oes home; that much is certain; most of his time is loafed
away--that, too, is beyond question. He may skate a little, perhaps,
in the winter, if he happens to live near a skating ground, but
he will not go far for it; and in the summer, which is holiday
time for him, from June to September, he walks up and down the
village street clothed in white calico garments, or plays cup and
ball in the garden; fishes a little, perhaps, in the river or pond
if there happen to be one, and lazies his time away without exertion.
Of late years "lorteneece," as lawn-tennis is called in the Tsar's
country has been slightly attempted; but it is not really liked:
too many balls are lost and the rules of the game have never yet
been thoroughly grasped. A quartette of men will occasionally rig
up their net, which they raise to about the height of a foot and
a half, and play a species of battledore and shuttlecock over it
until the balls disappear; but it is scarcely tennis. As a matter
of fact, a Russian generally rushes at the ball and misses it; on
the rare occasions when he strikes the object, he does so with
so much energy that the ball unless stopped by the adversary's
eye, or his partner's, disappears forever into "the blue."

Croquet is a mild favourite, too; but it is played very languidly
and unscientifically.

Most gardens in Russian country houses contain a swing, a rotting
horizontal bar for the gymnastically (and suicidally) inclined, and
a giant stride. Occasionally there is a flower-bed in the centre,
in which our dear old British friend the rhubarb, monopolizes the
space, and makes a good show as an ornamental plant; for he is
not known in that benighted country as a comestible, though, of
course, children are acquainted with and hate him in his medicinal
capacity. Besides the swings and the rhubarb, there are sand or gravel
paths; and built out over the dusty road is an open summer-house,
wherein the Muscovitish householder and his ladies love to sit
and sip their tea for the greater part of each day--this being
their acme of happiness. The dust may lie half-an-inch thick over
the surface of their tea and bread and butter, but this does not
detract from the delights of the fascinating occupation.

I should point out that in all I have said above, I refer not so
much to the highest or to the lowest classes of Russian society,
as to that middle stratum to which belong the families of the
_Chinovnik_, of the infantry offic