ard came to hold in such
detestation, I should have regarded it as nothing less than the
original site of the Garden of Eden. Not all the charms which nature
has lavished upon the Vale of Tempe could have given me more pleasure
than did the little green valley in which nestled the red-roofed and
bark-covered log houses of Petropavlovsk.

The arrival of a ship in that remote and unfrequented part of the
world is an event of no little importance; and the rattling of our
chain cable through the hawse-holes created a very perceptible
sensation in the quiet village. Little children ran bareheaded out of
doors, looked at us for a moment, and then ran hastily back to call
the rest of the household; dark-haired natives and Russian peasants,
in blue shirts and leather trousers, gathered in a group at the
landing; and seventy-five or a hundred half-wild dogs broke out
suddenly into a terrific chorus of howls in honour of our arrival.

It was already late in the afternoon, but we could not restrain
our impatience to step once more upon dry land; and as soon as the
captain's boat could be lowered, Bush, Mahood, and I went ashore to
look at the town.

[Illustration]

Petropavlovsk is laid out in a style that is very irregular, without
being at all picturesque. The idea of a street never seems to
have suggested itself either to the original settlers or to their
descendants; and the paths, such as they are, wander around aimlessly
among the scattered houses, like erratic sheepwalks. It is impossible
to go for a hundred yards in a straight line, in any direction,
without either bringing up against the side of a house or trespassing
upon somebody's backyard; and in the night one falls over a slumbering
cow, upon a fair average, once every fifty feet. In other respects it
is rather a pretty village, surrounded as it is by high green hills,
and affording a fine view of the beautiful snowy peak of Avacha, which
rises to a height of 11,000 feet directly behind the town.

Mr. Fluger, a German merchant of Petropavlovsk who had boarded us in a
small boat outside the harbour, now constituted himself our guide; and
after a short walk around the village, invited us to his house, where
we sat in a cloud of fragrant cigar-smoke, talking over American war
news, and the latest _on dit_ of Kamchatkan society, until it finally
began to grow dark. I noticed, among other books lying upon Mr.
Fluger's table, _Life Thoughts_, by Beecher, and _The Sch