laid him on the beach, careful that his head should lie high in the warm sunshine. The bells rang in the large white building, and many young maidens came through the garden. Then the little mermaid swam further out, behind some high rocks which jutted out of the water; and she laid foam on her hair and breast, so that no one might perceive her little face, and so she watched to see what would become of the poor prince. She did not wait long, for a young girl came that way. She appeared very much frightened, but only for a moment; for she called some men, and the mermaid saw that the prince had revived, and that he smiled to those around himthough he had never smiled to her. He did not know that she had saved him; but she felt so hurt, that, when he was carried away into the great building, she dived sorrowfully under the water and returned to her father's castle.

She had ever been quiet and thoughtful; but now she was still more so. The sisters enquired what she had seen the first time she had been above; but she gave no reply. Many mornings and evenings she went to where she had left the prince. She saw how the fruit in the garden ripened and was gathered; she saw how the snow melted from the high mountains; but she never saw the prince; therefore she returned home ever more sadly. Her only consolation was to sit in her little garden and throw her arms around the marble statue that resembled the prince. She ceased to heed her flowers; and they grew like a wilderness and intertwined their long branches and leaves in the willow boughs, so that it was quite dark underneath.

At last she could contain herself no longer, and told her secret to one of the sisters, who immediately told it to all the rest. With the exception of two other mermaids, no one else knew it—except their particular friends. One of them knew who the prince was; for she had seen him at the fête on board the ship, and she knew who he was, and where his kingdom lay. "Come, little sister," said the princesses, and they mounted in a long row to where they knew the prince's castle was.

The castle was built of clear, yellow, shining stone, with a great marble staircase which reached down to the sea. Splendidly gilt cupolas reared themselves over the roof, and marble statues stood, life-like, between the columns which surrounded the whole building. Through the lofty clear-glass windows you might see the splendid saloon, where costly satin-curtains and tapestry were suspended, while the walls were decorated with large pictures, which it was a real pleasure to look at. In the centre there was a fountain; and its jets were thrown high up towards the glass dome in the ceiling, through which the sun shone on the water and on the beautiful plants growing in the basin beneath.

Now she knew where he lived, she was on the water many evenings and many nights. She swam much nearer the land than either of the others had dared; and she even went entirely up the narrow canal under the magnificent balcony, which cast a long shadow on the water. There she sat and watched the young Prince, who fancied he was quite alone in the clear moonshine. Many evenings she saw him sail with music on board his splendid boat which was decked with flags. She lurked amongst the green sedges; and, as the wind seized her long, silvery-white veil, and any one saw it, he believed it was a swan spreading out its wings. When fishermen, at night, were on the sea with torches, she often heard so much good related of the young prince that it rejoiced her to have saved his life. She thought of the time when he had been driven about, half dead, by the waves. She remembered how firmly his head rested on her bosom, and how heartily she kissed him whilst he was unconscious. She began to love human beings more and more; she wished she could live with them; their world seemed so much larger than her own. They could fly over the sea in ships, and ascend the high mountains above the clouds. The land they possessed, with forests and fields, extended further than she could see. There was so much she wished to know; but her sisters were unable to answer her; and therefore she asked her old grandmother, who knew the high world thoroughly. "If men were not drowned, would they live for ever ?" asked the little mermaid. "Do they not die as we do below?" "Yes," replied the old lady, "they must die, and their lifetime is still shorter than ours. We may be three hundred years old; but, when we cease to exist, we shall be changed into sea-foam, and have no grave here amongst those dear to us. We have no immortal soul-never live again; but are like the green rushes, which, once cut through, never again grow Human beings have souls which live for ever-live still after the body has become dust, and ascend through the pure air to the shining stars. As we ascend out of the water and look at the land of men, so they mount up to glorious unknown regions which we can never see." Why have we no undying souls ?” asked the little mermaid, sadly. "I would willingly give all the hundreds of years that I have to live to be a human being for only one day, and then be able to hope to participate in the heavenly world." "You dare not think so," said the grandmother. feel much happier and better than men." "Must I also die and float as foam on the sea, neither hearing the music of the waves, nor seeing the lovely flowers and glowing sun? Is there not any thing I can do to win an immortal soul?" "No," replied the old woman; "only if you were so dear to a man as to be more than father and mother to him; if he gave all his thoughts and love to you; and if the priest placed his right hand in yours, with the

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promise of fidelity here and throughout eternity-then his soul would infuse itself into your body, and you too would share the blessings of mankind. He would give you a soul and retain his own. But that can never be. Your fish-tail, which is beautiful in the sea, would be ugly on the land. There you must have two stout props, which they call legs." The little mermaid sighed, and looked sadly at her fish tail. "Let us be joyful," cried the old lady. "We will hop and jump the three hundred years we have to live. Is not that long enough ?-and we can rest afterwards. This very afternoon we will have a court-ball."

(To be concluded in our next number.)

WHOSE FAULT WAS IT THAT KARS FELL?

WHOSE fault was it that Kars fell? That it was not General Williams's fault, all parties are agreed. Loud have been the demands, both in Parliament and out of it, for the disclosure of the real culprit; and, in reply, Lord Palmerston has presented the world with one of those unfathomable Blue-books, in which a Minister's crime and his defence are alike hopelessly buried. We have zealously studied this lively tome for an answer to our question; and, that our readers may be spared a like painful task, we will lay before them in briefer form, the impression it has left on our minds.

