St. Etienne du Monte, fête patronale de St.
Généviève. Maledicimur et Benedicimus
(Saint Paul aux Corinth, iv. 12)."

When the bells were ringing for the funeral
of the prelate, the prisoner was entering the
Conciergerie, there to await his trial.

A JOURNEY DUE NORTH.BOGUEY CONTINUED.

IT would be easy to multiply instances
illustrative of the taking propensities of the
Russian police, among whom, in St. Petersburg
and Moscow—as well as in their government
towns of the empire—there is really not one
pin to choose. Bogueyism is synonymous with
police management throughout all the Russias.
I shall confine myself to one or two salient
traits of character to be found in those
terrifiers of well-doers who ought to terrify evil-
doers, but who are the worthy successors, and
have in Muscovy continued the glorious
traditions of that most illustrious of all takers
—Jonathan Wild the Great.

The Sire de Brantome generally commences
his chivalrous tittle-tattle with the exordium:
Une grande dame, forte honeste, que j'ay
bien cognu (a great lady, and a mighty
honest one, whom I know extremely well);
and I find myself as constantly giving
an anecdote on the authority of
some Russian acquaintance far nobler than
honest. In this present instance, however,
my informant was a French hairdresser and
perfumer, who had settled at Moscow, with
the stern and inflexible determination to stay
there five years, acquire a fortune of fifty
thousand francs, and then quitting that beastly
hole (by which abusive epithet he qualified
the holy empire of Russia), to return to Arcis-
sur-Aube; which much white-washed French
town was his native place, and there to
planter ses choux, -- or cabbages, —defeat the
curé of St. Symphorien at his favourite game
of tric-trac; become, in course of time, mayor
of some adjacent village, and eventually,
perhaps, re-assume his ancestral title of Monsieur
de la Bandoline (now lying perdu, like the
Spanish Hidalgo's rapier, under the modest
nom de circonstance of Hyacinthe coiffeur et
peruquier de Paris), and become sub-prefect
of his department.

A friend of M. Hyacinthe's -- say M. Méasse—
likewise a sprightly Gaul, kept a magazine
for the sale of those articles called by the
Americans notions, in the Tverskaïa Oulitza, or great
street of Tver, in Moscow. But here I must
digress with a word or two on shops: it is
only in old world cities, where the civilisation
is old— very old— that you find actual
shops —special establishments for the sale of
special articles. As in the rude and remote
country village, you have Jerry Nutt's Every-
thing Shop, where you can procure almost
every article — from a birch-broom to a
Byron-tie, from a stick of barley-sugar to a
lady's chemisette; so, in newly-settled or
newly-civilised lands you have not shops
but Stores, where edibles are mixed up with
potables, and textile fabrics with both, and
books with beeswax, and carpeting with candles.
Our American cousins have repudiated
the Everything element, and have Shops that
can vie with, if they do not surpass the counter-
jumping palaces of Regent Street, London,
and the Rue de la Paix, Paris. Yet they still
retain the name of a Store, for an establishment,
say a shawl-shop, more magnificent
than Swan and Edgar's, coruscating with
glass and gilding, and mural paintings, and
variegated marbles; and the Russians, for
all the bigness of their cities, have not
yet, as a rule, progressed beyond stores—
in their streets. In the bazaars there are,
certainly, special standings for special
articles; but, these are more properly stalls
than shops. In the two great shops of
St. Petersburg— the Angliski Magazin, in
the little Millionne, and the Ruski-Magazin,
on the Nevskoï —the incongruous nature
of the articles sold is astonishing, and, in
the smaller shops, there is a distracting
confusion in the classification of the articles
purchased. The hair-dressers sell almost
everything. You have to go to the grocers
for picture-frames. The tobacconists sell
tea; the glove-makers sell porte-monnaies.
The best cigars to be had in Petersburg are
purchased at an apotheka or druggist's shop,
in the Little Morskaïa (the druggists sell
camera-obscuras, too). You may buy French
painted fans at the confectioner's, and there
is scarcely a fashionable modiste who does
not sell flesh and blood. Altogether, our
respected friend Mother Hubbard would
have enormous trouble in Russia in attempting
to purvey for that insatiable dog of hers,
who (like a minister's mother-in-law) was
always wanting something. She would have
had to go to the bishop's to buy him ale, or
to the Winter Palace to buy him a bone.

M. Mélasse sold groceries and a little
millinery, and a considerable quantity of coloured
prints, and some Bordeaux, and much
Champagne. But, M. Mélasse happened, though doing
a good business, to have a temper of his own.
Why should M. Mélasse's temper interfere
with the success of M. Mélasse's business?
So far, that the black dog which occasionally
sat on the worthy burgess's shoulder, could
not abide that other and Blacker Dog,
Boguey, the Police of Moscow, and barked
at him continually. Ces Chiens, these dogs,
the impudent Mélasse called the guardians
of public order. One afternoon two gentlemen
in grey called on M. Mélasse (he spoke
Russ tolerably, which in a Frenchman is
something marvellous), and saluting him
cordially, produced from a remarkably dirty
envelope of sacking two fine sugar-loaves
—the apex of one of them considerably
damaged. These, they told him, had been
found in the open street, opposite his house
on the previous night; were evidently the