nd civilized country."

As the afternoon creeps on the rain seems to fall heavier, the fog to
brood thicker, the steamer to go (if possible) slower than before.
However, everything earthly has an end except a suit in chancery; and by
nightfall (if there _be_ any nightfall in this wonderful region, where
it is lighter at midnight than in England at daybreak) we reach Viborg,
a neat little town built along the edge of a narrow inlet, with the
straight, wide, dusty streets which characterize every Russian town from
Archangelsk to Sevastopol. Along the edge of the harbor runs a well
laid-out promenade, a favorite resort after sunset, when the cool breeze
from the gulf comes freshly in after the long, sultry hours of the
afternoon. Behind it cluster, like a heap of colored pebbles, the
painted wooden houses of the town; while over all stands, like a veteran
sentinel, the gray massive tower of the old castle, frowning upon the
bristling masts of the harbor like the Past scowling at the Present.

The rippling sea in front and the dark belt of forest behind give the
whole place a very picturesque appearance; but the beauty of the latter
is sorely marred by the destroying sweep of a recent hurricane, traces
of which are still visible in the long swathes of fallen trees that lie
strewn amid the greenwood, like the dead among the living.

In the solemn, subdued light of the northern evening we rattle in a
crazy drosky over the uneven stones of the town into the vast desolate
square in which stands the solitary hotel, a huge barrack-like building,
up and down which we wander for some time, like the prince in the
Sleeping Beauty's palace, without meeting any sign of life, till at
length in a remote corner we come suddenly upon a chubby little waiter
about the size of a well-grown baby, to whom we give our orders. This,
however, is his first and last appearance, for every time we ring a
different waiter, of the same diminutive size, answers the bell; which
oppresses us with an undefined apprehension of having got into a
charity-school by mistake.

When I first made the acquaintance of Viborg, a journey thither from St.
Petersburg, though the distance by land is only about eighty miles, was
no light undertaking. The daring traveler who elected to travel by road
had no choice but to provide himself with abundant wrappings and a good
stock of food, draw his strong boots up to his knee, fortify his inner
man with scalding tea or fiery