THE STATION-MASTER.
Is there anybody who has not cursed the station-masters, who has not abused them? Is there anybody who has not demanded of them the fatal book in an angry moment, so as to enter therein the unavailing complaint against delays, incivility, and inexactitude? Is there anybody who does not look upon them as being the scum of the human race, like the late Government Clerks,[1] or at the least like the Mouromsky brigands?[2] Let us, however, be just; let us realize the position, and perhaps we shall judge them with some leniency. What is a station-master? The veritable martyr of the fourteenth class, whose rank serves only to save him from blows, and not so even at all times. (I appeal to the conscience of my readers.) What is the duty of these dictators, as Prince Viazemsky humorously styles them? Is it not in truth hard labour? No rest day or night. It is him the traveller assails irritated by the accumulated vexations of a tiresome journey. Is the weather atrocious; are the roads in a bad state; is the driver dogged; do the horses
