Several of the Rhine wines have been so closely imitated--some even say excelled--that sanguine persons predict that in time the Crimean wines will rank higher than the Rhenish. Be that as it may, it seems a pity that the Russian growers should be content in many instances to give German names to their produce, instead of creating their own class of wines. A sort of liqueur, something like Constantia, is highly prized by connoisseurs, but at present this is only produced in the private vineyards of the Bariatinsky and Woronzoff families, and at Orianda, and cannot be purchased. Prince Woronzoff, who appears to have been a wise and enlightened governor, had a favourite scheme for bringing large districts into cultivation as vineyards. Unhappily, the war took place ere he could put his project in execution, and the country is now so impoverished and thrown back that it will be years before it can recover from the shock. Oursouf is a little Tartar town, built on the slope of a steep hill, and close to an enormous rock, on the top of which are some ruins, said to have been once a castle. A few miles inland rises the grand mountain of the Acondagh, so called from its outline being supposed to resemble a crouching bear. "Acon" means bear; "dagh" signifies mountain. Clouds were flitting over the summits of the range, so the likeness, if it existed, was invisible to our eyes. Prince B---- has bought a small property a few versts from the village, and having lived much abroad, he intends building a perfect Italian villa, so as to introduce a mode of architecture which he believes will be remarkably well adapted both to the country and climate. At present the foundations only have been dug, but should our good fortune bring us here again in a few years, we hope to find our kind friend established in his retired home. To those who do not object to pitch their tents away from the haunts of companionable man, this little estate offers every charm that can well be desired. The scenery is as beautiful as it is magnificent. A lovely little wooded glen runs up from the sea, far away into the mountains, that gradually become steeper and steeper, until the stately Tchatar-Dagh appears in the distance, its rugged sides partly covered with forest, and its lofty peaks crowned with eternal snow. A rapid stream winds its way through the valley, sometimes dashing down in rapid cascades, then lingering in dark and shady pools, whose banks seem the chosen home of every sort of beautiful fern. The Osmunda regalis grows to a size almost unknown in England, and tufts of many kinds of the delicate maiden-hair nestle between the stones wherever the spray of the waterfalls can reach their feathery branches. In the spring the lilies of the valley must carpet the ground. In some sheltered spots we found several varieties of large white lilies, and the autumnal cyclamen revels in the rich sandy soil.