it is entirely contrary to etiquette for a
gentleman to be seen driving his own equipage;
and I have no doubt that any gentleman so
sinning would draw upon himself a reprimand
from the emperor, or, at least, the evil eye of
the police. This extraordinary government
seems almost to be jealous of private
equestrianism. In no capital in Europe do you see
such a woeful paucity of cavaliers as in St.
Petersburg. I do not speak of the city
proper, in which the execrable pavement is
sufficient to ruin any horse's feet; but in the
environs, where there are good roads, you
seldom meet any persons in plain clothes on
horseback. Either it is not bon-ton to ride
in mufti (and, to be candid, there are very
few gentlemen, save the members of the corps
diplomatique, who ever appear out of
uniform), or to have a horse to oneself, and to ride
it, is considered in certain quarters an
encroachment on the imperial prerogative of a
cavalry force; or—and this I am led shrewdly
to suspect is the real reason—the Russians
are bad horsemen, and don't care about
equitation when not upon compulsion. Be good
enough to bear in mind that the Tatars and
Cossacks, who live almost entirely on horseback,
are not Russians. The Russian cavalry
soldiers sit their horses in the clumsiest,
painfullest manner you can conceive; and,
though they have the vastest riding-schools,
and the most awfully severe manège to be
found anywhere, the Russian cavalry are
notoriously inefficient as troopers: they are
grenadiers on horseback, nothing more. They
can do everything, and more than western
soldiers, in the way of manoeuvring,
curveting, and caracoling, of course—they MUST do
it, or the omnipotent Stick will know the
reason why; but, in actual warfare, it is
astonishing how our friend the Cossack goes up
to premium, and how the dragoon goes down
to discount. The peasants of Little Russia
make tolerably good troopers; which is difficult
to understand, seeing that with them
horses are scarce, and their principal
experience in riding and driving is confined to
oxen; but the Russian proper is almost as
much a stranger to a horse's back as a
man-o'-war's man is, though he, the Russian,
has a natural genius for droschky driving. And
this I write after having seen a review of the
Chevalier Guards, who, if size and magnificence
of appointment are to be considered as
a test of capacity, are the twelve hundred
finest men upon the twelve hundred finest
horses in the world.

Now and then—but it is a case of extreme
rarity of occurrence—you see a Gentilhomme
Russe driving (himself) a feeble imitation of
an English dogcart, in a leafy road on one of
the pretty islands in the Neva. Every Russian,
of whatever rank he may be—from the sun,
moon, and starred general, to the filthy
moujik; from the white-headed octogenarian
to the sallow baby in the nurse's arms—
every child of the Czar, has a worn, pinched,
dolorous, uneasy expression in his
countenance, as if his boots hurt him, or as if he
had a canker worm somewhere, or a scarlet
letter burnt into his breast, like the Rev.
Mr. Dimsdale. They are not good to look
at—Russian faces. People say that it is the
climate, or tlie abuse of vapour-baths, that
gives them that unlovely look. But a bad
climate won't prevent you from looking your
neighbour in the face; two vapour-baths per
week won't pull down the corners of your
mouth, and give you the physiognomy of a
convict who would like to get into the
chaplain's good graces. No. It is the Valley of
the Shadow of Stick through which these
men are continually passing, that casts this
evil hang-dog cloud upon them. Well, imagine
the Gentilhomme Russe in his dog-cart with
four reins, no whip, and that rueful visage I
have spoken of. By his side is a slave-servant,
evidently shaved against his will, and who is
of the same (hirsute) opinion still; for bristles
are obstinately starting out of forbidden
corners. He has a shabby blue cap with a
faded gold-lace band, and a livery that does not
come within the wildest possibility of having
been made for him. He tries mournfully to
fold his arms, with those paws covered with
dirty Berlin gloves, and he makes superhuman
efforts not to fall asleep. Master and man
are clearly in a wrong position. The horse
(a first-rate one, with a flowing mane and
tail) evidently despises the whole concern,
and kicks his heels up at it. The dogcart is
badly built, the wheels are out of balance, and
the paint is dingy. They never seem to wash
Russian carriages; I have lived over a mews,
and ought to know. This Gentilhomme Russe
in the dogcart is about as mournful a sight
as is to be seen anywhere, even in Russia.

But, when the Russians are sensible
enough to abandon imitation, and to stand
or fall by their own native equipages, they
can make a brave show. Of little, private,
double-bodied droschkies, there are swarms;
aud in some of these you will see horses
worth from seven to twelve hundred silver
roubles each. Many a puny cornet in the
guards, too, has his calèche lined with moiré-
antique, and drawn by two splendid, black,
Ukraine horses. I may observe that the
horses never wear blinkers, and that, though
full of mettle, they are very little addicted to
shying. The harness is quite peculiar and
Russian, consisting of a purple net of leather-
work profusely spangled with small discs of
silver. Only some of the court carriages are
drawn by horses harnessed in the English
manner. Pretty as their own caparisons are,
the Russians sigh for foreign fashions; and
extravagant prices are given for a set of
English harness. In the native harness
there seem to be a good many unnecessary
straps and tassels; but the backs of the
horses are left almost entirely free, which has
a very picturesque and wild horse of the
prairie sort of effect. Coal black is the