Kars fell, as every one knows, for want of food; and those to whose negligence that want is due, are of course guilty of its fall. The culprits, therefore, whose names we have to seek, are-first, those who hindered General Williams's efforts to provision the town before it was besieged; and, afterwards, those who failed to relieve him during the five months that he held out against blockade. With any other questions we shall not now concern ourselves. In what condition General Williams found the administration of the Asiatic provinces and the Turkish army; how the commanders were drunkards, gamblers, debauchees ; how the commissaries were swindlers; how the regiments were returned at double their numbers, that the colonels might steal the pay and the rations; how the soldiers were shoeless and clotheless, without knapsacks and without saddles, and twenty months in arrear of pay; how their horses were starved on thirds of rations; how they themselves were fed on adulterated food out of poisoned coppers; how, when ill, they were doctored by barbers, and physicked on roseleaves, and suffered to die by hundreds in the putrid atmosphere of pest houses, nicknamed hospitals; and how the Seraskier, at Constantinople,

connived at and promoted those who did these things; are matters on which, however interesting, it would be beside our present purpose to dilate. They will be a profitable study for those sanguine minds that dream of the permanency of the Turkish Empire.

When General Williams landed in Asia, in September, 1854, he found Erzeroom under the government of one Ismail Pasha, and the command of the army in the hands of Zarif Mustapha Pasha. Ismail was honest, but old and indolent. Zarif, like the majority of his brethren, was a swindler. He was making his fortune by drawing twice as much pay and rations as he issued, and pocketing the remainder. The moment Colonel Williams arrived, he set himself with energy to root out the countless abuses that crippled the Turkish army. By remonstrances, by threats, by constant appeals to Constantinople, he did succeed in effecting some little reform; but he naturally had to encounter the desperate opposition of the commanders, who made their livelihood from the abuses he was destroying. Shortly after his arrival, Zarif was removed, on account of the loss of a battle which he had imprudently hazarded with the Russians, in August. But his successor, Shukri Pasha, was even more hostile to the Englishman's measures than Zarif had been, being both a more resolute and a more profligate man. He treated Williams with marked disrespect, excluded him from all share in military deliberations, debarred him from access to the information on which his remonstrances had hitherto been based, and entirely disregarded his advice. General Williams's representations at last procured Shukri's removal also; but too late to remedy the mischief he had done. The consequence was, that, thwarted on the spot, and his appeals, earnest and constant as they were, utterly disregarded by the accomplice authorities at Constantinople, General Williams was totally unable, single-handed, to provision Kars thoroughly before the campaign commenced. It was not that provisions were scarce. The fertile valleys of Armenia offered supplies that would have been abundant for a far larger army. But the commissary embezzled the money that was to pay for them; the governor was too apathetic to collect them; what were collected, the commander was too drunk to transport. Some were stored at Erzeroom; some were left in undefended depôts at a distance from Kars, where they were ultimately swept off by the Russians. The natural result was that General Williams found himself, in June, beleaguered by the Russians, with but six months' provisions for his men, and very much less for his horses.

Now, of course, the first culprits are the Turks-the irreclaimably corrupt Pashas. But that which gave General Williams so little weight among them, and led them to disregard alike his threats and his prayers, was his want of a recognized position. The autho

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rity which he claimed was necessary indeed; but it was usurped, and in that light it was regarded by the Turks. When he interfered, they naturally said: "A commissioner is a person sent to inspect, not to control; to report, not to reform. Are you commander of this army?" And the English Government are much to blame for the want of foresight which put this unanswerable retort into their mouths. Nor is Lord Stratford's conduct irreproachable in this particular. He was guilty of carelessness and procrastination, which contributed not a little to the disastrous result, and which has led the English public to visit the whole responsibility, perhaps hastily, upon him. During the first months of General Williams's mission, at a time when his authority was least regarded, and he stood most in need of support, the Ambassador systematically suffered every one of his despatches to remain unanswered. True, he transmitted the Commissioner's remonstrances to the Porte, though in a somewhat perfunctory way; but he never acknowledged a single letter. At last, when the number of these had reached sixty-one, General Williams complained; and then the Foreign Office forced Lord Stratford into more courteous conduct. But the impression created by this subject among a people who attach so much to forms of courtesy as the Turks, paralysed all General Williams's exertions. They saw a foreigner come among them, meddling in every depart ment of the administration, obviously exceeding the terms of his written commission, and claiming to do so under the sanction of the British Government and its well-known Ambassador at the Porte; and they saw post after post going out and never a post return. Was it unnatural that they should hasten to interpret this slight on Lord Stratford's part as a disclaimer of any connection with the meddlesome adventurer? They learned afterwards to treat him with more respect; but the time lost was irreparable. The loss of those few months was the loss of Kars. And it is impossible to avoid noticing, at least in the earlier part of Lord Stratford's despatches, constant, though guarded, efforts to disparage General Williams's advice.

Such were the causes which prevented Kars from being provisioned in time. For the causes which prevented its relief, and which are rather more intricate, we must turn our eyes to Constantinople.

During the whole winter of 1854-5, indeed ever since his discovery that the effective Turkish force scarcely equalled half its complement on paper, General Williams had been loudly pressing for reinforcements; but the same apathy or corruption at the Porte, which had throughout obstructed all his efforts, had hitherto paid not the slightest attention to his demands. Strange it is that the extreme importance of Kars should not have forced itself on the most heed