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furnished by the best French artists of the day, of whom this Empress was so generous a patron, with its lovely Bouchers and white carved panellings, it is a unique and fitting abode for the most charming and beautiful of Princesses, the Grand Duchess Serge. Gatchina, the Windsor of Russia, is a curious mixture of splendor and unpretentiousness. The approach from the station, through a series of small parks, must be lovely in summer. I was surprised to see so few sentries about, and indeed, to all appearances, the Emperor is not more guarded than the Queen at Windsor. The entrance to Gatchina, on the public road, had but one sentry. Without architectural merits, its 700 rooms and endless corridors are filled with priceless Oriental china (cleverly arranged on the walls), tapestries, and art treasures. Coureurs in black and orange liveries, their caps adorned with tossing black, white, and orange feathers, give a slightly barbaric appearance to the scene, which is added to by the mass of bowing attendants, and by the two Nubians dressed in white, with turbans and cimeters, standing outside the Empress's audience room. While waiting to be received one is shown into an apartment fitted up in the style of forty years ago, with paintings of mediocre value. Further on there is a large hall worthy of an old English country house, full of comfortable armchairs and writing tables, games, and toys—I even spied a swing. In this hall their Majesties often dine, even when they have guests, and after dinner the table is removed, and they pass the remainder of the evening there. This seems strange when one thinks of the 700 rooms in the enormous building. But the Emperor and Empress elect to live with the greatest simplicity in the tiniest of rooms, which are rather at variance with the Emperor's towering frame and majestic bearing. His Majesty's manner is as simple as are his tastes, and, if rather shy, impresses one with a conviction of his honesty and earnestness. There are some curious customs at the Russian Court which do not harmonize with the idea of a despotic and autocratic Sovereign. To see the Czar standing while supper is going on, talking, perhaps, to a young officer, who remains seated all the time, is startling. But tradition is everything in this country, and

as it was a habit of Peter the Great, who disliked ceremony of any kind, it is religiously kept. The etiquette of the Russian Court is much less rigid in some respects than it is in England or in Germany. It is not the custom there to treat the members of the Imperial Family with so much deference as in other European Courts; no lady would think of courtesying to a young Grand Duke, and would only rise when the Empress did, or when the Emperor first entered a room. The ladies, when making their obeisance, bow as an officer might, which, with the present style of dress, is even more ungraceful than the English bob—our apology for a low courtesy. The men, on the other hand, are very deferential, particularly to ladies. At a dinner, when a guest is announced, the host rushes forward and kisses her hand proceeding to introduce all the men present. It is then your duty, if a stranger, to ask to be presented to every lady, and this entails calling on them all, personally, next day. Before dinner the party pass into another room, where, at a table covered with every imaginable hors d'oeuvre and liqueur, they partake, standing, of the “Sacouska,” as it is called— an excellent dish, but a dinner in itself. The same may be said of most Russian dishes, which are a little too substantial. Russians, as a rule, have enormous appetites, and are very fond of good living. In old-fashioned houses the guests, immediately after dinner, shake hands with the host and thank him for his hospitality. Most Russian ladies smoke cigarettes, in one of the drawing-rooms generally set apart for that purpose, causing a continual movement, which takes off the stiffness of a formal dinner party, and enables people to circulate more freely. This, in itself, would ensure a pleasant evening ; for who

has not seen with despair the only chair

near triumphantly seized by a bore, whom nothing but the final good-night will move {

I cannot imagine that a Russian lady’s life is conducive to health ; little or no exercise, hot rooms and late hours, nothing in the shape of sport, are its main features; skating would hardly be appreciated, were it not for the present Empress, who is an adept at the art. How our usually disappointed skaters would envy them their smooth, large lakes and ice-hills . To go down one of these hills on skates for the first time gives the same delightful feeling of satisfaction and pleasure which is experienced at getting safely over a big fence, leaving the field, perhaps, a bit behind. On the other hand, ladies in Russia have much time to educate themselves, to read, to cultivate the finer arts, and well they avail themselves of it. Speaking many languages, having read profusely, light in hand, they form the most charming society possible, and act as a tonic on a sluggish mind accustomed to the moral and physical fogs of London. They dress well, but affect the heavy richness of well-dressed Germans (if such can be found) rather than the graceful and airy nothings which make up a Frenchwoman’s dress. Black is held in abhorrence at the Court, being considered ugly and unlucky, and any one venturing to wear it in the Royal presence is not only looked upon with disfavor, but is likely to hear of it. It is surprising, considering the monotony of the streets covered with snow, that the people should care to wear sombre colors. The “cheery bit of red,” so dear to the English heart, is rarely seen. It is said that Russians are not given to intimacy, and that the foreigner never gets to know them well. It may be so, but I see no reason to credit them with less warmth of heart and faculty for enduring friendships than other nations possess. How strange that Russian women, so eminently fitted by nature and education to influence and help those struggling in the higher vocations of life, should have, seemingly, but one ambition—to efface themselves, to attract no attention, to arouse no jealousies. Yet I doubt not that their influence is felt, but it is not open and fearless as in America or England. Politics or anything of that nature, whether internal or Continental, are not a subject of conversation in Russia; reticence as regards public affairs is only equalled by discretion as regards those of others. This apathy is not unnatural when one reflects that, with the exception of officials, no one is personally interested in the Government. The censorship of the Press, of which so much is heard, I have been told on good authority is only practically exercised on two subjects—any personal criticism of the Emperor or of the Imperial Family, or any attack on the Orthodox Church. Speaking of the Church, it struck me that strict as the Russians are (particularly the lower class

