af unite in pronouncing it far superior to the nectar with
which the gods of old were wont to quench their thirst. It is truly
one of the luxuries of life--so soft; so richly yet delicately
flavored; so bright, glowing, and transparent as it flashes through
the crystal glasses; nothing acrid, gross, or earthly about it--a
heavenly compound that "cheers but not inebriates."

"A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unbless'd."

Come with me, friend, and let us take a seat in the traktir. Every
body here is a tea-drinker. Coffee is never good in Russia. Besides,
it is gross and villainous stuff compared with the _tchai_ of Moscow.
At all hours of the day we find the saloons crowded with Russians,
French, Germans, and the representatives of various other nations--all
worshipers before the burnished shrine of _Tchai_. A little saint in
the corner presides especially over this department. The devout
Russians take off their hats and make a profound salam to this
accommodating little patron, whose corpulent stomach and smiling
countenance betoken an appreciation of all the good things of life.
Now observe how these wonderful Russians--the strangest and most
incomprehensible of beings--cool themselves this sweltering hot day.
Each stalwart son of the North calls for a portion of _tchai_, not a
tea-cupful or a glassful, but a genuine Russian portion--a tea-potful.
The tea-pot is small, but the tea is strong enough to bear an
unlimited amount of dilution; and it is one of the glorious privileges
of the tea-drinker in this country that he may have as much hot water
as he pleases. Sugar is more sparingly supplied. The adept remedies
this difficulty by placing a lump of sugar in his mouth and sipping
his tea through it--a great improvement upon the custom said to exist
in some parts of Holland, where a lump of sugar is hung by a string
over the table and swung around from mouth to mouth, so that each
guest may take a pull at it after swallowing his tea. A portion would
be quite enough for a good-sized family in America. The Russian makes
nothing of it. Filling and swilling hour after hour, he seldom rises
before he gets through ten or fifteen tumblersful, and, if he happens
to be thirsty, will double it--enough, one would think, to founder a
horse. But the Russian stomach is constructed upon some physiological
principles unknown to the rest of mankind--perhaps lined with
gutta-percha and riveted to a diaphra