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VISIT TO THE RUSSIAN CITY JAROSLAFF.

BY BARON HARTHAHSEN.

On my arrival at Jaroslaff, I took up my abode at an inn. There were formerly no hotels in Russia, but instead of them a description of resting-place very much like the eastern caravansery, where the traveller might obtain shelter for himself and beast at little cost. Itwas, however, quite necessary for him to provide himself with food, for no dependence could be placed upon the arrangements which his host might make for his comfort and refreshment. These caravanseries may still be seen in Astrakan and in the Caucasus. Besides these asylums, there were small public-houses, at which a coarse sort of fare, and tea and coffee, could generally be procured. The traveller was then in the habit of carrying with him all that he might require during his journey; a tent-bed for instance, some few utensils, and his provisions, &c. &c. As European civilization advanced, hotels were introduced and conducted upon the same plan as those of Germany, England, and France; but even at Petersburgh it is impossible to meet with an hotel which, as regards convenience, can be compared to the inns in the smallest towns upon the Rhine. Those of Coulon and Demouth, rank only with the third-rate inns of Germany, so little attention is paid to comfort and elegance, though the beauty of the exterior makes them really appear like palaces. Dinner must always be ordered long beforehand, the beds are very bad, the furniture is miserable; in short, all the appointments are of the most wretched kind.. So small is the number of foreigners and travellers, that an elegant hotel would be rather an unfortunate speculation. The Russian merchant prefers the national inn, and the nobleman carries with him, as formerly, whatever he deems necessary for his accommodation. When he arrives at the hotel, he sends out for provisions, completely refurnishes the house, and establishes himself as if he were at home.

The hotels at Petersburgh and Moscow are mostly kept by Frenchmen, Germans, or Englishmen. There are also respectable tradesmen's houses in both these cities, where travellers who intend to remain some time can lodge very comfortably for twenty-five, forty, or sixty silver roubles the month; they have the use of one or two rooms, nicely warmed and lighted; a good breakfast and tea is provided for them, and an excellent dinner at the table d'hôte, with proper attendance. Hotels like those before mentioned have now become common in almost all the larger towns. The most tolerable are kept by Germans, those which unfortunately have Russian hosts, are only a mixture of the caravansery and the Asiatic public-house. The landlord does not come out to receive the traveller when he arrives at one of these hotels, indeed, it is rather a rare thing even to meet with the master. The ground-floor is generally occupied by the refectory and the offices for culinary purposes. A person desiring an apartment, must therefore proceed at once to the first story, where he will find a sort of butler, with whom he will have to settle about the rent he is to be charged for the room he has chosen, and then he orders his luggage to be brought to him immediately. It is the custom to serve in portions at the restaurant, and on the bill of fare being called for, the first words which meet

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the eye are beefsteak and cutlets. These two dishes have become quite common since 1815; but the manner in which they are prepared is anything but inviting, while the national fare, stschi (cabbage soup), and the peroggi (pies with forced meat, fish, or eggs,) is excellent. The white bread is inferior to the black, which is very good, and exceedingly wholesome. Tea is served in goblets, flavoured with a slice of citron, unless cream is ordered, and is of a far superior quality to that drunk in most other countries. During Lent, the true Russian and strict observer of old customs uses honey instead of sugar; this is generally cleared with the blood of the ox. Travellers usually carry a small chest with them, which is fitted up for a journey, and contains all the necessaries of the table, a tea-pot and sugar-basin, two or three plates, knives and forks, and a small quantity of tea and sugar, &c. Thus furnished, they can readily make tea or coffee in a few minutes, and have only to ask for a samonar (kettle), which they can borrow for about forty or eighty copeks. This samonar is a kettle with a cylinder across the inside, filled with hot coals; it is like that which was used in Germany fifty or sixty years ago, though the Russians consider it a national invention. Since tea has become so common a beverage in this country, samonars are to be found not only in every hotel, but also in every decent peasant's cottage.

Maid-servants are not seen in any Russian inns, for everything is done by boys, who are very neatly clothed, and of respectable appearance; they wear the national costume of the Russian people, a sort of blouse, fastened at the waist by a leather belt, which dress has since become the fashion for children in the west of Europe. Persons travelling by post will find at every relay one or two rooms, comfortably furnished and warmed in winter, where they may put up; they can have their luggage brought to them, and they may pass the night on the sofa, without being obliged to pay the smallest trifle when they leave the following morning. Upon the main roads, as, for instance, upon those which lie between Petersburgh and Warsaw, and between Moscow and Petersburgh, the houses at which horses are changed are superbly fitted up, tolerably well conducted, and infinitely cleaner than the hotels.

