induce the gentleman there and then to
accept the vacant seat in the traveller's carriage, and,
quitting wife, children, friends, go on with him,
anywhere, everywhere, only out of Russia.
Paris is the paradise of his dreams; but any
other place would do for a beginning. Of
the villagers, both lady and gentleman speak
with crushing contempt, and illustrate their
opinions by relating some amusing and some
shocking anecdotes.

What strikes the traveller unfavourably
is, that although it is evident that the land
agent and his wife are hospitably disposed, they
do not ask him to dinner. The fact is, as he
will soon discover, that they have no dinner.
Throughout the whole village, not a scrap of
anything edible is to be found after eleven or
twelve o'clock in the morning, when the "Borsch"
was served. This is the national dish. It is a
soup or stew, made of salted and fermented
cabbages. On feast-days there is a piece of
tough stringy beef in it; on fast-days there is
no beef; its place being then supplied
with dried mushrooms. How stringy and
how tough the beef is, may be guessed from
the fact that an ox is always made to work until
a venerable old age in the corn-fields before he
is introduced to the cook. The vegetables used
for "Borsch" are large white cabbages as big
as a giant's head, also very hard and tough.
These are the only vegetables commonly eaten
in Southern Russia. They are salted and put
into dark cellars for winter use, and form the
staple food of gentle and simple all through the
year. Indeed, strange as it may seem, "Borsch"
is not bad when you get used to it. At any rate,
you must get used to it; for it is the only thing to
be got in any of the villages, and that for only one
hour in the day, about noon. No eggs, bacon, milk,
potatoes, or anything whatsoever which might be
described by courtesy as eatable, is to be begged,
bought, or borrowed. Neither is there anything
to drink but the coarse fiery corn-spirit
called vodki. That may always be had,
anywhere and everywhere. The presumption is,
that a traveller carries all he wants with him;
and therefore a Russian family going from
one village to another, if they have to travel
more than a day's journey, form quite a
caravan. Even single travellers must be so
well equipped as to add considerably to their
baggage; and great men send their cooks
on to the halting-places, in time to prepare
their necessary meals. All that can be
obtained at the post-houses and villages, is a
semovar or tea-kettle and a little hot water.
Nothing more; no bed, no washing-basin, no
towel, nothing but a room with a table, a
chair, and a sofa, all alive with vermin, foul with
dirt and neglect, and reeking with the stale
smoke of generations of travellers carefully
fastened in by double windows. The best thing,
therefore, that a discreet traveller can do, is, to
carry a well-stocked hamper of wholesome food
and drink, from the best French or German
hotel in the last large city he leaves behind him,
and to ask any acquaintance he may meet on the
road to dine with him. Though the Russians are
certainly the least sensual people in the world,
knowing nothing about cookery and caring less,
they will probably be very glad to do so, that they
may have an opportunity to enjoy a little of that
talk which they love better than all the savoury
dishes ever invented.

It is not easy for an inexperienced person to
guess what the village street is, though any
one familiar with Russian travel perceives at
a glance that it is the "court" or mansion of
the Russian nobleman to whom, a few years ago,
before the emancipation of the serfs, the village
and every one in it belonged; houses, lands,
bodies, and bones. Now, the villagers belong to
themselves, but the whole country, sometimes for
scores of miles, is the property of the Boyard, who
is revelling in Paris, or at Rome, or who is running
horses for the Derby, and startling the wealthiest
nobles of the West by his lavish expenditure.

There, in the village street, stands this gallant
prodigal's home. There he was born; and there,
after a few years of profusion and folly, he will
return, broken in health, ruined in fortune,
to pass the remainder of a misspent life, and
watch the produce of his fields pass yearly into
the hands of the usurers who supplied him
with the means of pursuing his brief and shameful
career of extravagance, leaving all the
noblest duties of life unfulfilled. Gloomy,
moody, besotted, the spendthrift of London and
Paris will sink, first into a mere boor, and then
into an early grave. This is simply told, but it
is the summary of a very common history; and
when the traveller in future hears of the
balls, the banquets, the running horses, and
the fine jewels, of a Russian prince, he may
remember this scene with feelings not so
peculiarly impressed by awe and admiration for
Russian princes as they once were.

The Boyard's house and dependencies cover
several acres of ground. The building is as
large as a barrack. It is nearly always new, or
a ruin; in either case it is certain to be
unfinished. The minds of the Boyard and his
architect appear to have wavered between a
feudal castle, a Greek temple, a Lutheran
church, and a hospital. The design, vast,
and the produce of a confused intelligence,
has hopelessly broken down in the
execution. The coarseness of the work has
been whitewashed and plastered over; but the
plaster has peeled off in the sun, and has been
washed off by the rain. Part of the roof has
fallen in; the Norman tower has sunk down, top-
heavy and one-sided. It was copied, perhaps,
from a print of Warwick Castle in some book
of beauty; but now stands a ruin, inexpressibly
melancholy, and, worst of all, grotesque.

The pleasure-grounds around the "court"
have been planned on the same extensive
scale as this mockery of a palace. Careful
examination will show the basements of stately
terraces, intended to look over such gardens as
those in which the old Italians meditated, and
Leo the Tenth or Lorenzo the Magnificent
dreamed of empire. They are crumbling to the