es) in the observance of all the outward and visible signs of religion, perpetually crossing themselves and kissing the ground at every shrine, they do not seem to look upon their churches in the same light that we do. I was a little surprised to see the Governor-General of Moscow, the most courteous and polished of men, hold a species of levee in the Church of St. Sauveur, on Christmas Day, immediately after Mass had been celebrated, and before the Metropolitan and the two Bishops officiating had left the altar. It is an undisputed fact, I believe, that a succès d’estime is unknown in Russian society, and the stranger or diplomatist, however well recommended, or however good his position, is not by any means invited to their fêtes, as a matter of course. After the first introduction, he is only asked according to their appreciation of him. I am not speaking of official circles, where policy is the master of ceremonies. How unlike London, where every house is open to the distinguished foreigner, who finds himself invited, often when he does not know his host. Many people who have not come into contact with Russians imagine that they are rude and brusque. I may have been particularly fortunate in those whom I met, but I was struck with their polished and, at the same time, simple manner. The very moujick, who replenishes your fire, walks in on tiptoe, fearful of disturbing you, and shuts the door so gently that your heart is softened, and you forgive him his many shortcomings. One of the most interesting sights which I was fortunate enough to see was the New Year's reception at the Winter Palace. At 11 a.m. on that day the whole Court attends, and society pays its respects to the Sovereign. The Emperor, diessed on this particular occasion in the uniform of the “Gardes du Corps,” gives his arm to the Empress, and is followed by the Imperial Family. The train of each Grand Duchess is carried by four young officers, long files of ladies-in-waiting in green and gold, and maids of honor in red and gold, follow, and the procession ends with all the Court officials, who, resplendent in uniforms embroidered with gold, and cowered with decorations, walk with measured steps through the long suite of rooms and galleries, lined on either side by officers in various uniforms, blue, white, and red. To these the Emperor says, in Russian, as he passes, “Good morning, my children,” they answering to the word of command, all together (a most cheering sound), “We are happy to salute you.” The peasantry answer, I believe, “Good morning, little father.” In other rooms the ladies of society are assembled, dressed in the national costume, which is of every hue, and covered with jewels, splendid cabochon sapphires, and emeralds, all wearing the “kakoshnik,” the most becoming of head-dresses—made of the finest stones, diamonds, pearls, etc., to the plainest velvet. The Empress, with her graceful figure and small head, looking very stately in her magnificent tiara, and blue velvet and ermine train, bows, the Emperor nods slightly, and the cortège passes into the chapel to hear Mass. This lasts an hour, every one remaining standing—an art, by the way, which Royalty alone seems to have the gift of practising without breaking down, or apparent effort. I cannot adequately describe the scene in the chapel, which, if less perfect in detail, might have appeared somewhat theatrical. On the right all the ladies, kneeling or standing, form a mass of warm color, the soft red and green velvets of the ladies-in-waiting predominating, their long white tulle veils looking like aureoles around their heads, when touched here and there by the rays of sunshine struggling through the rich stained glass windows. On the left the men form a scarcely less brilliant group, the dark violet silk surplice of a Lutheran clergyman standing out in effective contrast to the vivid red of a cardinal close by. Suddenly the most divine music falls on one's ear, and not only changes the current of one's thoughts, but keeps one spellbound, longing for more. I can truly say I have never heard anything to equal this choir, which follows the Emperor wherever he travels in Russia. Composed of male voices alone, without the aid of any instrument (none being allowed in the Greek Church), it is perfection. The character of the music I found rather monotonous, and thought to myself how they would have rendered one of Mendelssohn's grand antheins. There is a story told of this celebrated choir. Dressed originally in funeral black, they offended the eyes of a maid of honor, a favorite of one of the Czars, who, remonstrating with her for not attending Mass, asked the reason. The

