h encouraged in Russia.

The proprietor of the tavern, a burly, red-faced Cossack, Peter
Basilivitch by name, was in the employ and under the protection of the
Governor of Alexandrovsk, in which department the village of Togarog
lay. The rent paid by Basilivitch was nominal, it is true, but he sold
enormous quantities of liquor, all of which he was obliged to buy from
the Governor's stills; furthermore, he furnished his master with such
information concerning the actions, words, and even thoughts of his
patrons, as came under his observation; and as the serfs that frequented
"Paradise" had no suspicion of the true relation betwixt master and
man, the Governor was enabled to keep himself accurately informed as to
the sayings and doings of his subjects.

Let us enter the public room, this bright Sunday afternoon in the month
of April, in the year 1850. A dense crowd has assembled to-day to do
honor to Basilivitch's wretched liquor. The face of the host fairly
gloats in anticipation of the lucrative harvest that he will glean. He
rubs his hands gleefully, as he orders his servants about.

"Here, Ivan, a pint of _vodka_, and be quick about it! Alexander, you
lazy dog, here comes the village elder, Selaski Starosta--see that he is
served!"

And the crowd continues to grow, until his room will scarcely seat all
the guests.

There are sturdy farmers, wearing their heavy coats and fur caps, in
spite of the sultry weather and still warmer alcoholic beverages, and
swearing and vociferating in sonorous Russian. There are gossiping
women, decked in their caps and many-colored finery. There are
smartly-arrayed young girls, chatting merrily with the swains at their
side. Unruly children scamper, barefooted and bareheaded, around and
under the tables. Puling infants and barking dogs add their discord to
the din and confusion. It is a scene one is not apt to forget.

We repeat it, this is Sunday; the one day when the arm of the laborer
obtains a respite from the tasks imposed upon it during the week; and
the serf of Russia knows no diversion, can find no relaxation, but in
the genial climate of a tavern. But this is no ordinary occasion. Not
every Sunday ushers in so bountiful a supply of customers to Peter
Basilivitch's inn as this. There must be something of unusual
importance, perhaps some interesting bit of rumor from the capital, that
unites the inhabitants of Togarog. After the alcoholic beverages that
are so freely imbibe