shop,-" has Colonel Pooter of the Guards-he's a cousin of mine-sent a rifle to have something done to it ?" The shopman believed he had, but would inquire. It was found to be the case. "Ah," said Bagshaw, "I thought so. The fact is, I want one exactly like Pooter's; just the same weight and length; you could get one up for me I suppose,-in what time now?" A period was mentioned; Bagshaw wanted it a little sooner; however, if it was well finished, he shouldn't mind waiting. After a little discussion the order was booked, and Bagshaw moved towards the door, when suddenly stopping, he said to me: "By Jove, I forgot the very thing I came for. Let me see some pistols." Several pairs were brought, and while Bagshaw was looking at them, he interspersed his examination with frequent references to his cousin, Colonel Pooter, what a good shot he was, and so forth, and finally selected a very handsome pair, which he thought would do. They were ordered to be sent to the hotel in Covent Garden, with a supply of powder and ball, and all things needful for immediate use. Bagshaw wrote a cheque for the amount, which he carefully crossed, asked for a receipt for the same, and deposited it in his pocket-book, and taking me by the arm, walked out of the shop. We directed our steps towards Leicester-square. On the way there I asked him if it was quite correct to practise before a duel? "Why, the fact is," he replied, "all I want is just to bring my hand in. I'm told that Maxwell's a dead shot, and I mustn't be taken at a disadvantage. Of course I wouldn't practise with my own pistols, but all's fair at a gallery. I may amuse myself there as well as anywhere else. I used to hit the ace of diamonds at twelve paces, nine shots out of ten, but I dare say I've fallen off." He evidently had, for during the couple of hours that we stayed in the gallery he only once hit the target, and I began to tremble for my friend when set up before the weapon of the deadly colonel. But "the fact was," he observed, that he wanted a glass of brandy-and-water to steady his nerves: he should be all right, however, when he had got something real to shoot at. I trusted so, for his sake, though now and then a doubt would arise, whether society might not be benefited by Bagshaw's removal from it. At four o'clock Blunt met us at the hotel; we were closeted in Bagshaw's bedroom; the desk was reopened, and Bagshaw drew forth a paper. It was his last will and testament: its contents surprised me, for I had not imagined that so much personal property as was named in it was his to dispose of. Blunt and I duly witnessed the document. Bagshaw sealed it up in a sheet of foolscap, which he addressed to his solicitors, a well-known firm in Lincoln's Inn-fields, and requested me"in case he fell"-to forward it to its destination, together with the letters which he had previously written. He then went to his dressingtable, took up a pair of scissors, cut off a lock of his hair-he had a very frizzly head-folded it up in a piece of silver paper, enclosed that again in an envelope, and having written upon it simply the name of "Laura," placed it without speaking in my hand, and threw himself on the bed, burying his face in a pillow. In a few moments he rose, flushed in countenance, but apparently calm, and we descended to a private room to dinner. I never knew a man who got over painful emotions more rapidly than Bagshaw. He had a power equal to that of "The Duke" in banishing unpleasant thoughts from his mind, and on no occasion do I remember him in a merrier mood than during this dinner. We had everything in season, the hock was first-rate, and Bagshaw told some of his best stories better than usual, for though they related to personal adventures which we had heard before, they were so altered in the telling as to appear quite new. But the moment for separation came, and in the friendliest manner-dashed, it might be, with a touch of sadness-Bagshaw wrung both our hands, and uttering only the word "Remember!" -I knew what he meant got into the cab which was to carry him to the Dover mail, leaving Blunt and I to talk over the singular circumstances under which our friend had been involved in this duel. On the morning of the fourth day after Bagshaw's departure, I received a letter, bearing the Dover postmark, the address of which was so badly written that I wondered how it ever reached me. Not knowing the hand, my first thought was that it came from the Belgian baron, Bagshaw's brother-in-law, and I feared the worst. On opening it, however, my fears were dissipated by the sight of the initials "Q. B.," though they bore very little resemblance to Bagshaw's usual signature; the letter itself, too, was a terrible scrawl. It ran thus: "Ship Hotel, Dover, Friday. "Here I am again,-safe, if not sound,-for M.'s third ball passed through my right arm just above the elbow. It is only a flesh wound, but I am obliged to write with my left hand. I dropped him too,-but, I am thankful to say, he is not dead. After he was down he made me a