THE

Central Literary Magazine.

It must be borne in mind that this Magazine is neutral in Politics and Religion; its pages are open to a free expression of all shades of opinion without leaning to any.

"MOPING again, Frank! Upon my word you are a lively companion to-night! Here have we been pacing this precious deck for half-an-hour at least, and you've scarcely vouchsafed me a dozen words. Why, man, you ought to be as jolly as a sand-boy, as they say in England, now you know that the fleet is to have an innings to-morrow."

"Can't help it, Harry," said his companion, sighing, "I can't help it. You fellows have had batches of letters to-day, and not even a solitary line has fallen to my lot. Upon my soul," he cried, stamping the deck, "I did not think I should so soon be forgotten; but the women are all alike, I suppose, all alike."

"Why, Frank," returned his friend, "you've soon changed your creed. I thought there was no other woman in the world like your Valetta beauty, for, I presume, that is the woman' to whom you refer. But I see I'm on dangerous ground, so I'll leave you to your solitude,

and go below." And, shaking the ashes from his pipe, he descended the cabin stairs.

It was a lovely starlight night in October, 1854, when this conversation took place on board the little steam-tender, the Circassia, to which Frank Maitland, first officer, or sailing master of the Caradoc, had recently been appointed temporary commander, with his friend, Harry Temple, as first officer.

Both were fine young fellows, brave and open-hearted, and sworn friends and confidants. Frank, unfortunately for his peace of mind, was of an exacting and jealous temperament, and the young lady to whom the slight allusion was made, was singularly endowed with all those qualities which are calculated to make such a man either supremely miserable or exquisitely happy, or both by turns.

At the time when my little story begins, and for some months previously, Miss Ellen Hartland had been staying at Malta on a visit to her uncle, a well-to-do merchant, whose stores in the Marina, and pretty little country house outside Valetta, were as well known as the Fort St. Elmo or the Strada St. Giovanni; and as the naval officers calling at Malta were as pleased to partake of his hospitality on shore as Mr. Hartland was to join in their pleasant parties on board ship, Frank Maitland, when in charge of the despatch boat plying between Marseilles and Balacklava, had frequent opportunities of seeing the charming young lady. Admiration soon developed, on his part at least, into infatuation; and he had obtained permission of the uncle, with whom he was a great favourite, to correspond with his niece and to win her if he could.

That Miss Hartland's attractions would have elicited admiration in any society is beyond question, but when seen in contrast with the darkhued belles of Malta, it was no wonder that men were enraptured and women envious. Her beauty was of a thoroughly English type. With luxuriant golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a charming complexion; with a figure well proportioned and of medium height, her outward appearance left nothing to be desired. But as a faithful chronicler I am bound to admit, as regards her mental qualifications, that she was intelligent rather than intellectual. She was, moreover, endowed with an amount of self-possession verging almost on coldness. Owing to this peculiar temperament, it happened, that whilst her admirers, figuratively speaking, lost their heads as a natural sequence to losing their hearts, she herself had so far remained apparently unscathed. There might be, perhaps, a depth of feeling and tenderness still dormant in her nature which few suspected, but it had not yet been reached. If she were a flirt, as many avowed, it was unintentional, and was due rather to her position as the only lady in the household of her uncle, who was a widower and childless, than to any inherent propensity for flirting. In fact she might with very good grace have paraphrased Cæsar's exclamation, and said "I came; I was seen; I conquered."

Having thus endeavoured to satisfy the reader's curiosity as to Miss Hartland's appearance, it is time to return to my hero, whom I left moodily pacing the deck of the Circassia.

A few minutes only had elapsed since Harry Temple's abrupt departure, when Frank was aroused from his reverie by sounds of music issuing from the saloon. He was by no means in a cheerful mood, as we have seen, and the singing jarred upon his feelings all the more acutely from the knowledge that with the early morrow a fierce and doubtful battle would begin. His vexation was, however, soon changed to consternation when in the air of the song he recognised "The Gipsy's Tent," a familiar glee in which his own voice had, scarcely a month since, mingled in harmony with that of Miss Hartland.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "music to-night, and that song above all others? How came it here?" and calling to the quarter-master, who was just then passing, he said, "Any strangers or visitors on board to-night, Adams?" "Yes, Sir," was the reply; "volunteer surgeon from Malta; asked for the third officer, Mr. Williams. He's going on shore in the morning, Sir."

"Thank you, Adams," said Frank, "that will do ;" and in a moment more he had joined his brother officers below.

His sudden arrival was not, however, immediately noticed, and, to use an expressive phrase, he thus had time to "take stock" of the stranger, Doctor Eccles, a tall, handsome young fellow, as dark as a creole, but with a lively, intelligent face. The doctor was apparently about to repeat the song, when Frank, stepping hurriedly forward, said, "Excuse me, Sir, I have not the pleasure of knowing you, but that song is very familiar to me; will you allow me to look at it?" and, grasping the piece of music as he spoke, he caught sight of the initials "E. H." inscribed thereon.

Frank made a strong effort to control himself, but in vain. He would have faced danger and death in battle with calmness, but the sight of those two simple letters overcame him.

In a voice tremulous with suppressed rage, he exclaimed, "How came you in possession of this music, Sir?"

"Sir," replied Dr. Eccles, "although I do not admit your right to question me, I may say that it was given to me by a very charming young lady at Malta."

The answer only added fuel to the fire.

"Given do you say?" said Frank.

"Given," was the reply.

