at last piecemeal by the great foxhunter
Boguey and his hounds.

I will put a case. I have a handsome gold
watch (which I haven't), and I am in St.
Petersburg (where I am not). I go for an
evening's amusement to the Eaux Minerales,
where the chalybeate springs are the pretext,
and Herr Isler's gardens, with their
military bands and fireworks and suspicious
company, the real attraction. My watch is
quietly subtracted from my fob by some
dexterous pickpocket in the gardens; and I
deserve no sympathy for my mishap, for Isler's
is famous for its filous. The next day I go
like a fool, and according to my folly, and
lodge my complaint at the police Siège of my
arrondissement. I have the number of my
watch. I give the maker's name. I describe
it minutely, and narrate accurately the
circumstances under which it was taken from
me. I do not see the major of police, but
one of his aids. The aid tells me in German
(the judicial police, as a rule, do not speak
French; the secret police speak every language
under the sun — Chinese, I am sure,
included) that justice is on the alert, that the
thief will certainly be caught and brought to
condign punishment, and that of the ultimate
recovery of my watch there cannot be any
reasonable doubt. Clerks have got through
a prodigious quantity of manuscript all about
me and my watch, by this time; and a number
of the everlasting forms are pushed towards
me to sign. I have been told beforehand
what I must do, and that there is no help for
it, so I slip a red note for ten roubles, en
sandwich, between two of the forms, and
hand the triplet to the aid, who with a greasy
smile bids me good morning.

Henceforth I belong no more to myself, but
to Boguey. I am hunted up in the morning
while I am shaving, and at night as I
am retiring to rest. I am peremptorily
summoned to the police office five minutes before
dinner, and five minutes before I have
concluded that repast. With infernal ingenuity
Boguey fixes on the exact hours when I have
a social engagement abroad, to summon me to
his cave of Trophonius, and submit me to
vexatious interrogatories. Boguey catches
sham thieves for me— worsted stocking
knaves with hearts in their bellies no bigger
than pins' heads— mere toasts and butter,
who would as lieve steal the Czar's crown
as a gold watch, and whose boldest feat of
larceny would probably be the purloining
of a pickled cucumber from a stall. I am
confronted with these scurvy companions,
and asked whether I can identify them?
Boguey's outlying myrmidons bring me vile
pinchbeck saucepan lids, infamous tinpot
sconces, which they call watches; and would
much like to know if I can recognise them
as my property? All this time I am
paying rouble after rouble for perquisitions,
and inquiries, and gratifications, and
messengers' expenses, and stamps, and an
infinity of other engines of extortion. At last
(under advice) I rush to the major of police,
and ask him plainly (but privately), for how
much he will let me off? He smiles and
refers me to his aid, saying that justice cannot
have her course impeded. I go to the
aid, and he smiles too, and tells me that
he does not think the disbursement of
twenty roubles will do my Excellency any
harm; and that if I choose to place that
sum in his hand to be administered in charity,
he thinks he can guarantee my not being
again troubled about the robbery. So, I
give him the money (which I don't), and,
thank Heaven, I am rid of Boguey, as
Andrew Miller thanked Heaven he was rid
of Doctor Johnson.

Now do you understand why every
sensible man in Russia, who is unfortunate
enough to be robbed, leaves Boguey alone?

  SKETCHING AT A SLAVE AUCTION.

AT the time when Uncle Tom had roused
all Europe as well as America to an unusual
pitch of excitement on the subject of slavery,
I for the first time visited Richmond, the
capital of Virginia. I lounged after breakfast
into the parlour of the American Hôtel,
a print of whose splendid outside appearance
sticks to this day with wonderful pertinacity
to our travelling-trunk. Its effigy, labelled
to the side of the portmanteau as an
advertisement, revives its faded image, and I
behold once more its verandah below, and
its square battlement on top, from which
flaunts the Star and Stripes flag. I am
further reminded by the same document that
M. J. Mildeburger Smith is the proprietor, a
worthy and communicative host. Having
ascertained from the local papers, of which
the Richmond Enquirer is the best-known in
England, that certain slave sales were to take
place that morning at eleven, I inquired the
nearest way of the man at the bar. It was
only two streets off, he answered. He seemed
startled at my inquiry, and endeavoured to
prepare me for the worst, as if half-ashamed
that a European should look in at the dread
arcana of the Slave-Trade without due
preparation.

I afterwards ascertained that Europeans
are generally accompanied by gentlemen
known in Richmond, who act as guarantees
of the good behaviour of the dealers, and
who, I suppose, by their presence, warn
the dealers to mitigate those more revolting
details, which long habit has rendered harmless
in the sight of those indulging in this
unwholesome traffic. For two reasons I did
not avail myself of the habitual Cicerones.
First, because, for the purposes of observation,
one has a better chance than two, from not
having his attention diverted; and, secondly,
because I wished to witness the scene as
it happened every day, before what may
be called its legitimate witnesses, and not