ges borne by the
priests, utter prayers for the repose of the dead. The rich and the
poor of both sexes stand upon the sidewalks and offer up their humble
petitions. The deep-tongued bells of the Kremlin ring out solemn
peals, and the wild and mournful chant of the priests mingles with the
grand knell of death that sweeps through the air. All is profoundly
impressive: the procession of priests, with their burning tapers; the
drapery of black on the horses; the coffin with its dead; the weeping
mourners; the sepulchral chant; the sudden cessation of all the
business of life, and the rapt attention of the multitude; the deep,
grand, death-knell of the bells; the glitter of domes and cupolas on
every side; the green-roofed sea of houses; the winding streets, and
the costumes of the people--form a spectacle wonderfully wild,
strange, and mournful. In every thing that comes within the sweep of
the eye there is a mixed aspect of Tartaric barbarism and European
civilization. Yet even the stranger from a far-distant clime, speaking
another language, accustomed to other forms, must feel, in gazing upon
such a scene, that death levels all distinctions of race--that our
common mortality brings us nearer together. Every where we are
pilgrims on the same journey. Wherever we sojourn among men,

"The dead around us lie,
And the death-bell tolls."

CHAPTER V.

TEA-DRINKING.

The _traktirs_, or tea-houses, are prominent among the remarkable
institutions of Russia. In Moscow they abound in every street, lane,
and by-alley. That situated near the Katai Gorod is said to be the
best. Though inferior to the ordinary cafes of Paris or Marseilles in
extent and decoration, it is nevertheless pretty stylish in its way,
and is interesting to strangers from the fact that it represents a
prominent feature in Russian life--the drinking of _tchai_.

[Illustration: TEA-SELLERS.]

Who has not heard of Russian tea?--the tea that comes all the way
across the steppes of Tartary and over the Ural Mountains?--the tea
that never loses its flavor by admixture with the salt of the ocean,
but is delivered over at the great fair of Nijni Novgorod as pure and
fragrant as when it started? He who has never heard of Russian tea has
heard nothing, and he who has never enjoyed a glass of it may have
been highly favored in other respects, but I contend that he has
nevertheless led a very benighted existence. All epicures in the
delicate le