The last act opens with a scene between the police-master and the shopkeepers, whom he most bitterly upbraids for daring to complain of his oppression, and refuses to be pacified until they have promised to send him various valuable offerings, so many arsheens of cloth, and so on, to act as peace-makers. At last, on this consideration, he consents to “think no more of it,” and the poor people take their leave. They are replaced by the numerous friends of the family, who have heard of the intended marriage, and have come to congratulate them upon it. A shower, or rather a deluge, of compliments greets them on all sides, in the midst of which the police-master sneezes. When such an accident occurs, the Russians always exclaim, “_I wish you well_.” It may therefore be imagined what a chorus of voices, each desirous to be remarked above the other; is heard simultaneously. Various grand plans are discussed for the future couple, and the whole family seem ready to die with triumphant exultation, when in comes the postmaster so much out of breath that he cannot speak. On recovering his voice he informs them that he has opened the letter that the traveller had forwarded to St. Petersburg, that he is no Reviseur, and that he had turned them all into ridicule, calling them asses, dupes, and fools, and had given a detailed account of everything that had passed. The distress of the whole company is inconceivable; the police-master is frantic with despair, the daughter and mother faint, the ladies scream, the confusion becomes greater and greater the more they have time to reflect on their position. In the midst of all this terror, consternation, recrimination, and misfortune, enters a chasseur, who announces that the _real Reviseur_ has just arrived. Their despair is now excessive; it becomes deeper and deeper, whereupon the curtain drops and leaves them to their fate. The acting was admirable throughout. I forget the name of the artiste who performed the first character, but he did it in a manner beyond praise. The comic actors in Russia are excellent; there are not many first-rate actresses; Mlle. Samoiloff was the best—she has since quitted the stage. Perhaps it may be thought that the preceding play is but a burlesque, an extremely exaggerated picture of what really passes in Russia. Far from it. The Count Z. was sitting next to me, and we were conversing upon the excessive truth of the whole, when Madame P. turned and entreated us, “pour l’amour de Dieu,” not to pass such remarks, for if we were heard we might have a visit from the police before the next morning; so we waited until we returned home, when every one acknowledged that the picture was by no means overdrawn.