s during our five days'
stay that we came upon these freshly strewn paths.

The part of the Fair which is most interesting to foreigners in general,
I think, is the great glass gallery filled with retail booths, where
Russians sell embroidery and laces and the handiwork of the peasants in
general; where Caucasians deal in the beautiful gold and silver work of
their native mountains; where swarthy Bokhariots sit cross-legged, with
imperturbable dignity, among their gay wares, while the band plays, and
the motley crowd bargains and gazes even in the evening when all the
other shops are closed.

I learned here an extra lesson in the small value attached by Russians
to titles in themselves. It was at the Ekaterinburg booth, where
precious and semi-precious stones from the Ural and Siberia, in great
variety and beauty, were for sale. A Russian of the higher classes, and,
evidently, not poor, inquired the price of a rosary of amethysts, with a
cross of assorted gems fit for a bishop. The attendant mentioned the
price. It did not seem excessive, but the bargainer exclaimed, in a
bantering tone,--

"Come now, prince, that's the fancy price. Tell me the real price."

But the "prince" would not make any reduction, and his customer walked
away. I thought I would try the effect of the title on the Caucasians
and Bokhariots. I had already dropped into the habit of addressing
Tatars as "prince," except in the case of hotel waiters,--and I might
as well have included them. I found to my amusement that, instead of
resenting it as an impertinence, they reduced the price of the article
for which I was bargaining by five kopeks (about two and a half cents)
every time I used the title, though no sign of gratification disturbed
the serene gravity of their countenances any more than if they had been
Americans and I had addressed them as "colonel" or "judge," at
haphazard. Truly, human nature varies little under different skies! But
I know now, authoritatively, that the market value of the title of
"prince" is exactly two and a half cents.

One evening we drove across the bridge to take tea at a garden on the
"Atkos," or slope,--the crest of the green hill on which stands the
Kremlin. In this Atkos quarter of the town there are some really fine
houses of wealthy merchants, mingled with the curious old dwellings of
the merely well-to-do and the poor. In the garden the tea was not very
good, and the weedy-looking chorus of women, the inevi