I took measures to make myself as comfortable as I could at the inn at Jaroslaff, and while M. de A- went to announce my visit to the governor and the president de la Chambre des Domaines, I resolved to stroll into the city. It is quite modern, and if it were not for the Russian churches, with their singular architecture, the traveller might fancy himself in a town of Germany or France. Jaroslaff is situated on the right bank of the Wolga, which flows majestically at its feet. Most of the rivers in Russia have the right bank very steep, and the left so low that it is quite marshy, and exposed to the inundations of the waters every spring. Jaroslaff appears a magnificent city from the opposite bank of the river; commanding the Wolga, which it borders with its beautiful palaces; it seems not unlike Hamburgh. This resemblance is caused perhaps by its two hundred cupolas and spires, but its population bears no proportion to its extent, for it does not consist of more than 25,000 souls. This is a striking feature in almost all the cities and towns of Russia. They do not appear to be built in reference to the present number of their inhabitants, but rather for a future population, and thus it is that Russia produces an impression upon the traveller, which he does not experi

ence in any other country; he perceives the germ of its gradual development, and steady progress, the present making way for the future.

The Goshnoi Dvoi, the bazaar of Jaroslaff, is very gay and amusing, the bustle and life of its streets reminded me forcibly of Moscow. I noticed among the people a great many persons with dark hair. The men are strong and well made, and have expressive and regular features, and the women of this part of the empire are considered the most lovely in Russia; the Jaroslaff reputation for female beauty, is as great as that of the pretty bourgeoises of Lintz in Germany.

In the course of the afternoon I presented myself at the Governor's, and to the president de la Chambre des Domaines, M. de Hahn, who held also a share in the government. He drove me through the town to a very beautiful park, called the Summer Garden, which is open to the inhabitants as a sort of promenade; at its extremity are the city hospital and the mad-house. The following morning I received a visit from General de Bariatinsky, the military governor of Jaroslaff, and he invited me to dine with him. His wife was the Princess Abomelok, an Armenian, and quite an oriental beauty. As soon as we rose from table, we went into the city to look at some of the churches, and afterwards proceeded to the shop of a tradesman who had respectfully requested us to judge of the merits of an extraordinary work of art which was just completed. This chef d'œuvre was nothing more than a cylindrical Nienne organ, which executed a number of overtures, marches, and symphonies. Hand-organs, musical boxes, and time-pieces, take the place of street players in Russia. The Russians are passionately fond of music, and are acquainted with almost all the productions of ancient and modern composers. Good piano-forte playing is general in this country.

There is perhaps scarcely anything which strikes the traveller so much as the great devotion and the rigid observance of the various rites and customs of the church in Russia, and this is to be remarked even in the highest class of society; the same thing had equally surprised me in Moscow.

The young Prince of D, one of the Muscovite lions, had done me the honour of offering himself as my cicerone to visit the churches of the Kremlin; and in almost every church we entered I observed that he was careful to prostrate himself to the ground before each saint and relic, which happened to lie in our path. At Jaroslaff I observed the same respect for the forms of religion. Madame de Baratinsky and the lady who accompanied her, although elegantly dressed, bent before every image which we passed, and touched the ground with their foreheads; and these were women of the first refinement and fashion. Madame de Baratinsky was lady of honour, and the chief ornament of the aristocratic circle in Petersburgh; to her great personal attractions she joined superior mental cultivation, and was perfectly well informed upon subjects of French and German literature. Å short time before, as we wandered on the banks of the Wolga, she spoke with considerable taste and judgment of the beauties of Goethe's lyrical poetry, and recited with much feeling the famous ballad of "The Fisherman." This extreme devotion is not to be found out of Russia, not even in those countries where the most rigid Catholicism reigns, as in Belgium, Bavaria, Rome, or Munich. It may occasionally be seen in women, but rarely in men; then again upon this parti

cular the civilised classes hold very different opinions to the lower orders of people; they would consider the manifestation of any devotional sentiment as perfectly contrary to all propriety, especially in public, while in Russia the reverse is the case. Atheists, or men who are nearly so, are to be found there as everywhere else; they would perhaps jest at, and feel incredulous about all religious scruples, but they would still observe a decent appearance of devotion in public, and attend strictly to the ceremonies enjoined by the church. All, high and low, rich and poor, submit with implicit obedience to the religious unity and worship of the national church. But the perfect equality which may be observed in all the sacred edifices between the noble and the peasant, the powerful and the humble, is still more striking and beautiful; here, at least, no attention is paid to rank; there are no privileges, no favours made in exception of any particular class; here, at least, reign perfect unity and brotherly love, such as the Christian religion requires of us. The lowest order of people have the same rights as those of the highest rank; the slave and the beggar may place themselves wherever they choose, even before the noble and the wealthy, who would never for a moment think of taking precedence.

