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of it is over,—and apparently wholly unable to dress
becomingly. The impression made by most of them is
trivial and insignificant, but the appearance of some who
have striven to be noticed for their dress arrests the
attention. I recall such a one in a glaring costume of
light green velvet, shining like a scarabæus, and another
in a bright yellow velvet dress with embroidery down
the back. Some of the coachmen look like genuine
barbarians, being dressed in red and gold; those of the
foreign ministers have a triangle in gold embroidery on
the back and the colors of the country on the front of
the hat. Our coachman and all coachmen cross
themselves on the forehead, the mouth, and the breast before
every shrine and before every one of the numerous
chapels from whose burning lamp a light is thrown into the
street. Most of this comes from habit. There is far
less piety than there would seem to be from all the
crossing and bowing, in the open streets, to which the stranger
is a witness. While they are making the sign of the
cross with the right hand, they are scratching themselves
on the back with the left.
Some of the men have extremely expressive
countenances. Almost all the women have chlorosis. The
climate compels them to sit too much indoors. The
water is undrinkable and the food bad. The poorer
people live on barley bread, cabbage soup, and porridge in
this land whose temperature demands more nutritious
food than in England. And the national drinks—tea,
kvas, and vodka (brandy)—have not the nutriment of
Germany’s lighter or England’s stronger ales. In St.
Petersburg anæmia is met everywhere.
Life in the principal streets is quite modern. But in
the middle of the Nevski, near the Kazán Church, behind
the memorial of Catherine the Second, you look into the
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