not visit
them again, but I can never forget the open hearted kindness I
enjoyed. The Siberians have a climate of great severity, but its
frosts and snows have not been able to chill the spirit of genuine
courtesy, as every traveler in that region can testify. Hospitality is
a custom of the country, and all the more pleasing because heartily
and cheerfully bestowed.

The shades of night were falling fast as I climbed the river bank, and
began my sleigh ride toward the west. The arched gateway at Irkutsk
close by the ferry landing, is called the Moscow entrance, and is said
to face directly toward the ancient capital. As I reached the road, I
shouted "_poshol_" to the yemshick, and we dashed off in fine style.
At the church or monastery six versts away, I overtook our party. The
ladies were in the chapel offering their prayers for a prosperous
journey. When they emerged we were ready to go forward over a road not
remarkable for its smoothness.

At the first station our friends joined us in taking tea. Cups,
glasses, cakes, champagne bottles, cakes and cold meats, crept somehow
from mysterious corners in our vehicles. The station master was
evidently accustomed to visits like this, as his rooms were ready for
our reception. We were two hours in making our adieus, and consuming
the various articles provided for the occasion. There was a general
kissing all around at the last moment.

We packed the ladies in their sleigh, and then entered our own. As we
left the station our friends joined their voices in a farewell song
that rang in our ears till lost in the distance, and drowned by nearer
sounds. Our bells jingled merrily in the frosty air as our horses sped
rapidly along the road. We closed the front of our sleigh, and settled
among our furs and pillows. The night was cold, but in my thick
wrappings I enjoyed a tropical warmth and did not heed the low state
of the thermometer.

Our road for seventy versts lay along the bank of the Angara. A thick
fog filled the valley and seemed to hug close to the river. In the
morning every part of our sleigh except at the points of friction, was
white with frost. Each little fibre projecting from our cover of
canvas and matting became a miniature stalactite, and the head of
every nail, bolt, and screw, buried itself beneath a mass like
oxydised silver. Everything had seized upon and congealed some of the
moisture floating in the atmosphere. Our horses were of the color, or
no col