complete apology, so my honour is restored. I hope to reach town to-morrow night, unless fever supervenes, and keeps me in bed. Come to me at Ruddle's Hotel in the Blackfriars-road and ask for Captain Battersby. I am obliged for the present to remain incog. till I know for certain that M. is out of danger. Bring Blunt with you. "Q. B." I communicated the contents of this letter to Blunt, and we mutually expressed our satisfaction that nothing worse had happened. At nine o'clock that evening we went to Ruddle's Hotel, and learned that "Captain Battersby" had arrived. We found him-that is, Bagshaw, -in a small, private room, lit only by one lamp, which was covered with a green shade and shed a sickly ray. Bagshaw had just dined, but a glass of brandy-and-water was before him; he seemed very pale-quite chalky in fact, as if he had lost a good deal of blood, and his right arm was in a sling; his voice, too, was much subdued, and he smiled in a ghastly kind of way. "Glad to see you-my dear fellows," he gasped-" take care of this arm-I've still got-a hand for you-though-not one-apiece. I'm afraid-the journey-has-been a-little-too much for my strength -but I dare say-I shall be-better-presently-what-will youtake?" We urged him not to excite himself, and by degrees he began to rally. There was no fever, he said, only weakness-and he felt that the brandyand-water did him good. Its effects, indeed, were quite marvellous, for in less than half an hour he appeared quite himself again; his voice had resumed its usual tone, and he was able to relate some of the particulars of the duel. He did not, however, add much to the account which he had written, but told us that he had received a letter from Van Schamp that morning, before he left Dover, to say that his late antagonist was much better. "I perfectly exonerated her," he said, " and Maxwell was quite satisfied that my visit was a purely innocent one, but, of course, under the circumstances, I can't see her again. Indeed, it would be of no use trying to do so, for she has taken refuge in a convent. The fact is, she is a Catholic! You can give me back that letter-and the others. If I can stand the journey I shall go down to-morrow to my father's in Wiltshire. I haven't been on very good terms with the old gentleman lately, and that thought haunted me a good deal while I was at Ostend." This show of feeling was creditable to him, and both Blunt and I looked as if we thought so; not to fatigue him we then took leave, promising to see him off next morning. We breakfasted accordingly at Ruddle's; Bagshaw seemed much better, the colour had returned to his cheeks, and his arm, he said, was going on very well. He had a narrow escape, however, of being thrown back again, for just as he was stepping into the Wiltshire Telegraph an awkward porter ran against him with a heavy carpet-bag, striking him on the right shoulder. I expected to have seen him drop, but he took no notice of the accident, his attention being, apparently, absorbed at the moment by a very pretty girl at the bar of the hotel, to whom he was in the act of kissing his hand. "How uncommonly well Bagshaw bears pain," I remarked to Blunt, as the Wiltshire Telegraph drove off. "Uncommonly!" said Blunt, drily. Well he might say so; for, about six months afterwards, we both discovered, what various circumstances had led us to suspect that there was nothing the matter with Bagshaw's arm. To use his own words: "the fact is," there had been no duel-he never went to Ostend-but had run up a bill at Dover instead-Laura was a creature of his imagination, and there never was such a person as Maxwell! How this all came out arose from the fact of my being applied to, to pay the cheque which was returned to the gunsmith, with " no effects" written across it. The pistols, I suspect, found their way to the pawn broker's. SHALL THE RUSSIAN REACH THE BALKAN MOUNTAINS? BY NICHOLAS MICHELL. ON Hæmus' hills of ancient fame we stand*— On which the moon doth glory throw, Like beams wreathed round the sainted head, And stars, still sentinels, are keeping While, shimmering 'neath the moon, Like a still smooth lagoon, Far to the East the Euxine's waters shine: Save, hung 'twixt waves and skies, Some star-lit sail, like a white spirit, gliding, All slowly, silently. Grandeur and Solitude on these vast steeps And shall the Invader reach this mountain mass? That blackened Græcia's coast, And sent from hill to hill its bee-like hum. * The Balkan range-the Hamus of the Greeks. But different shall their doom be; Britain, Gaul, No sad three hundred brave, For power, as well as valour, on our side, We'll crush the Vandals, bow the Northmen's pride. In deep-tongued thunder, and to belch forth death. Blind, rash aggressors! it will be too late; Few shall survive to tell the tale of fear. How changed the scene! peace, solitude, no more Shall Stamboul fall, and savage Cossacks ride The wall of brass that England rears, The vanquished Russians swift retire; Drive them to whence they came-the land of bears; |