much.” “You have made a miss-deal.” “Madame Beck is separated from her husband; she is going to sue for a divorce.” “Well, it is lucky she and her husband are Germans, for if he had been a Russian she would never get it.” “How old is she?” “O, she must be forty at the least.” Such is a sample of the conversation at a soirée; nor are the subjects on which the gentlemen converse one whit more intellectual. “Que voulez-vous?” said a nobleman one evening—“que voulez-vous? on ne peut parler la politique, et il n’y a rien à faire que de jouer aux cartes;” and it is certain that the dread of being everywhere within hearing of some government spy must be a disagreeable check on conversation. It is astonishing how much the absence of political discussion influences the amount of information current in society, or how much freedom of speech contributes to intelligence; any one who has lived in Russia can bear witness to this fact. When we were near the frontiers of Prussia, some French and German gentlemen got into the railway carriage, and began conversing on the present state of Europe. One of the latter remained quiet for a few minutes, and then said, “My friends, listen: we shall in less than an hour have quitted the territories of Russia; until we do so, let us be silent, for how do we know who may be within hearing?” The others acquiesced in the justice of the proposition, and not until we reached Myslowitz did they give any further expression to their thoughts. But to return to the Russian ladies. I remember I once went to call on the Princess O——ff: she was of very good family, but extremely poor, yet of course she could not do without a carriage, horses, a footman, and maid-servants, but the state of dirt and misery in which she lived would disgust almost a beggar amongst us. A very filthy lacquey, in livery the facings of which were scarcely visible, so discoloured were they with long use, ushered me through a room quite as dirty as himself to a second apartment, in which was seated the princess. She was at breakfast, it being twelve o’clock. The abominably filthy room, her equally disgusting attire, and the super-dirtiness of a miserable little maid who brought her some rusks, made me almost afraid to take a seat on the chair placed for me. She very politely requested me to partake of her refreshment, which I, as politely, declined: but imagine, gentle reader, how infinitely I was disgusted when she took up a piece of paper from the table, spat in it, and then replaced it near the bread she was eating! She begged me to come and see her again, as she assured me she was very fond of the English: I need not say that I did not repeat my visit. Candidly speaking, this was the only instance I met of such an extremely filthy ménage, therefore I hope it formed a rare exception. I must, however, say that in St. Petersburg I once called at a house where the footman who opened the door presented so dirty an appearance that