We rode from the hotel across the Vistula, over a new and splendid bridge, and found the railroad station a mile beyond. It is put at this safe and very inconvenient distance from the town to be secure against sudden outbreaks of popular violence. The people are of the excitable order, and this road is the grand route between Warsaw and St. Petersburg, over which their Russian masters come to govern the Poles. The young man selling tickets was civil, and he was the first man who had spoken civilly to us since we entered unhappy Poland. The Russian officials at the station were all civil. Before we could purchase our tickets our passports were examined, and a “ticket of leave” was given us, for which we paid thirty copakes, about twenty cents. We paid a cent for the baggage check. The cars were splendid; the first and second class had spring seats, cushioned, with racks for parcels; and the second class was quite as good as the first in France or Germany. The passengers were very few; the train, the only one for the day, had but three cars, and none were full. We had an apartment for six entirely to ourselves, two of us. We rush out into a vast prairie country, very sparsely inhabited, but well cultivated; large herds of cattle were grazing on the plains; pine groves were frequent; the north side of trees was torn by winter storms; houses were thatched with straw, and appeared to be miserable abodes for the poor inhabitants; they became poorer as we went north, sometimes partly under ground. They are now more scattered; fewer villages; but they are doubtless more frequent off the line of railroad, which may be laid through parts of the country less settled than others. The peasants in their rude working clothes had a wretched look, and the women were all barefooted. We passed a village that seemed to be Jewish, the men and boys being clad in long coats, such as we saw on the Jews in Warsaw. Once in every half-mile, on the road, was a neat house for the railroad man, whose duty it is to see that the road is in perfect order. These houses are numbered in order, over the whole route; they are of brick or stone, small, warm, and substantial, with a little ornament. The idea is excellent. A man thus provided for is impelled by his highest interests to be vigilant and faithful; and it would be strange, indeed, if the road were ever suffered to be out of order for a moment with such care. The road is solid, a single track with frequent turnouts, and the cars run smoothly. At every cross-road for wagons a man stands keeping guard. Accidents must be very rare on a road so managed. We stop at Lapy, on the river Narev, for dinner; they give us good soup, stewed veal, and potatoes, and a ball of forced meat, and charge us about fifty cents, two or three times as much as it was worth, but they do not expect to entertain you twice; certainly we do not expect to dine at Lapy again.