WHICH TREATS OF THE SURGEON'S PERSON AND LIFE.

The surgeon was born in a small town of East Bothnia, the same day as Napoleon I., August 15th, 1769. I well remember the day, as he always used to celebrate it with a little party of relatives and a dozen children; and as he was very fond of the latter, we were allowed to make as much noise as we pleased, and throw everything into absolute confusion on this anniversary.

It was the pride of the surgeon's life that he was born on the same day as the Great Conqueror, and this coincidence was also the cause of several of his important experiences. But his pride and ambition were of a mild and good-tempered kind, and quite different from the powerful desires which can force their way through a thousand obstacles to attain an exalted position. How often does the famous one count all the victims who have bled for his glory on the battlefield, all the tears, all the human misery through which his way leads to an illusionary greatness, perhaps, doomed to last a few centuries at most?

The surgeon used to say that he was a great rogue in his childhood; but exhibiting good intelligence, he was sent by a wealthy uncle to a school in Vasa.

At eighteen, with a firkin of butter in a wagon, and seventeen thalers in his purse, he went to Abo to pass his examination. This well accomplished, he was at liberty to strive for the gown and surplice of an ecclesiastic. But his thoughts wandered far too often from his Hebrew Codex to the square where the troops frequently assembled.

"Oh!" thought he, "if I were only a soldier, standing there in the ranks, and ready to fight like my father, for king and country."

But his mother had placed an emphatic veto on the matter, and exacted a solemn promise from him that he would never become a warrior.

Before, however, he was through Genesis, an incident suddenly occurred which completely altered his good intentions. This was an announcement in the daily paper from the Medical Faculty, which stated that students who wished to take service as surgeons during the war could present themselves for private medical instruction, after which they could reckon upon being ordered out with five or six thalers per month to begin with, as the war was at its height.

Now, young BÄck would no longer be denied; he wrote home that as a surgeon's duty is to take off the limbs of others, without losing his own, he wished to volunteer. After some trouble he received the desired permission. In a moment the Codex was thrown away. He did not learn, he devoured surgery, and in a few months was as capable a chirurgeon as most others; for in those times they were not very particular.

Our youthful surgeon was in the land campaigns of 1788 and 1789; but in 1790 at sea; was in many a hard battle, drank prodigiously (according to his own account), and cut off legs and arms wholesale in a most skilful way. He then knew nothing about the coincidence of his birth with Napoleon's, and therefore did not yet consider himself as under a lucky star. He often told the story of the eventful 3rd of July in Wiborg Bay, when on board the "StyrbjÖrn" with Stedingk, at the head of the fleet, they passed the enemy's battery at Krosserort's Point, and he was struck by a splinter on the right cheek, and carried the mark to his grave. The same shot which caused this wound wrought great havoc in the ship, and whizzing by the admiral's ear, made him stone-deaf for a time; BÄck with his lancet and palsy drops restored Stedingk's hearing in three minutes. Just then the danger was greatest and the balls flew thick as hail.

The vessel ran aground.

"Boys, we are lost," cried a voice.

"Not so!" answered Henrik Fagel, from Ahlais village, in Ulfsby, "send all the men to the bow; it is the stern that has stuck."

"All men to the prow," shouted the commander. Then the "StyrbjÖrn" was again afloat, and all the Swedish fleet followed in her wake. BÄck used to say:

"What the deuce would have become of the fleet if Stedingk had remained deaf?"

Everyone understood the old man; he had saved the entire squadron. Then he used to laugh and add,

"Yes, yes! You see, brother, I was born on the 15th of August; that is the whole secret; I am not to be blamed for it."

After the war was over, BÄck went to Stockholm, and became devoted to the king. He was young, and needed no reason for his attachment.

"Such a stately monarch," was his only idea.

One day, in the beginning of March, 1792, the surgeon, a handsome youth—to use his own expression—had through a chamber-maid at Countess Lantingshausen's, who in her turn stood on a confidential footing with Count Horn's favourite lackey, obtained a vague inkling of a conspiracy against the king's life. The surgeon resolved to act Providence in Sweden's destiny, and reveal to the monarch all that he knew, and perhaps a little more. He tried to obtain an audience of the king, but was denied by the chamberlain, De Besche. A second attempt had the same result. The third time, he stood in the road before the royal carriage, waving his written statement in the air.

"What does this man want?" asked Gustave III. of the chamberlain.

"He is an unemployed surgeon," replied De Besche, "and begs your Majesty to begin another war, that he may go on lopping off legs and arms."

The king laughed, and the forlorn surgeon was left behind.

A few days afterwards the king was shot.

"I was blameless," the surgeon used to say when speaking of this matter. "Had not that damned De Besche been there—yes, I won't say anything more."

Everyone understood what he meant. The "if" in the way was also due to his birthday on the 15th of August.

Shortly afterwards BÄck represented his profession at a state execution. Here his free tongue got him into trouble, and he fled on board a Pomeranian yacht. Next we find him tramping like a wandering quack to Paris. He arrived at an opportune moment, and received a humble appointment in the army of Italy. One night, under the influence of his birthday, he left his hospital at Nissa, and hurried to Mantua to see Bonaparte; he wished to make of the 15th of August a ladder to eminence. He managed to see the General, and presented a petition for an appointment as army physician.

"But," sighed the surgeon, every time he spoke of this remarkable incident, "the General was very busy, and asked one of his staff what I wanted."

"Citizen General," answered the adjutant, "it is a surgeon, who requests the honour of sawing off your leg at the first opportunity."

