgh Forestry Exhibition must have noticed the series of other countries relating to a comparatively novel exhibits from Norway, Sweden, Germany, and industry-the manufacture of paper-pulp from wood. There were shown sections of decorticated pinewood side by side with rolls of paper made exclusively from this material; specimens of various kinds of wood-pulp used by the British paper-maker to blend with esparto, straw, or rag; and bottles containing curious pulpy solutions illustrative of the stages which a pine-log As few persons are aware of the extent to which has to pass through to become a sheet of paper. account of this industry may be of interest to wood is now used for paper-making, a brief

our readers.

fibre which can be freed from its incrusting It has long been known that any vegetable materials-gums and resins-is fit for papermaking. The only question which had to be solved in the case of wood was, how this could be done at a cost to enable it to compete with waste products such as rags and esparto grass. In a measure, this difficulty was overcome when the system of grinding the wood in contact with water by pressure against revolving grindstones The product thus obtained was, and is, cheap was introduced in Germany about the year 1846. thousand tons annually are imported into Great enough; and at the present day, about fifty Britain from the producing countries, which are those where pinewood is most abundant. value is six pounds per dry ton, or thereabouts, and even this low price may be surpassed, as new mills are constantly springing up in Norway, Sweden, and elsewhere to utilise the valuable water-powers which are running to waste in But although proximity to the pine-forests. mechanically prepared wood-pulp must now be admitted to rank as a paper-making materialit was at first considered an adulterant-it is by no means the best that can be made from wood. The fibres being forcibly broken away, are not fine enough to possess that felting property which is essential for good paper. Examined under the microscope, they present the

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appearance, not of ultimate fibres at all, but of bundles of fibre; of a certain length, it is true, but of too large diameter to yield a tough, wellwoven sheet of paper. Another point is, that they still contain the incrusting material of the wood, which renders them practically unbleachable. Notwithstanding these defects, however, mechanical pulp of sufficiently good quality and whiteness is now produced to serve as an important adjunct for cheap news and printing papers; and there are few daily journals that can afford to use better material and dispense with wood altogether.

population forms a pretty faithful measure of a people's intelligence and enlightenment, and happily, what with Board Schools and the cheap press, it is increasing in this country at a rapid rate. We cannot better conclude this brief sketch than with the advice of the old Laird of Dumbiedykes to his son, and adopted as the motto of the Forestry Exhibition: 'Be aye stickin' in a tree; it'll be growin' when ye're sleepin'.'

AT THE FIRESIDE.

I.

AROUND the hearth when raving storms and bitter winds

do blow,

When all the wintry wolds are wrapped in shroud of whitest snow,

When closer to him doth his rags the shivering outcast draw,

Who dreams not of a single meal, and prays but for a

thaw.

II.

Pile on more logs; the brighter that our cheery hearth doth glow,

The

As

more our hearts shall warm to those who no such blessings know

hearth and home, and kith and kin, and love of

humankind,

We may now say a few words about the newer, more expensive, and almost perfect fibre for papermaking known as chemical wood-pulp, or cellulose. Wood is perhaps the most refractory of vegetable materials from which cellular tissue is extracted. For a long time it resisted the efforts of chemists and practical men to find a satisfactory method of dealing with it. Until recently, the only system generally known was that of boiling with caustic soda solutions of great strength at a pressure of six to twelve atmospheres. Under this treatment the wood becomes soft; and at the end of the cooking, the gums and resins are found to be separated from the fibrous part of the wood, and transferred to the caustic solution, which thus acquires a black colour. The black liquor is drawn off, and the pulp turned out of the boiler and washed. It is then found to consist of fine fibres of almost pure cellulose, which may be bleached with chlorine, and made into printing, writing, or even tissue and bank-note papers. At the present time, this process is the one in general use; but it may ultimately have to yield to another known as the acid process, in which sulphurous acid is the reducing agent employed. The advocates of the latter claim that it is more economical in cost of chemicals, can be worked Is none of Thine: for Thou, O Lord, wast gracious to the with lower pressure, and gives a greater yield of fibre. These statements have still to be practically demonstrated; but we must not omit to mention that the patentee of one of the acid processes for there are several-obtained the award given by the jurors of the Forestry Exhibition for 'the best paper-making material derived from wood.'

When we consider the ubiquity and abundance of wood suitable for pulp-making, it becomes evident that this industry is one which is sure to be yet further extended and developed in the near future. Out of about five million tons of wood imported annually into Great Britain, only one per cent. comes as pulp. It seems unlikely, therefore, that any sensible impression can be made on the price, by the demand which may arise for pulp-making. Already many mills have been erected abroad for making paper and pasteboards from wood alone, and these articles are being imported to the detriment of the British manufacturer. The number of mills making wood-pulp either in connection with paper-mills, or for sale as a raw material, is approximately as follows: Germany, 488; Austria-Hungary, 154; Sweden, 53; Norway, 34; Switzerland, 11. During the last few years, the trade has also developed wonderfully in the United States and in Canada, but not to such an extent as to enable those countries to compete in the markets of Europe.

The consumption of paper per head of the

Poor wanderers, who on this earth no jot of joy can find.

III.

Poor we may be, yet not so poor but that a penny fee
We have for such; and know, O Lord, we lend it unto

Thee;

Who aideth not his brother when he knocketh at the

door,

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