mead-water, was standing close to his samovar made of bright copper, and it so happened, that he had a face as red as his samovar, so that at a distance, one might have easily fancied there were two self-boilers standing at the window, had it not been for the feet of one of the samovars being ornamented by a jet-black, long, flowing beard.

Whilst our gentleman traveller was examining the room allotted to him, his luggage and other effects were brought in. First of all, his portmanteau, originally made of white leather, but now looking somewhat old, and testifying to the fact that it had been more than once on the road. This portmanteau was carried in by the coachman Selifan, a man of middle stature, clad in a toulup, and the servant Petruschka, a brisk, handy fellow of about thirty, dressed in an ample, shabby-genteel coat, evidently cast off from the the shoulders of his master. He also was a man of middle size, apparently of a sulky nature at first sight, with very broad lips and a large nose.

After they had deposited the portmanteau, they brought in a small mahogany travelling box, inlaid with ebony and other ornamental woods, a pair of boot-legs, and a cold fowl, carefully wrapped in a piece of brown paper. When all these effects were properly located in their respective places, the coachman Selifan left the room with the intention of looking after his horses, whilst the servant Petruschka began to make his arrangements in a small adjoining antechamber, very dark and much like a dog-kennel, into which he had already succeeded in conveying with him his travelling cloak, together with a peculiar odour of his own which was also common to a large bag of his, containing a variety of articles, forming the indispensable toilet of a travelling servant. In this same dark dog-kennel he fixed against the wall as well as he possibly could, a shaky, three-legged bedstead, and stretched upon it something not unlike a mattress, but as meagre and flat as a pancake, and perhaps not less greasy. This mattress, however, he had obtained not without some difficulty, from the landlord of the inn.

During the time that these servants were thus busily engaged in making themselves and their master comfortable, the latter had himself descended into the reception saloon.

What character these so called reception-rooms bear—many of my readers, who have travelled in Russia, will know perfectly well —everywhere the same walls, painted in oil-colours, darkened by the smoke of stoves and tobacco in the upper parts, and greasy from the backs of visitors and travellers in the more 

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