the care of the Russian railway officials. The
princess added, that her brother, Count Szomyzy,
lived but eleven versts from Warsaw, that his
castle was just then full of guests and gaieties,
and that I should be a welcome visitor there on
the mention of her name.

It was to the count's only daughter, Rosalie,
that this invaluable roll of manuscript music
was to be conveyed, and her aunt jestingly
advised me to take good care of my heart, since
her young relative was acknowledged to be the
reigning beauty in the government of Warsaw.
I laughed at such a warning. The habit of a
roving life had shown me the ease with which
impressions are effaced by absence; but I was
glad to be of use in a way that involved no
dereliction of duty. More than once, I had felt
myself bound to refuse Polish friends some
favour which would have been discordant to the
allegiance I owed to Downing-street, and I was
rejoiced that the kind old lady had asked of me
nothing that bore, however remotely, on politics.

The roll of music, in a locked morocco-case,
with the little silver key dangling from it by a
string, was delivered at my hotel by one of the
princess's chasseurs, and I placed it in my
portmanteau, with a mental resolve to diverge from
Warsaw to the country-seat of Count Szomyzy,
if only for an hour or two.

I had packed my effects, and was ready to
start, when a man suddenly burst into the room,
and fell on his knees before me.

It being always necessary to speak decidedly
to a Russian, I ordered him to leave the room.
He was not a beggar — he was too well dressed;
not wearing the caftan and boots, but a
decent suit of European clothing. Tears were
streaming down his face, and he seemed sober,
though he moaned piteously as he embraced my
knees after the abject fashion of his countrymen.

"Noble excellency! magnanimous Englishman!
have some pity on a wretch whose whole
life hangs on your honourable decision. I swear
to your grandeur that you can make a whole
family happy or miserable by a word, one little
word, illustrious one!"

With some trouble, I drew from the man,
whose language, in spite of his agitation, was
too pure for a mujik, the substance of his petition.
His seemed to be really a hard case. He
was a courier, having travelled Europe for years
with different masters, and he had a wife and
children living at Naples, where he was in hopes
of an engagement in the service of a former
employer, one of the wealthy Demidoff family.
However, he had been recalled to Russia to give
evidence in a lawsuit, and, on preparing to leave
St. Petersburg, the police, in some fit of caprice,
had refused him his passport, on the ground that
a Russian, unless noble, could not by law quit
the empire alone. If he had a master, well and
good. If not, he might stay where he was.

"But I don't want a servant: should not know
what to do with one," said I, hardly knowing
how to get rid of the singular suppliant. But
a flood of words overwhelmed me. My
protection was alone asked for. Ignatius — that
was the man's name — was only to be nominally
my retainer, and was not to cost me a copeck.
He had money for his expenses, and only wanted
the ægis of my name. In return for this, I should
have his undying gratitude, and his devoted
services upon the journey to Vienna. He pulled out
his passport for my inspection — or rather the
" provisional permit" that represented it — and
I satisfied myself that Ignatius Kraskoff, native
of Moscow, was really in the strait he
represented himself, for across the document was
written, " Papers refused, conformably to ukase,"
with the signature of a high functionary.

I could not deny the poor man the trifling
favour he asked, so I wrote a line to the police
prefect, requesting permission to take him as
my servant, and committed the note to Ignatius,
who received it with transports of joy, kissing
my hand, and, I believe, my boots, with the
exaggerated humility which the Russians owe to
their Oriental traditions. Two hours later, on
reaching the railway terminus, sure enough,
there was Ignatius, in his smart garb of green
cloth trimmed with Astracan fur, the livery of
the Demidoffs, bustling to and fro with the
utmost activity. He had already secured a
compartment for my especial behoof, had placed
the lately published editions of the Invalide
Russe and the Northern Bee ready for my
perusal, and on my arrival pounced on my
cloaks, canes, and luggage with a zeal and
energy which I had never seen equalled by the
best paid of his professional brotherhood.

It need not be imagined that the only
preliminaries to starting, as with us in Western
Europe, were the taking of tickets and registering
of baggage. On the contrary, the great
question under discussion was, not what could
be done for the traveller's comfort or safety, but
whether the candidate for a place in the train
were a fit and proper person to be suffered to go
at all. Those were the old harsh days of the
Emperor Nicholas, when Russia was an
enormous camp, under martinet discipline, and
railways were looked on with no great liking by
the official Tchinn.

In the times of which I speak, two hours, at
the lowest computation, had to be spent at the
station whence a voyager meant to depart, and
two hours more full of vexatious ceremonies,
tedious delays, and the petty insolence of Jacks-
in-office, can scarcely be conceived. The station
was full of scowling policemen, in uniforms of
every shade—blue, green, grey, more or less
medalled and military of aspect, but all troublesome,
venal, and suspicious. Passports were
handed from bureau to bureau, stamped,
countersigned, inspected, cavilled at; luggage was
examined, pockets tapped, travellers cross-
questioned on every conceivable point, and an
incessant clinking of silver and pocketing of
bribes went on as an under-current to this chorus
of query and answer.

As a cabinet messenger, I was exempt from
the annoyances that fell to the lot of my fellow-
travellers, especially of such as were too poor
or too stingy to fee the official vampires, and