things are better than they were. Still, it is hard, uphill
work. The peasants have not been improved by liberty. They now work less
and drink more than they did in the times of serfage, and if you say a
word to them they'll go away, and not work for you at all." Here
Karl Karl'itch indemnified himself for his recent self-control in the
presence of his workers by using a series of the strongest epithets
which the combined languages of his native and of his adopted country
could supply. "But laziness and drunkenness are not their only faults.
They let their cattle wander into our fields, and never lose an
opportunity of stealing firewood from the forest."

"But you have now for such matters the rural justices of the peace," I
ventured to suggest.

"The justices of the peace!" . . . Here Karl Karl'itch used an inelegant
expression, which showed plainly that he was no unqualified admirer
of the new judicial institutions. "What is the use of applying to the
justices? The nearest one lives six miles off, and when I go to him he
evidently tries to make me lose as much time as possible. I am sure to
lose nearly a whole day, and at the end of it I may find that I have got
nothing for my pains. These justices always try to find some excuse for
the peasant, and when they do condemn, by way of exception, the
affair does not end there. There is pretty sure to be a pettifogging
practitioner prowling about--some rascally scribe who has been dismissed
from the public offices for pilfering and extorting too openly--and he
is always ready to whisper to the peasant that he should appeal. The
peasant knows that the decision is just, but he is easily persuaded
that by appealing to the Monthly Sessions he gets another chance in
the lottery, and may perhaps draw a prize. He lets the rascally scribe,
therefore, prepare an appeal for him, and I receive an invitation to
attend the Session of Justices in the district town on a certain day.

"It is a good five-and-thirty miles to the district town, as you know,
but I get up early, and arrive at eleven o'clock, the hour stated in the
official notice. A crowd of peasants are hanging about the door of the
court, but the only official present is the porter. I enquire of him
when my case is likely to come on, and receive the laconic answer, 'How
should I know?' After half an hour the secretary arrives. I repeat my
question, and receive the same answer. Another half hour passes, and one
of the justic