to market hires a droschky, and, as only one
person can sit in it comfortably, his scullion
follows in another; while a pavosky, or cart, to
carry provisions, brings up the rear. It is a
fine and improving sight to witness five men,
three carriages, and six horses moving half a
mile in procession to buy a piece of beef— cook,
scullion, three coachmen, two droschkys, and
one pavosky. Any tradesman who thought of
sending round to his customers for orders, of
fattening his meat instead of selling skeletons,
of killing his poultry instead of selling it alive,
of regulating his prices, weights, and measures,
so as to check the frauds of cooks and
commissaries, would probably make a rapid fortune.
But nobody thinks of these things. All
purchases must be made by agents and deputies,
and there must be a droschky and a perquisite
mixed up with every transaction of our lives.

The money wasted in one year for
wheelbarrows by persons who would much rather
walk, by reason of their prudence or slender
means, would pave an ordinary town twice
over; but it would not pave ours. Like most
Russian towns, its size is altogether disproportionate
to its population. Our streets are as
large and broad as those of Berlin. In our
main thoroughfares may be seen palaces worth
twenty thousand pounds sterling, and next door
to them hovels not worth twenty pounds sterling.
To the hovel is, perhaps, attached a spacious
court-yard, or even a garden, Formerly, having
but few inhabitants, and desiring to attract
more, we were thankful to any one who would
set up even a permanent umbrella in our best
streets. Building regulations were useless
when none thought of building; besides, they
are a modern idea with us. By-and-by, a free
port and a pleasant climate set us prospering.
We grew in luxury, we reared palaces and
warehouses, but the old barns and sheds still
remain to encumber our best sites. What is to
be done with them? They are private property,
they are valuable, they let well. They give a
far better interest on capital than better buildings,
and capital is scarce with us. It will pay
fifteen and twenty per cent. on good security.
Invested in houses it will not return more than
five. But how is all the immense space covered
by the barns and sheds and umbrellas to be
paved and drained and lighted at a reasonable
cost?

Better to go and live further off out of the
dust, and keep fierce dogs to frighten our mild
thieves, and pave and light and drain for
ourselves after a fashion; that is, as far as our
court-yards and staircases are concerned. So
thought also the last generation, and off it went
just within easy distance of the office, or the
counting-house, poor folk and dependents
following with their sheds and umbrellas again.
The suburb of fifty years ago is in the heart of
the town now, and respectability with its gig
must start once more afield, and the straggling
city grows wider and wider. A palace here, a
barn there; then an immense warehouse, and
another and another; then a little shed, like an
Eastern shop in a bazaar, with, perhaps, two
pounds' worth of wood-work about it inside and
out; then another palace, a small shop, a
vacant space, three sheds, a granary, a palace, a
barn, and so on. Our streets and public ways,
too, are simply detestable.

Yet, the surprising thing here most certainly
is, not that we have some deficiencies and
imperfections, but that we have so few. Sixty
years ago, the scene around us was a wilderness:
it is now a noble city, the hopeful young
queen of our seas, and a splendid monument of
our genius and enterprise. Higher memories
also belong to it. It has been often the asylum
of the unfortunate. It has given prompt and
gracious hospitality to the persecuted of many
countries and of many faiths— to the French
royalist who fled from the Directory, to the
oppressed Greeks and Armenians of the last
generation. All prospered, being hustled in the
race of life by no narrow national jealousies or
clan prejudices. The blessing of God has always
seemed to follow such exiles to their new home,
and to enrich the land which has received them.
There is a grand old story connected with our
short annals. Hither came the chief of the
great ducal house of Richelieu. He was
appointed governor-general here at a time when
place and profit were generally considered one
and the same thing. Any man in power might
easily have acquired a large fortune without
being guilty of unusual or arbitrary acts. But
the high-hearted French noble thought otherwise.
He found a wretched village, and left it
a great town. How he ruled it may be told by
the inscription on his statue, which is set up
in front of the magnificent line of palaces which
look towards the sea, along our boulevard. Our
traditions relate, that when at last the duke
quitted the city he had founded, he took but a
soldier's wardrobe with him, no more than his
horse could carry together with its rider. It is
certain that Louis XVIII begged him back from
his new master, who was loth to part with him.
His picture may be seen at Windsor Castle; it
is that of a handsome man, with the true air of
an aristocrat about him.

Have courts ever been really as corrupt as
democracies, and have not even the most
thoughtless princes contrived to choose their
servants, as well as the pawnbroker and the
tallyman, who have all the votes of a poor
district in their strong-box, and few ideas beyond
it? Happily for us, we have not begun to
meddle with such questions yet. We are still
guided by tradition in most things. We are
content to do as our fathers did. But we are
growing rapidly ripe for change, We are
indifferent about it still, perhaps rather apathetic,
as in other matters, but we are not averse to it.
Education and public opinion are busy among
us; the latter even feverish. They will do
wonders of good or evil by-and-by, perhaps in
ten years, perhaps in five, perhaps to-morrow.
A grand experiment is, for the first time, being
fairly tried among us, and whatever may be the
result, the Emperor Alexander has fairly earned