refuse to go?—the fault is surely the station-master's. On entering his poor dwelling, the wayfarer looks upon him as he would a foe; the station-master may consider himself fortunate if he succeeds in ridding himself of his uninvited guest; but should there be no horses? Heavens! what abuse, what threats! He is about in the rain and sleet, and takes refuge in the lobby in storms, and during the Epiphanial frosts, to escape, were it but for a moment, the complaints and assaults of the irritated travellers. A general arrives: the trembling station-master gives his two last troikas, including the courier's. The general is off, without uttering so much as "Thank you." Five minutes later—bells!—and a state messenger throws his order for horses on the table! Let us examine these matters closely, and our hearts will commiserate rather than fill with indignation. A few words more. In the course of twenty years, I have travelled through Russia in all directions; I know almost all the post-roads, and I am acquainted with several generations of drivers; there are few station-masters unknown to me by sight, and few with whom I have not had some intercourse. I hope to publish at no distant period some interesting notes made during my travels; I shall here merely observe, that the station-masters as a class are most falsely represented. These much-calumniated station-masters are in a general way quiet people, naturally obliging, sociably inclined, unassuming, and not over money-loving. From their conversation (which travellers do wrong to scorn) one may learn much that is interesting and instructive. I must own, that so far as I myself am concerned, I much
