Roughly speaking, there are 172 million Slavs in the world. The Russians alone number about 110 millions, and these millions occupy a vast country reaching from the snows of the far North, to lands where the orange-trees bloom all the year round. The Russian holds that his dear “little mother Russia” is the most beautiful land of all the earth. The mountain fastnesses and precipices of the Urals, the green slopes of the Caucasus, the Siberian wastes, the grey shores of the Baltic and the sunny shores of the Euxine—the Volga and the Don, and even the sacred steppes—to him they are all beautiful, to him they reflect the image of his soul and his feelings. The Western traveller will find some difficulty in understanding this passionate love of the Russian for his country, and will feel tempted to draw sharp comparisons between the degrees of beauty in the various districts. But the landscape of Russia is as peculiar as the Russian people. It is as Russian as the Russian himself. There is probably not another country in the world where the climatic and geological conditions have so deeply influenced the inmost character of the people, even to their external features. Where the landscape is beautiful and the climate sunny, the handsome noble Russian type prevails; whereas the cold, inhospitable tracts produce the characteristic wide-faced, flat-nosed type. Yet there is a strange resemblance between the rough type and the handsome type analogous to that which a careful observer cannot fail to notice between the different types of Russian landscape. For though the steppe is grey, and the fields of Caucasia are green, yet both are animated by something that wears the same countenance, breathes the same purely Russian atmosphere, and is suffused with the same wonderful charm. It is the charm of perfectly balanced contrast. The soil of Russia has a soul like the soul of her children, for whom she cares and lives and breathes. This soul appears everywhere the same; it exhales the same perfume from the dry grass of the steppe as from the Crimean groves of syringa. The Russian soil is fertile, inexhaustively fertile, as if it were conscious of the millions dependent upon it. Metaphorically speaking, this soil produces its gifts out of itself, and offers them lavishly to its children. The Russian never works more than he is obliged to—he need not wrestle with the soil, he need only not forget it. But he tills it with love; he does not force the gifts of Nature, he coaxes them from her, and where these fruits do not appear on the surface, he seeks them in the heart of the earth, and goes down the coal-shafts and lead-mines with the same serene confidence with which he ploughs the sunlit surface. Is he not still with his “little mother”?