at last we reach the Jigoulef hills, the most beautiful piece of scenery on the whole river, and one which would be beautiful even in a country far more attractive than Russia. Hills four to six hundred feet high rise steeply on the right bank of the stream, clothed with luxuriant wood, beech, hazel, birch, oak, hornbeam, and other deciduous trees, their autumnal gold and scarlet mingled here and there with the dark green of fir clumps, their slopes cut deep by ravines and bushy little dells, where a patch of sunny greensward is seen through the boughs beside a sparkling brook. Imagine this wealth of wood interrupted here and there by a miniature cliff of blue limestone, crowning the summit of some jutting promontory, and the whole mirrored in the glassy flood that pours along, deep and strong, but smooth and silent as a lake, with ridge after ridge and bay after bay down the long vista of its banks, and you have a picture to which all Russia, from the Euxine to the Frozen Sea, cannot supply the like. The elements of beauty in it are so simple that one is half surprised to find the result so beautiful. Perhaps this is partly because we English are so little accustomed to great rivers that they make a correspondingly profound impression on us, the sense of their grandeur and of the tremendous part they play in the development of countries and nations giving them a power over the imagination which enhances even the visual perception of their beauty.

All along this range of hills which borders the stream for more than twenty miles, there is not a house or sign of life visible; but up behind, on the

level ground stretching out to the south and west, the land is richly cultivated, and indeed constitutes one of the largest and best cultivated estates in all Russia, the property of Count Orloff Davydoff, who owns the whole country enclosed in that remarkable bend of the Volga, which may be seen on any map of Europe between Simbirsk and Saratof. Just at the easternmost point of the bend the river turns south, breaking through the Jigoulef ridge which has bordered it for twenty miles, and here, at the town of Samara, one seems suddenly to pass, as if through a gate in the hills, from Europe into Asia. Up to this point all has been green, moist, fresh-looking, the air soft though brilliantly clear, the grass not less juicy than in England, the wayside flowers and trees very similar to our own, if not always of the same species. But once through the hills, and looking away south-east across the boundless steppe towards Orenburg and the Ural river, a different climate and scenery reveal themselves. The air is hot and dry, the parched. earth gapes under the sun, the hills are bare, or clothed only with withered weeds; plants and shrubs of unfamiliar aspect appear, the whole landscape has a tawny torrid look, as if of an African desert. Henceforth, all the way to the Black Sea, one felt one's self in the glowing East, and seemed at a glance to realize the character of the wilderness that stretches from here all the way, a plain with scarcely a mound to break its monotony, to the banks of the Oxus and the foot of the Thian Shan mountains.

Along the first part of this great plain the Russians

were then building a railway, the terminus of which, not quite completed, we saw at Samara. It has now been opened as far as Orenburg, a distance of 280 miles, and they talk of carrying it on from Orenburg to Tashkend, the present capital of their dominions in Turkestan. The distance, however, is so great-over 1200 miles by the present route-and money is so scarce, that this is not likely to be soon accomplished; although it would immensely strengthen their hold upon Central Asia, enabling troops and supplies to pass from the Volga to the Jaxartes in three days, instead of four or five weeks. As the country is flat, with only one great river, the Ural or Yaik, to be bridged, the construction of the line would not present grave difficulties; but all the wood for sleepers would have to be carried along as the rails were laid, the steppe being perfectly bare, station-houses must be built, men must be kept to clear the line of snow, and the traffic would not for many years, or perhaps centuries, to come be sufficient to cover the expenses of working. The Russians, who are eager to become a great commercial nation, would no doubt find an easier market for their goods in Central Asia; but those countries are too thinly peopled, and too likely to remain so, to make even this an object of great consequence. If the railway is made, it will be for military rather than for commercial reasons.

From Samara onwards (a town famous for the "cure" of koumiss or fermented mare's milk, which is said to be so efficacious in consumption and some other complaints) the river scenery becomes less

interesting. On the east, one has always the bare steppe, stretching farther than eye can reach in an unbroken flat. On the west, ridges of brown, or red, or yellow hills run along the river, breaking down to it in cliffs of limestone, the strata perfectly horizontal -cliffs not high enough to be fine, with never a wood, and seldom a village. The stream itself, though wider than it was above, hardly seems so, on account of the numerous arms, enclosing low woody islands, into which it divides itself. Hearing that it was still more monotonous farther down towards Astrakhan, and that that city, spite of its high-sounding Oriental name, was only a second-rate modern Russian town, full of dried fish and fever, we determined to quit the steamer at Saratof, and travel thence to the Caucasus by railway, running first west into the heart of the country, and then south across the great steppe to the Sea of Azof. By this time nearly all the cabin. passengers had gone, but the lower deck was still crowded with Armenians and Persians bound for Astrakhan, whence they were to proceed, by another steamer of the same company, across the Caspian to Baku in Transcaucasia, or to Lenkoran on the frontiers of Persia. We took leave with some regret of these picturesque groups and of the majestic stream, which we never expected to see again; and, landing at Saratof, climbed the high brown hills that rise above it to take a last look over the solemn eastern steppe, still for the most part left to the rude tribes of Kirghiz and Bashkirs that wander over it with their flocks and

1 Pronounced Saratof.

their tents of felt, but destined, such is the fertility of its soil, to wave one day from end to end with luxuriant harvests.

Travellers are fond of talking of the Oriental character of Russia; and though the smart saying about scratching Russians and finding Tatars is pretty well exploded (nobody can be essentially less like a Tatar than the Russian is), there are, no doubt, certain points, mostly mere externals, in which Russian towns, or Russian usages, recall those of the East. For instance, the cupolas of churches are covered outside with tiles or iron plates of gay colours, and in the interior the most honourable places are the corners, in which, therefore, czars, patriarchs, and other great folk, are buried. The houses (except in the greatest cities) are low, buying and selling goes on chiefly in the bazaars, the horses carry loud jangling bells, people prostrate themselves at worship, instead of merely bowing or kneeling; and when you ask for water, instead of giving you a basin, they pour water on your hands. Such resemblances as these are only natural; the wonder is, considering that Russia had for many centuries closer relations with the East than with the West, that there are not many more of them. What is far more curious is to find on the Volga so many things and ways in Russia which remind one of America; points of resemblance between nations apparently as far removed from one another in manners, religion, history, and government, as they are in space. I amused myself in noting down some of these points of resemblance-those which are merely