"Just then," added the surgeon, "the Austrian cannon began to thunder, and General Bonaparte told me to go to the devil."

Thus the surgeon, who had preserved so many eminent personages, was deprived of the honour of saving Napoleon. He got camp fever instead, and lay sick for some time at Brescia.

When well he travelled to Zurich, and here fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Swiss girl; but before he could marry her, the city was overrun, first by the Russians, then French, and finally by Suvaroff. The surgeon's betrothed ran away, and never returned.

One day he sat sorrowfully at his window, when two Cossacks came up, dismounted, seized him, and hurried him off at full speed. The surgeon thought his last hour had arrived. But the Cossacks brought him safely to a hut. There sat some officers round a punch bowl, and among them a stern man in large boots.

"Surgeon," said the latter, short and sharp, "out with your forceps; I have toothache."

BÄck ventured to ask which tooth it was that ached.

"You argue," said the man impatiently.

"No, I don't," replied the surgeon, and pulled out the first tooth he got hold of.

"Good, my boy! March," said the other, and the surgeon was dismissed with ten ducats.

He had acquired another important merit by pulling out the tooth of the hero Suvaroff.

The surgeon's next considerable journey was to St. Petersburg, where he obtained an appointment in a hospital, and made a little fortune.

Thus passed four or five years. The surgeon was now thirty-five. He said to himself,

"It is not sufficient to have preserved the Swedish fleet, Gustave III., and Armfelt; to have had an interview with Napoleon, and pulled out a tooth for Suvaroff. One must also have an aim in life." And he began to realise that he had a Fatherland.

When the war of 1808 broke out, the surgeon became an assistant physician in one of the Finnish regiments; he no longer fought for glory and the 15th of August. He took part in the campaigns of 1808 and 1809. Then he fought manfully with misery, disease, and death; cut off arms and legs, dressed wounds, applied plasters, solaced the wounded, with whom he shared his flask, bread, purse, and what was much more, his unalterable good humour, and told a thousand funny stories gathered in his travels. He was called the "tobacco doctor," because he was always ready to share his pipe and quid. One can be a Christian even with tobacco. The surgeon was not so stuck up that he, like Konow's corporal, went about

"With two quids from sheer pride."

On the contrary, he went without himself when the need was great, and a wounded comrade had got the last bit of the roll in the pocket of his yellow nankeen vest. Hence the soldiers loved the tobacco doctor.

When peace was concluded between Russia and Sweden in 1809, the latter having lost Finland through a foreign traitor, who gave up Sveaborg to the enemy, and so many Finns went over to Sweden, the surgeon thought it more honourable to remain and share the fortunes of his native land. He travelled round the country and practised amongst the peasantry. But the Medical Faculty of Abo finally forbade him to continue, and he therefore settled down at Jacobstad, his native place, and took to fishing. In the days of his prosperity the surgeon had been too liberal; he now only owned his old brown cloak, yellow nankeen vest, a hundred fish hooks, and his cheerful disposition. But he now obtained the appointment of public vaccinator, which allowed him to roam about the country twice a year, like old times. No one knew better than he how to lull the little children to rest, whilst he pricked the fine soft flesh of their arms; almost before they knew it the pain was over.

This gained for him the goodwill of all the mothers; they even forgave him the ugly habit of chewing tobacco—it was too late to cure it now.

Then the snow of old age stole gently o'er the surgeon's head. He had gone through the storms of life without losing faith in humanity; never hardening under adversity, nor unduly puffed up when fortune smiled. He was throughout a good soul.

Often in our childhood and first youth we sat up there in the old garret chamber around his leather-covered arm-chair, by the light of the crackling fire, listening to his tales from the world of fiction and from life. His memory was inexhaustible, and as the old runa says, that even the wild stream does not let its waves flow by all at once, so had the surgeon continually new stories of his own time, and still more from periods which had long passed away.

It sometimes happened after we had been listening to the old man, that he took out an electric battery, and drew from it a succession of sparks.

"In that way the world sparkled when I was young," he said smiling; "one had only to apply a finger, and click it flashed in all directions. But then it was our Lord who turned the machine."

But rarely had he a story written like that of the Duchess of Finland. Most of them were given orally. Many years have since passed; part I have forgotten, and some I have compared with traditions and books. If the reader finds a pleasure in them, then the surgeon will not have told his tales in vain during the long winter evenings.

Reader, as you sit in your peaceful home, surrounded by the calm of civilisation, can you recall the grand heroic memories of the past, which after centuries remain illuminated with a bright glow, and are also often darkened with blood and tragedy? Can you transport yourself back to the joys and terrors of the past, and take a vital interest in those struggles and battles long since fought out, and become full of hopes or fears as fortune smiled or betrayed?

Stand with me on the heights of History, and looking far around on the wild arena of human destiny, can you transfer yourself to the vale of the past, the physically dead and buried, but spiritually immortal life, which forms the being and substance of all History?

Reader, have you ever seen History depicted as an aged man with a frozen heart and wise brow, trying all things in the balance of reason? But is not the Genius of History like an ever youthful virgin, full of fire, with a living heart and a flaming soul—human, warm, and beautiful?

If then you have the capacity to suffer or rejoice with the generations that have passed away, to love, and hate with them, to admire, despise, and curse as they have done; in a word, to live amongst them with your whole heart, and not merely with your cold reflecting mentality, then follow me. I will lead down the valley; but your heart will guide you better that I; upon that I rely—and begin.