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national qualities, already spoken of, so it seems to be
the connecting link between the extraordinary uniformity
of nature and the melancholy which is so characteristic of
the Russian disposition. The Russian is melancholy,—yet
not splenetic in solitude, like the Englishman. It is
a melancholy pervading the community. It is this which
easily glides into sectarian mysticism.
The union of the natural and historical conditions has
produced the Russian mir. Call to mind one or another
small country town, settled by Russian immigrants, in
the vicinity of one of the remote cities in the north, on
the Volga, only a century or two ago. Before it extend
the boundless steppes, from which hordes of wild
Tatars, the so-called Nogaï, are constantly threatening;
the forests round about are full of wild beasts and of
subjugated Tatar tribes, the so-called Cheremissians,
who are constantly rising in rebellion. An impassable
swamp separates the country town from the castle of the
Tsar, which in time of danger is the only place of refuge
of the inhabitants. In winter, the swamp is frozen over;
the cold reaches the neighborhood of —60° Fahr., and
the blasts from Siberia pile up mountains of snow,
which almost bury the whole town. Is it not evident
that in such circumstances there is no use for the saying,
“My house is my castle”? Such an idea would be
madness. Here, it is not only unsuited to the
surroundings, but impossible, to live alone, each family and
each farm by itself. Each one daily needs the help of
his neighbors for protection against the Tatars, for
defence against the wild beasts, for the clearing of the
woodland, and for breaking up the soil. The first and
most important thing is to take care not to starve to
death, and to preserve their own lives and the lives of
those dearest to them. Bread can nowhere be bought,
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