burning round the massive tomb of porphyry
beneath which Wellington lies, and the famous
car is set off by accessories which are at once
lugubrious and theatrical. Three sham horses
stand in prancing attitude in its shafts, their
nodding black plumes and the draperies spread
out upon them being those actually used. The
walls are hung with the black cloth employed
at the funeral, and this is picked out with
tinsel heraldry and ornament. The arms of the
different orders conferred upon the departed
hero, his ducal coronet, and field-marshal's
bâton, are all laid out for display; and the
general effect is as if the property-room of a
theatre and the show-room of some fashionable
mourning warehouse had been suddenly fused.

The care and formality of these arrangements
make the neglected statues look filthier and
more woebegone than ever as we pass out, and
the fact of their standing in the only portion of
the cathedral for which no admission-fee is
charged does not lessen the significance of the
contrast.

THE RUSSIAN PEASANTRY.

THE wheels of my carriage have caught fire
somewhere about midway between the Russian
city of Kiev and the town of Balta. My courier
is a soldier, an under officer in a regiment of
Cossacks, and he takes counsel with the postilion
as to the repairs necessary. I am an old
traveller, and accustomed to make shifts of all
kinds on the road, but I do not see how to get
out of our difficulty. The case seems hopeless.
The boxes of the wheels are charred and almost
burnt away. Russian peasants, however, are
handy fellows, and the postilion makes very
light of the accident. For the last half hour
since we changed horses he has sat motionless,
but howling, on the coach-box, and we have
galloped over a flat, monotonous country as
fast as ten wiry ponies could carry us under the
influence of yells, scolding, and thwacks. The
thwacks have been administered in a peculiar
manner. Suddenly the motionless little man
has started up and applied a long stick with
great vigour and decision to the back of every
pony within reach of it. Then the carriage
has begun to roll and sway about violently
from side to side in ruts and out of ruts, jolting
over stones, splashing through quagmires,
till at last the wheels caught fire, and we come
to a dead stop, as I have said. What on earth
the Cossack soldier and the postilion are about
with the springs and axletree of the carriage I
have never been able to ascertain, but they
seem quite at home at their work. The horses
stand at ease—a disorderly little mob, and
the cries which worried them five minutes ago
are silent, the sharp stinging stick is still.
There are the two peasants mute, and busy as
ants. The Cossack soldier, a smart dapper
little man, neat and trim as may be, with the
breast of his coat all covered with medals and
military decorations, nevertheless produces from
his pocket a long piece of tallow candle. The
postilion unties the rope which has served him
for a belt, and nimbly picks it to pieces. They
apply the tow thus produced well greased with
tallow to the blackened wheels, and then so
manage to tie and bind them as to produce a
very workmanlike effect. In short, we are
able to continue our journey, and I prepare to
take my seat, and resume a doze interrupted
by this unexpected halt. Suddenly, the little
soldier surprises me by dropping down swiftly
on both his knees, and holding his uplifted
hands together in the attitude of prayer. He
looks a queer, stiff figure, like a wooden man,
or a puppet moved by machinery. He remains
silent, but suppliant. On inquiry it appears
that he wishes to sit behind the carriage on the
footboard instead of in front, as he usually
does, for parade purposes, in order that he may
watch the wheels in case they should catch fire
again. He merely prefers this request on his
knees as a matter of custom and habit. It is
his way of being civil after the usual manner of
his class and country, nothing more. When
he was with his regiment, if he had put a question
to his colonel without this formality he
would have probably fared badly. He has
remembered the lessons of his early life, and will
remember them as long as he is capable of
recollecting anything. When this little affair is
settled, he has another also to perform, which
he considers part of his professional duty as
body-guard in charge of my safety. It is to
thump the postilion. The man has done nothing
wrong, but a mischance has happened, and
therefore concludes his fellow-slave, somebody
must be punished. The postilion takes his
thumping in very good part. It is bestowed
upon him without any passion or opprobrium, in
a business-like sort of way, and as something
necessary for his good. It would never occur
to a Russian peasant to bandy blows or words
with a soldier in uniform, under any provocation
whatever, although they might both have been
bom and bred in the same village. A uniform
is far too sacred a symbol to be touched by the
hottest and angriest hand. When the beating
is over, the postilion climbs up on to the coach-
box, recommences his howling noises as before,
and on we roll to the next station, a market
town in the corn countries.

On entering the post-house I find the little
soldier is already before me, on his knees near
a picture of the Virgin, illuminated by a small
oil lamp constantly burning. No Russian
peasant's house is without some such picture in
the best room of it; and all who go in and out
cross themselves devoutly when they look at it.
My soldier is now crossing himself all over
with extreme rapidity as if to make the most of
his time, or to fulfil a vow. When he rises
from his knees he explains to me that we shall
find it impossible to continue our journey that
night, and that he has just been returning thanks
to all his saints for our safe arrival. He
observes, however, that he had no real
apprehension of danger owing to the intervention of