I got out at Samara, and spent the night at a hotel. The next day I embarked again for Astrakan, after having explored the town, in which I failed to find an object of interest. From Samara to Saratov the hills on the right bank of the river diminish in size, and instead of descending sheer into the river they slope away from it, and as the hills diminish the vegetation grows more scanty. The left bank is flat and monotonous as before. From Samara to Saratov I travelled third class, to see what it was like on board the steamer. There are on the steamer four official classes and an unofficial fifth class. The third class have a general cabin on the lower deck with two tiers of bunks. The fourth class have a kind of enclosure, which contains one large broad board on which they encamp. The fourth class contains the “steerage” passengers. It is indescribably dirty. The fifth class is composed of still dirtier and still poorer people, who lie about on boxes, bales, or on whatever vacant space they can find on the lower deck. They lie for the most part like corpses, in a profound slumber, generally face downwards, flat upon the floor. The third class is respectable and decently clean; it has, moreover, one immense advantage--some permanently open windows. In the first class there was among the company a great aversion to draughts. They had not what some one once called “La passion des Anglais pour les courants d’air.” In the third class there was no such prejudice. The passengers were various. There were two students, some merchants, twenty Cossacks going home on leave, a policeman, a public servant, several peasants, and a priest. On the bunk just over mine sprawled a large bearded Cossack, who at once asked me where I was going, my occupation, my country, and my name. I answered more or less in the words of the song that “My name it is Jack Rover, From over the hills I come; I get my living on the ups and downs;” in fact, that I was a newspaper correspondent and an Englishman. I then lay down on my bunk. Another Cossack from the other side of the cabin called out at the top of his voice to the man who was over me: “Who is that man?” “He is a foreigner.” “Is he travelling with goods?” “No, he is just travelling, nothing more.” “Where does he come from?” “I don’t know.” Then, looking down at me from his bunk, the Cossack who was above me said, “Thou art quite bald, little father. Is it illness that did it or nature?” “Nature,” I answered. “Should’st try an ointment,” he said. “I have tried many and strong ointments,” I said, “including onion, tar and paraffin, none of which were of any avail. There is nothing to be done.” “No,” said the Cossack, with a sigh. “There is nothing to be done. It is God’s business.”