"I thought to study life in the provinces: there is no life in the provinces; every one there is said to be of the same cut. Life in the capitals is not a Russian life, but a weak imitation of the petty perfections and gross vices of modern civilization. Where am I then to find Russia? In the lower classes, perhaps, in the every-day life of the Russian peasant? But have I not been now for five days chiefly among this class? I prick up my ears and listen; I open wide my eyes and look, and do what I may, I find not the least trifle worth noting in my '_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!