Archangel, although the capital of the province, and the chief port in the north of Russia, by no means answers the expectations of a foreigner who has seen it only in the large letters printed on the map: it was (for it has since been burnt down) a long straggling street of dismal-looking wooden houses, mostly painted dark gray or black, with the window-frames and doors of a staring white; the only buildings that were tolerable were (as is commonly the case in Russian provincial towns) the government offices, the gymnasium, and the churches. A more wretched place dignified by the name of _city_ it is impossible to conceive; but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that we should not remain long in it, a few months at the utmost, when we calculated upon bidding adieu to it for ever; we therefore determined upon philosophically bearing all the _désagrémens_ which we might be condemned to meet with. It contained, at the time of which I am writing, about twenty-five thousand inhabitants, including the foreigners (mostly Germans) and the government authorities, but it was a miserably dull place. In the winter, which lasts about eight months of the year, we lived almost entirely by candle-light, our monotonous existence only varied by a drive in the sledge, or a stiff formal ball at the governor’s of the province, in which our sole amusement was staring at the uniforms, bowing to his excellency, and eating bonbons. I do not know how we should have got through the dreary winter, had we not been cheered by the consolation that summer would come some time or other, though it appeared distant enough in the prospect as we walked out during the short hour of daylight, or rather twilight, in the middle of the day; when we made ourselves still more miserable by continually conversing of the daisied meadows and shady lanes, the forest glades and pretty flowers of “merry England.” Not only did we suffer terribly from _mal de pays_, that extreme longing for home that amounts to a malady, but the heaviness of the sky seemed to affect the mind, as if the excessive cold had frozen all one’s energies. It appeared of no use struggling against our misfortunes, so we resigned ourselves to our fate, and made ourselves as miserable as possible. There was only one circumstance that afforded us amusement, and that was the visits that some savages, a tribe of Samoïdes, occasionally paid to the town; they came from their desolate country to avoid the rigour of their cold climate, by passing a few months in the _more genial south_; indeed, comparatively speaking, Archangel was a Naples for them, since here the mercury freezes _only sometimes_. These poor people, who belong to the Esquimaux race, as some suppose, are natives of a wild, inhospitable land, stretching far away to the north: little is known of their manners and customs _chez eux_; but when they descend from their high latitudes, and make the neighbourhood of the Russian towns their asylum for the