'_Impressions_.' The country is dead; there is nothing but land, land,
land; so much land, indeed, that my eyes get tired of looking at it: a
dreadful road, wagons of goods, swearing carriers, drunken stage
inspectors; beetles creeping on every wall; soups with the smell of
tallow candles! How is it possible for any respectable person to occupy
himself with such nasty stuff? And what is yet more provoking, is the
doleful uniformity which tires you so much, and affords you no rest
whatever. Nothing new, nothing unexpected! To-morrow what has been
to-day; to-day what has been yesterday. Here, a post-stage, there a
post-stage, and further the same post-stage again; here, a village elder
asking for drink-money, and again to infinity village elders all asking
for drink-money. What can I write? I begin to agree with Vassily
Ivanovitsch; he is right in saying that we do not travel, and that there
is no traveling in Russia. We simply are going to Mordassy. Alas! for my
'_Impressions_.'"

Whoever wants to know more of this amusing Young Russian, must consult
"The _Tarantas_." We can assure the reader that the book is fraught with
a store of amusement--chiefly descriptions of town and country life in
Russia--not often compressed into the modest and inexpensive compass of
a thin duodecimo.

[From Household Words.]

THE ORPHAN'S VOYAGE HOME.

The men could hardly keep the deck,
So bitter was the night;
Keen northeast winds sang through the shrouds,
The deck was frosty white;
While overhead the glistening stars
Put forth their points of light.

On deck, behind a bale of goods,
Two orphans crouch'd, to sleep;
But 'twas so cold, the youngest boy
In vain tried not to weep:
They were so poor, they had no right
Near cabin doors to creep.

The elder round the younger wrapt
His little ragged cloak,
To shield him from the freezing sleet,
And surf that o'er them broke;
Then drew him closer to his side,
And softly to him spoke:

"The night will not be long"--he said,
"And if the cold winds blow,
We shall the sooner reach our home,
And see the peat-fire glow;
But now the stars are beautiful--
Oh, do not tremble so!

"Come closer!--sleep--forget the frost--
Think of the morning red--
Our father and our mother soon
Will take us to their bed;
And in their warm arms we shall sl