be found. On leaving, I looked round for the
policeman, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Later in the same day I received two letters,
one of which was from Trepow, and was as
follows: "The Swedes, Unman, Eriksson, and
Jacobsson, have been proved political criminals, and
by the sentence of court-martial are sent to the
interior of Russia. They commenced this journey
on the 17th of August of the present year. I
hasten to communicate to you this intelligence.
Herr N. N. Hôtel de 1'Europe, No. 94."

The seal with which this letter was secured
exhibited eight orders and medals, displayed on
one ribbon.

The second letter was from the head of the
national police, and contained a little strip of
paper, on which was written in the Russian
language:

"The bearer of this is" (here was a blank,
which I filled with my name), " whom I allow to
see the citadel between the hours one and three.
          " Given in Warsaw, Sep. 23, 1863.
                             " General, &c., Baron KOKFF."

I was wonder-stricken at the power of our
National Government organisation.

Somewhat before two o'clock I took a carriage
and drove to the place, which, far worse than
the Bastille, devoured hundreds more of victims
than ever did that monument of French
aristocratic activity. The day was fine, and all the
streets were bathed in sunshine. The contrast
between the glorious sunbeams and the gloomy
scene it lighted up, unspeakably depressed me.

Before me was a drawbridge crowded with
soldiers and women: the latter bringing little
baskets of linen and food for the prisoners. My
carriage drew up, and I alighted. A soldier
received my Russian note, and handed it to an
officer. I then waited ten minutes, and another
note was given me, and the gates of the citadel
were opened to me.

The intolerable stench which rises from every
Russian military establishment poisons the air
and causes sickness. A Russian officer was my
conductor.

"Do you know my countrymen who are
imprisoned here ?"

"Oh yes, but one of them is dead;" he said
this in the calmest and easiest way in the world;
"and the two others are in the division No. 6,
unless they went off with yesterday's transport."

I knew of a certainty, however, that the three
Swedes had been sent to the interior of Russia.
Probably the officer confused them with some
imprisoned Italians.

"Sir," replied I, " if I cannot see them living,
it  may be possible, perhaps, to see the place
where my poor countryman has found his last
rest? There is, no doubt, a burial-ground here."

"Yes—yes—but—- " replied the officer, with
a smile; " however, come with me."

We passed through the citadel, along the
fortress ditch, which extends by the
riverside, meeting every moment some emaciated,
pale, and suffering countenance. These figures
were, one and all, in grey ragged overcoats.
They were all Poles, and each was escorted by
two soldiers. They were going, probably, to
the examination commission, or returning from it.
There was one man who, Heaven knows by what
miracle, had obtained permission to rest for a
moment in the warm sunshine. He lay extended on
the grass, and was busied in tying up a little
bouquet of the few poor flowers he could gather.

We came to one little court which led into
another. This was the burial-place. I did not
venture to enter, because I saw at a distance
that they were throwing a neglected body into
a wide-open grave. I had seen enough, and
hurried away from the hideous spot. As we
were passing one of the pavilions, a
heart-piercing shriek was heard. My conductor would
have hurried me on, but I stood still. It was
the cry of a woman. And here the wives of
our citizens—if by mere chance, as for instance,
not having provided themselves with lanterns,
they are imprisoned—may come under the lash
as part of Russian prison discipline.

Whatever remains of happiness to Poland is
now confined within the circle of domestic life.
Persecuted, uneasy, surrounded everywhere by
despairing sorrow, the Poles give themselves up,
with all the more love and devotion, to domestic
life. They consider it their mission to rear
worthy citizens for the fatherland, and to give
their children as good an education as may be,
both as regards the affections and the intellect.
This has been for many years the only occupation
of men who despair of doing anything else
for their cruelly oppressed country.

Secretly, and like a thief, I passed by my own
old home, the house which still contained within
its walls those who were dearest to me on earth.
Silently I must pass it, and I cursed in my
soul the oppressors who separate father from
son, husband from wife. My mother heard
from a lady of our acquaintance, who chanced
to arrive by the same train, that I was in
Warsaw. How can I tell what she suffered
from this moment! " Go, my child, go!"
was her salutation to me. " The anguish
of knowing that you are here, has half killed
me!" I went away without saying farewell to
a single member of my family. If I could
have gone and lain me down in my grave!—but
no, I must live and work beside the grave
wherein they seek to lay my living throbbing
country. Next day I left Warsaw, passed the
frontier safely, and proceeded, in the service of
the National Committee, to Vienna.

            NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
            " Pickwick," " Copperfleld," &e.
        Now publishing, PART II., price Is., of
                   OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
                  BY CHARLES DICKENS.
            IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
       With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly