a small pocket saint which he bought of a holy
man in the Kiev catacombs, and has ever since
carried about with him; the saint in question
being an infallible protector of travellers.

So, as I am about to pass a night at the post-
house, I begin to examine my quarters. It is
a long, low, whitewashed building of only one
story high, but standing with its outhouses and
stabling upon considerably more than an acre of
ground. It is a straggling, infirm, unsubstantial
place, partly in ruins; but all its imperfections
are covered by the omnipresent whitewash.
My luggage has been conveyed to a small, dark
den of a room, so full of close air, and empty
of comfort that there is no temptation to
remain in it. So leaving the Cossack to mount
guard over my goods, and to protect them from
light fingers, I wander out into the town; and
make my way towards the market-place, where
the manners of a people are always seen to most
advantage. The market is held on a large
open pace where some disorderly huts and
tents have been set up. Very little of an edible
nature is sold there, and nothing at all nice or
tempting. There are some lean, damp fowls in
hen-coops, and some geese of disconsolate
aspect tied by the leg together, and worn slung
over the shoulder of the seller head downwards
till they find a purchaser. Some white cabbages
and a few onions complete the marketable
stock in trade of a considerable town. There is no
life or bustle anywhere, and the mud under
foot is so deep and stiff as to render walking
laborious and unpleasant. There is nothing
for it but to go back to the post-house and make
the most of a dull afternoon, while my carriage
is being mended. Returning to the post-house,
I notice that the only visible shops are a
chemist's and a tea-room. There are very few
people about the streets; hardly any indeed,
though they are all wider than Piccadilly.
It looks inexpressibly melancholy to see only
one or two people dotted about them at long
intervals; and those in the grey sullen light
of a Russian day seem lost and unhappy.

I am hungry, and the thoughts of dinner
present themselves to my mind with increasing
frequency and attraction every minute. There
is no eager host about the place, however; no
brisk waiter. My room being now sufficiently
sweetened to admit of examination is found to
contain an insecure wooden bedstead without
mattress or bedding, a rickety table, a pie dish,
an empty tumbler, and a chair. Nothing more.
There is no bell or other means of summoning
the natives. All communication with the outer
world must be made by means of bawling
till somebody comes. Nobody appearing, in
answer to my first series of shouts, the
Cossack walks on tiptoe to a corner where he
has left the stick which is his councillor in
every difficulty, and sallies forth in quest of a
pair of shoulders to fit it.

There is little doubt that if in the present
altered state of the Russian law I were myself
to raise a finger against any of the bumpkins
lounging about I should never hear the last of
it. I know well that an Italian cook, who gave
a chance blow to one of his scullions, had
lately to pay altogether an unreasonable sum
for his enjoyment. But my Cossack walks up
to the first man he meets and pummels him
without mercy or remonstrance. The man
being duly awakened by this process becomes
instantly endowed with the conversational
faculty which had previously lain dormant in
his mind. Being then informed that the
postmaster, or somebody belonging to his establishment,
is required to get something to eat, he
cheerfully expresses his willingness to go in
search of one or both of them. Half an
hour is dawdled away, and nobody coming
in reply to this message, the Cossack and I set
forth on an expedition of discovery. After
roaming for some time about the nooks and
passages of the interminable range of buildings
which form the post-house, we at last come
upon a smoky den whence issue low sounds of
muttered talk. The Cossack puts a forefinger
to his lips in a knowing manner, and then
points to the door, before which, coiled up in a
ball like a dormouse, crouches our messenger,
waiting for an answer to his communication.
He motions silently towards the interior of the
room, and we enter. There sits the postmaster
with his head tied up in a red handkerchief, and
a cigar between his lips, playing with a
personal friend at the exciting game of double
dummy. Fortunately for that postmaster the
superior authorities at St. Petersburg some
years ago found it necessary to confer upon his
order throughout Russia an official rank
sufficiently high to protect them from beatings.
The backs of all the postmasters in the
empire had been made so sore by the
consequences of their supine behaviour that this
measure was found indispensable, or the card-
playing pair would have infallibly come to
grief on the present occasion. As it is my
little Cossack makes himself and his medals
felt rather oppressively, and the postmaster
turns white and begins to shake like a man with
the ague; for the fact is, I am travelling with
a way-bill having two seals, which is a sort of
certificate that my business is of importance to
the Imperial Government, and that any one who
hinders or troubles me is likely to suffer for
it. No sooner is this mysterious document
produced than all becomes smooth. The
postmaster has got no dinner himself, he never has
had, and never will have any; but he will send
to the local prince's German land agent, who
will supply me at once with all things necessary.
So by-and-by comes a good homely dinner and
a bottle of brave German wine; and then a little
later comes the agent himself to bear me
company.

The agent is a baldheaded gentlemanly man,
who has passed the early part of his life in
medical studies, and has a strong passion for
the pursuit of investigations in comparative
anatomy. He knows nothing whatever about
the management of land, but having been exiled
from the Austrian dominions, because his brother