that the pocket-book should first be felt for, and,
if not there, the matter should go no farther.
So Edward made a stumble and fell against Mr.
Hardie and felt his left breast: the pocket-book
was there:— "Yes," he whispered: and Mr.
Hardie, in the act of remonstrating at his clumsiness,
was pinned behind, and his arms strapped
with wonderful rapidity and dexterity. Then
first he seemed to awake to his danger, and
uttered a stentorian cry of terror, that rang
through the night and made two of his three
captors tremble.

"Cut that," said Green sternly, " or you'll
get into trouble."

Mr. Hardie lowered his voice directly: " Do
not kill me, do not hurt me;" he murmured,
"I'm but a poor man now. Take my little
money; it is in my waistcoat pocket; but spare
my life. You see I don't resist."

"Come, stash your gab, my lad," said Green
contemptuously, addressing him just as he
would any other of the birds he was accustomed
to capture: " It's not your stiff that is wanted,
but Captain Dodd's."

"Captain Dodd's?" cried the prisoner with a
wonderful assumption of innocence.

"Ay, the pocket-book," said Green: " here,
this! this!" He tapped on the pocket-book,
and instantly the prisoner uttered a cry of
agony, and sprang into the road with an agility
no one would have thought possible; but
Edward and Green soon caught him, and, the
Doctor joining, they held him, and Green tore
his coat open.

The pocket-book was not there. He tore open
his waistcoat; it was not in the waistcoat: but
it was sewed tightly to his very shirt on the
outside.

Green wrenched it away, and bidding the
other two go behind the prisoner and look over
his shoulder, unseen themselves, slipped the
shade of his lantern.

Mr. Hardie had now ceased to struggle and
to exclaim; he stood sullen, mute, desperate;
while an agitated face peered eagerly over each
of his shoulders at the open pocket-book in
Green's hands, on which the lantern now poured
a narrow but vivid stream of light.

WHEN ORDER REIGNED IN WARSAW.

IN the month of June, 1830, Europe was still,
more or less, in the condition in which it has
been placed by the Congress of Vienna. The
French Revolution of 1830 had not yet burst
forth, and, by its example, laid the train for the
subsequent revolutions of Belgium and Poland—
the one successful in its issue, the other crushed
only after a long and desperate struggle. Poland
then slept, or appeared to sleep. If, by secret
conspiracy, materials had been already heaped
together for the future conflagration, the fact
was wholly unsuspected. The eventual
outbreak took the Russian authorities completely
by surprise, in spite of the extensive and all-
comprising system of espionage which seemed to
allow no sigh to be uttered, no breath to be
breathed, no thought to be conceived, report of
which was not, or might not be, made to the
superior powers.

At the moment of my arrival at Warsaw,
whither, just at that period— the boyish impulses
of a roving disposition had led me, through a
singular labyrinth of zig-zag caprices— the Polish
Diet, or figment of a Diet— the last which was
ever assembled— was being held in that city.
The Emperor and Empress of Russia, with a
brilliant court, were present. The Grand-Duke
Constantine, the brother of the emperor, reigned
supreme in the land; and the assemblage of the
Diet, under the circumstances, was but a mockery.
In fact, the constitution, which had been guaranteed
to Poland, as an independent kingdom, and
sworn to be observed by the Emperors of Russia,
provided that the viceroyalty of the land should
be always vested in a Polish nobleman of imperial
appointment.

But this fundamental point, like so many other
clauses in that disregarded charter, had become
a nullity. Upon the decease of the last viceroy,
in 1825, no steps were taken for any further
choice. The post was left unfilled; and
Constantino, who had abdicated the imperial crown
in favour of his younger brother Nicholas, although
in truth no more than the commander of
the forces in Warsaw, had repaid himself for his
sacrifice by arrogating— in spite of the constitution,
the laws of the country, and the oath of
the emperor— the whole of the executive power
in Poland. The Emperor Nicholas, who thus
owed to his brother an empire, seemed to think
it but fair to shut his eyes to the usurpation of
a kingdom by the abdicator.

Festivities of the most varied kind, in honour
of the visit of the emperor and empress, were
succeeding each other, day by day, night by night.
Parades or reviews generally occupied the mornings.
The most extensive and brilliant of these
military spectacles was the review of the whole
Polish army by the Emperor Nicholas.

At dawn all Warsaw is astir in eager anticipation.
The sun rises clear and glorious on the
day. The whole city pours forth in carriages, in
droshkas, on horseback, or on foot, to the spot
on which the review is to be held— a vast sandy
plain to the westward of the city. A long ridge
of bald hill, gently sloping to the level of the
plain, skirts a lengthy tract of land. On the
brow of this slope, facing the spot which is
destined to be the centre of the manoeuvres and
review, is situated a gorgeous tented pavilion, to
be used as a chapel for the performance of the
rites of the Greek Church. It was always the
policy of the Emperor Nicholas to unfurl the
banner of the Greek religion— " the one, the
holy, and the true," as the Russians call it— on
all state occasions; and its blessing was to be
sought on all "deeds of arms," whether in mimic
or in real war. To-day, a blessing is to be given
to the emperor; to his well-beloved subjects of
the kingdom of Poland, and to the army. In a