Next door to the hairdresser lives a milliner, whose gay caps and bonnets are duly delineated on her board. Yonder is a toy-shop, with a fine painting containing the most artistic grouping of rocking-horses with happy little boys on them for ever smiling, and Punch reclining wearily on a drum, mixed up with swords and guns that will never kill Turks, and helmets, shakoes, Cossack-caps, &c., destined to raise ambitious hopes in many a childish breast. But we have reached the Anitchkin bridge, which crosses the Fontanka. These four equestrian statues in bronze have a fine effect; the human figures endeavouring to restrain the fiery steeds are full of life and animation. There are some fine buildings near; that large handsome mansion on the right hand belongs to Prince Wasiliwitch; the long range that you see yonder to the left is the Catherine Institution; it contains some hundreds of young ladies belonging to noble families, and, like most establishments of education here, is a government one. It is of no use going further than the Amitchkin bridge, because there is absolutely nothing to see; the houses beyond it degenerate greatly, so we will return. That large white mansion is the palace of the Archduchess Olga, which she inhabits when she visits the capital. Leaving the Gostinoi Dwor on the left, we look down a street, facing which we see at a distance the Michael Palace, a handsome edifice. Soon afterwards we reach the Kazane church; it is built on the model of St. Peter’s in Rome, only on a diminutive scale. We will finish our morning’s ramble by entering it for a few minutes and examining the interior. It is large, and the space, unobstructed by pews, appears even greater than it is; the fine marble pillars supporting the roof are surmounted by gilt capitals; the pavement is tesselated; the walls are covered with pictures, before which silver lamps are suspended, and stands are placed, in which are stuck innumerable thin wax tapers, reminding us of the joss-sticks of the Chinese. That portrait, before which the ignorant lower class are performing their devotions, and bowing so low that their foreheads touch the ground, is the likeness of the Emperor’s daughter Alexandrine, who died some years ago. Alas! and are the days of heathen apotheosis not yet passed away? Must we, in the nineteenth century of the Christian era, see anything so shocking as this? What difference is there between the adoration of Romulus by the ancient Romans and this idolatry? Before that shrine opposite are kneeling two nuns; one of them is only a novice, as shown by her black velvet cone-shaped head-dress and gauze veil hanging down behind; the other has a straight head-dress covered with black cloth; they are both habited in gowns of black serge, and carry rosaries. A face, however beautiful, could never look so in this unbecoming costume. Near them is a poor woman decently clad, whose repeated prostrations, and the tears