ese women accept their beatings with a simplicity worthy of all
praise, and far from considering themselves insulted, admire the
strength and energy of the man who can administer such eloquent rebukes.
In Russia, not only may a man beat his wife, but it is laid down in the
catechism and taught all boys at the time of confirmation as necessary
at least once a week, whether she has done anything or not, for the sake
of her general health and happiness."

I thought I observed a tendency in the Man of Wrath rather to gloat over
these castigations.

"Pray, my dear man," I said, pointing with my whip, "look at that baby
moon so innocently peeping at us over the edge of the mist just behind
that silver birch; and don't talk so much about women and things you
don't understand. What is the use of your bothering about fists and
whips and muscles and all the dreadful things invented for the confusion
of obstreperous wives? You know you are a civilised husband, and a
civilised husband is a creature who has ceased to be a man.

"And a civilised wife?" he asked, bringing his horse close up beside me
and putting his arm round my waist, "has she ceased to be a woman?"

"I should think so indeed,--she is a goddess, and can never be
worshipped and adored enough."

"It seems to me," he said, "that the conversation is growing personal."

I started off at a canter across the short, springy turf. The Hirschwald
is an enchanted place on such an evening, when the mists lie low on the
turf, and overhead the delicate, bare branches of the silver birches
stand out clear against the soft sky, while the little moon looks down
kindly on the damp November world. Where the trees thicken into a wood,
the fragrance of the wet earth and rotting leaves kicked up by the
horses' hoofs fills my soul with delight. I particularly love that
smell,--it brings before me the entire benevolence of Nature, for ever
working death and decay, so piteous in themselves, into the means of
fresh life and glory, and sending up sweet odours as she works.

December 7th.--I have been to England. I went for at least a month and
stayed a week in a fog and was blown home again in a gale. Twice I fled
before the fogs into the country to see friends with gardens, but it
was raining, and except the beautiful lawns (not to be had in the
Fatherland) and the infinite possibilities, there was nothing to
interest the intelligent and garden-loving foreigner, for the good
reason t