frontier, soon learn what lapowe is. The train
stops; the Prussian conductors have told the
travellers that from the next station they will
rattle along, on the rails and under the
protection of, the Czar of all the Russias. The
inexperienced traveller whom I have in my
eye takes up his rug and dressing-case, and
steps with heavy feet (for the train has been
a slow one, and he is still stunned with the
length of his journey from Mistowitz) on
Russian soil. It is time our novice should
lenrn something of the language, of the
manners, and customs, of the country.

Room for the Professors of Russian
manners! Half-a-dozen gentlemen in the
preventive service, three searchers, the
comptroller, the commander, of the Cossack station,
hurry up to the staring stranger, and stand
before him, each with his hand open. Their
eyes are directed to his face with a craving,
hungry look. What does it mean? It means
lapowe. Those outstretched open hands,
those hungry looks, speak as plainly as
possible, and in a language which every one
must understand: " Stranger, here are our
hands. Put something into them—fill them.
You cannot pass on unless we please. You
want our friendship. Buy it!"

Do not, oh wayfarer! cry out against the
beggarly knaves. If you please, do not say one
word about imposition. Do not. if you can help
it, register a vow that you will write to the
Times. These people never heard of the
Times; they do not know what it is. They
know what lapowe is, and lapowe they will
and must have. They are Russian functionaries,
and you are a traveller. They are vultures,
and you are their prey. They do not
beg, nor do they solicit—they demand. They
are in their right, and you had better not try
yours. The taking of lapowe—the opening of
his hand and shutting it on something which
you put into it—is part and parcel of the
duties of a Russian functionary.

It is an official procedure; the execution
in every case is rapid and energetic,
unceremonious and unscrupulous. Russian officers
must live. Their salaries, from the lowest to
the highest, are just enough to pay for their
breakfast and supper. Hence, it is the
Government which indirectly compels them to
swoop down upon everybody and everything
within their reach, and to take as much as
they want, or, at least, as much as they can
get, to pay for their dinners, lodgings, dress,
and luxuries. None of them dream of
blushing in asking lapowe—whatever delicacy
there is, will always be found on the part of the
giver, never on that of the receiver. Armed in
mail of proof—the conviction of his right—
the Russian functionary holds out his hand,
rudely or good-humouredly as the case may
be; and his moral sentiments are aroused only
if the traveller with whom he has to deal
is too inexperienced to understand the very
natural and just demand which that open
hand makes upon him.

In going and coming, with high and low,
lapowe is the word. Say a foreigner—English ,
German, or French—at Warsaw or Smolensk,
wishes either to leave the country or to go
to some other Russian town. He wants
his passport. In order to obtain it, he must
have a certificate of good conduct from the
police of his district. The functions of that
office are, in the first instance, executed by a
clerk. The traveller, familiar with the manners
and customs of these lower officials, backs
his request with a lapowe, and the certificate
is in his hands. This is not enough. The
paper must have the office stamp, and that
stamp is in the hands of the Police-
lieutenant—a gentleman of refined manners—
dressed in a smart uniform, green and gold—
who occupies an inner office, which the
stranger enters with a civil bow, and a
conviction (caused by the refined air and high
position of the gentleman in question) that to
offer lapowe would subject him to the danger
of being kicked down stairs.

Since the gentleman (he is sure) will not
take money, the stranger endeavours to
conciliate his good opinion by politeness. " Sir,"
says he with a low bow, (the second since
they opened the door), " will you have the
kindness to stamp this certificate ?"

The lieutenant turns round, and replies, "I
am busy." Taking his pen and a sheet of paper,
he commences forthwith to make a caricature
portrait of the visitor. This done, he gives
the visitor another expressive look, and
turns to the window. This, translated into
plain English, means: " What a strange sort of
fellow you are! Why don't you put your
hand in your pocket ? " An intelligent stranger
understands it at once; but we will, for
the argument's sake, say that our friend, the
stranger, is not very intelligent. Instead of
holding out his money, he again produces his
certificate. " Oblige me, sir, by stamping
this."

"Sir," says the Russian, angrily, " I haven't
had my dinner yet."

Of course the stranger understands that
the gentleman proposes to dine first, and stamp
the certificate afterwards. But, why does he
not go to dinner? Why sit at his desk, and
seem evidently determined to remain there,
at past four in the afternoon ? Time passes,
and the offices will be closed.

"Oblige me, sir! Stamp this paper! "—" I
haven't had my dinner, sir! " says the
lieutenant as angrily as possible, turning his
back full upon the stranger. Decidedly, there
is no getting that stamp. At this moment
the stranger's arm is seized with great
violence by the clerk—a good young man who
is in a towering rage, as the best of us will be,
when we see any one acting blindly and
stupidly.

"How long you are, sir! You, a traveller,
and without a few florins to spare for our
lieutenant!"

This timely explanation simplifies the