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 of the Great Redan at Sebastopol, which the present owner took out himself, on 9th September, 1855, the day of the fall of the place. Handle this remnant of a scabbard thoughtfully: it once belonged to a poor fellow in the Crimea—the remainder of it was driven by a shell splinter into his side. Examine this curious old blunderbuss, and listen to its story.

"It comes from India," said Dr. Russell. "A pile of arms were brought in to headquarters at Lucknow to be surrendered. I was examining this article, when Lord Clyde—who was standing by my side—asked: 'Is it loaded?'

"No, I answered, immediately pulling the trigger. But it was! The charge tore up the ground at Lord Clyde's feet, and his escape was miraculous. His anger was considerable. No wonder I did not know it was loaded, for the steel ramrod hopped up when I tried it, but the piece was fully charged with telegraph wire cut into small pieces!"

The drawing-room contains objects of great interest. An autographed picture of the Princess of Wales fondling a kitten rests on the mantel-board with other souvenirs. Just near the piano—which is covered with some fine Japanese tapestry—is Meissonier's "1807." This beautiful plateau and coffee set of Sèvres was bought at Versailles in 1871, when the people were starving, for a trifle. A tiger's skin—a trophy from India—lies in front of a shelf over which rises a fine mirror. The knick-knacks are countless. This exquisite jade vase—studded once with rubies—was given to its present possessor by the Maharajah of Puttiala. It is one of many here. The medals, one "in memoriam" of the coronation of the Czar at Moscow, 1856, and silver trinkets are numerous—an immense "turnip" watch, the property of a great-great-grandfather, was said to be 150 years old when he first had it.

An idol from a Japanese temple, and a chobdar of rare beauty, composed of various stones of different lengths, all with some mystic meaning, are here. A hundred photographs of celebrities are set out on a screen near the door—Sir Collingwood Dickson amongst them.

"The bravest and coolest man I ever knew," said Dr. Russell. "He practically won the battle of Inkerman with his two eighteen-pounders."

The portrait of Dr. Russell's second son—now Vice-Consul at the Dardanelles—reminds him to tell me that he is now the only survivor of the original party who went with Gordon up to Khartoum when he was first appointed Governor. Gordon made him Governor of Farschodah—a bad place for a white man at present.

"I can see Gordon now," Dr. Russell said, quietly, "fighting in the trenches at Sebastopol. I can just recall a very striking incident I heard one night. There was a sortie, and the Russians got into our parallel. The trench guards were encouraged to drive them out by Gordon, who stood on the parapet, in imminent danger of his life, prepared to meet death with nothing save his stick in his hand.

Gordon Gordon! come down! you'll be killed,' they cried. But he paid no heed to them.

"A soldier said, 'He's all right. He don't mind being killed. He's one of those blessed Christians!

A large portrait of Dr. Russell is on the