In Protestant churches, every one has his own seat, and very often a small pew, with a window looking upon the nave, and a door to be opened only by those to whom the pew belongs. The different classes never mix together. Persons of high condition generally have places near the altar, while those in a more humble station of life, are removed from it; in short, all the pettinesses of rank, fortune, or privilege, are carried into the bosom of the church. But in the Catholic chapels, and especially in the cathedrals, this unchristian custom is not so general; still, the higher classes ever seek to separate themselves from the people, and usually reserve to themselves one side of the The Catholics in the north of Germany, however, have adopted pews; in Russia, except a few chairs intended for women, there are no fixed seats or benches for kneeling.

nave.

THE WISH.

LIKE the streamlet in its flow,
Ever gliding calm and slow,
Not dashing into sight
With the rapid river's might,
Not unseen, yet, like the brook,
With an unobtrusive look,
Going onwards slow and sure,
Like its waters, and as pure,
So I'd wish my life to pass.
Through the velvet banks of grass
On which the violet grows,
It for ever, ever flows

O'er its shining pebbly bed;
While through the boughs o'erhead
Dart the merry sunbeams bright
In a golden shower of light :

Univ. Coll, Durham.

Where the lime-trees dip their boughs,
And the lovers pledge their vows,

As they gaze into the stream

And see the forms that haunt each
dream:

Richest flowers do gem thy brink
Where the wild deer stops to drink ;
And the children love to see
Their mirror'd forms in thee.
I would live not like the ocean
In boisterous commotion,
Or desire, like the river,
To go whirling on for ever.
But would flow as tranquilly
Through life, dear brook, as thee!

CUTHBERT BEDE.

HOW I BECAME A CHARTIST.

Sydney,

You ask me, my dear fellow, "How I became a Chartist? you might as well ask me to repeat the story of my life—to run through its leading incidents-for everything in it of importance points to that single question. My becoming a Chartist was the natural sequence to my preceding career-the last link in the chain which I had insensibly forged for myself while lounging along the path of youth, as indolent in habit as I was irresolute in aim. It often recurs to my memory how much precious time I sacrificedhow many excellent opportunities I wilfully missed—what I might have been with even common prudence and industry, and what I really am. These are painful reflections, and embitter every thought and feeling of my mind; yet, by constantly dwelling upon them, they seem as it were a settled part of my existence.

The history of my life may be comprised in one word-indolence. I am by nature lazy, and never did really an honest day's work in my life. The vis inertia is so strongly planted in me that, with all my efforts, I never could effectually overcome it. I could occasionally exert myself and do a great deal in a little time, but I soon relapsed, and was never capable of steady and well-sustained application. It is the drop by drop that wears out the stone, and not the torrent that momentarily dashes upon it. It was my misfortune, also, to have too indulgent parents. They wished to do well for me, strove to direct my mind aright, and ardently hoped that I might one day do credit to their care and attention; but, good easy souls, they were utterly ignorant of the tenor of my disposition, and the treatment which it required, and, in lieu of disciplining my mind by gentle degrees, and inducing habits of industry, they allowed me to follow too far the bent of my own inclinations, which had generally an idle tendency. My delight was-and even that palled upon me-to wander in the fields, to watch the birds, and to waste whole hours stretched on the grass, on a fine, sunny day, or riding or shooting, and really without any settled love for such pursuits, but merely to kill time, which hung heavily on my hands.

When I arrived in London I was placed at the office of a reputed conveyancer, to prepare myself for the bar, to which, as you are aware, my education had been specially directed. It was a highly respectable firm, and a great deal of business was passing through their hands, which must have been advantageous to me, had I been commonly attentive to the profession. There were eight others in the office, two of whom were upon a similar footing to myself, the rest were mere clerks, et cetera, who worked for a weekly stipend. For the first six months I was pretty steady, and began to pave the way for future progress; but, as soon as I became comparatively familiar with the principals and the place, my old habit began to steal upon me, and, instead of sticking to business, I was too frequently lolling about town, looking at the sights, and then racking my brain to frame excuses, not only to myself but to my employers, for such wanton and wilful negligence. The habit, however, grew upon me, and I frequently visited the theatres; formed a loose connection from sheer ennui, which drained me of my resources, and gave a new

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