By a supreme effort he suppressed the epithet that was almost on his lips, and with forced politeness said, "Sir, you are a guest on board this boat to-night, and as such you are entitled to my courtesy; but here is my card, and to-morrow I shall demand—yes, Sir, I see you smile—I shall, demand an explanation."

"At your service, Sir, when and where you please," said Eccles.

At this moment the quarter-master entered the saloon, and handing a letter to Frank said, "A message, Sir, from the flag-ship."

"Gentlemen," said Frank, "duty calls, I must ask you to excuse me. I wish you all good night." And he immediately retired to his cabin to read the letter, the object of which will be described in the next chapter

CHAPTER II.

It was not until he found himself in the privacy of the cabin which his friend had kindly given up to his use for the night, that Dr. Eccles looked at the card which Maitland had thrust into his hand. As soon as he caught sight of the name, however, he exclaimed with astonishment, "Maitland! Maitland! by Jove! then my impetuous friend is the very man to whom this epistle is addressed," taking a letter from his pocketbook at the same moment. "Upon my word it would serve him right to pitch Miss Hartland's little missive through the port-hole and say nothing at all about it. Well," he continued, "I rather think I'm in a confounded fix; if I give him the letter before he 'demands an explanation,' as he puts it, he will dub me a coward; if I keep it in my pocket until our little affair is over, perhaps he may not get it at all; however, I'll sleep on it." And with this wise conclusion he leaped into his berth and was soon fast asleep.

When he arose in the morning, refreshed by his night's rest, and free from excitement, he wondered how he could have conceived, even for a moment, such a diabolical idea as to withhold Ellen's letter from Maitland. "Poor fellow," he said, "I daresay he has been anxiously expecting it, and I know how I should feel under similar circumstances. I'll find him out at once, and deliver it, as Miss Hartland bade me, with my own hand."

In pursuance of this resolution, as soon as he emerged from the cabin he enquired for Mr. Maitland, but to his great vexation he found that Frank had already left the steamer, and in accordance with the instructions received the previous night, was now engaged with the RearAdmiral on board the flag-ship.

Comforting himself with the assurance that he would have an opportunity to carry out his good intentions later in the day, he proceeded to the saloon. He had scarcely finished his breakfast, however, when a messenger arrived with orders for him to go on shore at once, and proceed to the rendezvous of the Ambulance Corps at Mackenzie's farm, when he would receive definite instructions from the officer to whose brigade he was to be attached.

Here we must leave Dr. Eccles for a time, whilst we follow Frank to the Agamemnon, and narrate the result of his visit.

"Mr. Maitland," said Sir Edmund Lyons, as soon as Frank appeared, "I wish to ask you a few important questions in reference to the soundings you made so successfully a few nights ago. There is a spot," said he, pointing to a chart lying on the table, "where I think I could do considerable damage to Fort Constantine and yet escape the angles of her batteries myself; but I am in doubt whether the shoal in

What say

front here will permit the Agamemnon to approach so near. you, Sir?" "We did not go so far as that, Sir Edmund, the other night," said Frank. "Our movements, as you know, Sir, were heard by the Russian sentinels although we used muffled oars; but my private opinion is that there is depth enough and to spare. But to avoid risk to your ship, Sir, I will, if you will permit me, run the Circassia ahead of the Agamemnon and take soundings as I go, so as to feel the way for you. "Why, Mr. Maitland," he replied, "don't you know that such an act would be certain death?"

"I am willing to run the risk, Sir; nay, I ask it as a favour?"

Sir Edmund paused for a few moments before he replied, and paced up and down his cabin, apparently in deep and anxious thought. At last he said, "Maitland, I admire your pluck, you will perform a public service, and I consent, but I do so with a heavy heart. Go! and may God speed you. You will find either a sailor's grave or prompt promotion."

"Thank you, Sir," said Frank, as without further comment he withdrew to prepare his little steamer for the task.

Within half-an-hour the Circassia was ready, and, at a preconcerted signal, she steamed ahead on the off side of the Agamemnon. At the first attempt to sound, the lead line was struck from the leadsman's hands by a shot; another and another shared the same fate, but still the little craft kept on her way. Shot and shell were pouring around, two leadsmen were already dangerously wounded; but, nothing daunted, Frank took the lead line in hand himself, and bravely stuck to his post, until, at length, the cheers from the flag-ship-cheers louder even than the boom of the guns-proclaimed that the feat was accomplished, and the Agamemnon safely moored in the coveted spot.

While Frank was absorbed in his dangerous task, Harry Temple, with a portion of the crew, was busily engaged in preventing the steamer from catching fire. Eight shots had lodged in her hull, and she was steaming round to return to her appointed position, when a ninth shot struck her on the funnel, shattering it to atoms. A splinter of the iron-work caught Frank's right arm, causing a very ugly wound, but he firmly refused to leave the deck until the Circassia was safe at her moorings, and his wounded sailors had been carefully tended. At length, however, weakened by pain and loss of blood, he could no longer stand, and he was carried, half-fainting, to his cabin. Thus the temporary command of the Circassia devolved upon Harry Temple.

A little later on, the entire fleet was engaged, and eleven hundred pieces of heavy artillery were delivering their terrific fire against the forts. It is not my province to describe the events of that day. The unsuccessful attempt to destroy the stronghold of Russia is a matter of history. All that brave men could do was done, but the stone walls of Sebastopol, aided by the genius of Todleben, were, as yet, too strong for wooden ships and English pluck.

It would not be unnatural to suppose that the apparently trifling episode of the previous night had been entirely effaced from Frank's