maid of honor pleaded that she was suffering from melancholy, and that the sight of the black choir would aggravate it. The next day her excuse was gone, for the choir appeared in crimson surplices braided with gold, and has continued to do so ever since. Mass over in the chapel, the procession re-forms, a pause being made in the room reserved to the Ambassadors and Corps Diplomatique. The Emperor enters into conversation with a favored few, who improve the shining hour, as this is often the only occasion they have during the year of speaking to him, except at a few Court balls. The ladies pass before the Emperor and kiss hands, holding on to each other's train, a sight which is more quaint than imposing. When all is over a sittin luncheon is served, and home is oi about three o’clock. For the tourist there is no comparison between St. Petersburg and Moscow ; the latter is much more original and full of local color; but even to many who have not seen it, it is probably so familiar that description is unnecessary. No picture of Moscow can easily be too highly colored. Everything is a source of interest, from the narrow streets filled with a motley crowd of befurred people, the markets with their frozen fish, and carcasses of beasts standing in rows against the stalls, to the Kremlin, with its palaces and churches. “La ville des marchands,” as they call it, is full of riches and rich people; one of the largest and finest of modern galleries is owned by a retired merchant. Yet when the Court goes to Moscow, as it does every four or five years, families who bear the finest old names of the country, and who generally live buried in the provinces, make their appearance; people who look upon the society of St. Petersburg very much as the Faubourg St. Germain looked on the heterogeneous mass which composed the society in Paris under the Empire, and who are so Russian that even the Mazourka must not be danced too well, because it is Polish. Many erroneous impressions prevail in England about the Russian upper classes. It is because we know so little of them. For my part I found them hospitable, courteous, highly educated, and, to all outward appearance, refined and kindly ; if they have any of the faults attributed to them by their enemies, I can only say that I did not discover them.—New Review.



A Few years ago a lady residing in a healthy part of St. Petersburg fell ill of malarial fever. There was no doubt as to the nature of the malady ; the symptoms were characteristic, the disease had bred true. Nevertheless, a mystery hung over the case, for the lady had not lately visited Rome, nor any other malarial district, but had been living at home in a locality purely non-malarious. How, then, had this particular disease wandered so far from its native soil to spring into active life in the blood and tissues of this particular human being As surely as the rose springs from the rose, and the cabbage from the cabbage, so does malarial fever spring from the germs of malaria and no other. But in this case there was no evidence of the proximity of the disease, no parent, no sign, no link wherewith to connect the two ends of the chain. The mystery was further increased by the fact that so long as the patient remained in her bedroom the disease yielded to the usual remedies ; but on removing to the sitting-room a relapse invariably followed, and fever with all the characteristic symptoms set in once more. For some months these alternations continued, until the doctor's suspicions were aroused by observing that while plants were growing in the sitting-room, they were absent from the bedroom. Inquiring into their history, he found they had been sent direct from a district known to be malarious. On getting rid of the plants a complete recovery followed, and the secret mystery was explained. This is no exceptional case, for its history, with many others from different quarters of the globe, was sent by Professor von Eichwald to Professors Tommasi-Crudeli and Klebs, on the publication of their researches on malaria in 1879. They had then proved that it was possible to produce malarial fever by lacing malarial soil in conditions precisey similar to those of the garden mould in flower-pots. In the boudoir of this Russian lady all the conditions required for the active development of malarial fever were present. First, the seeds of the living cause were lying unsuspected in the mould. There they might have remained and died

out but for the careful attention which supplied the life-giving moisture and necessary amount of heat. The oxygen was naturally provided in the air of the room ; in fact, the three indispensable conditions of malarial activity—moisture, oxygen, and heat—were all there, and being coexistent, converted the boudoir into an excellent experimental laboratory. The result was natural, and interesting as a demonstration of how disease germs, artificially cultivated, may find an entrance into the human blood, to complete their existence there. To follow up the clew, it is necessary to carry the inquiry into those lands which give rise to the living cause of this persistent and extremely fatal disease. For centuries this widespread malady has been shrouded in mystery through our ignorance of the nature of disease. For long the “humors of the body” were regarded with superstitious awe. Disease was a weird something that found its way into the body somehow. It was an evil spirit sent by the powers of darkness as punishment for the wicked, and could only be exorcised by some magician possessing the necessary charms. Only in the last century was the plague solemnly buried by candle-light in Leith Wynd, Edinburgh, by a minister named Gusthard, at three o'clock in the morning.” But although the magician gradually gave place to the barber-surgeon, and he to the educated physician, it is curious to reflect that it is to the scientific chemist, and the researches of the laboratory, after all, that we owe much of our present knowledge of disease. What, then, is this invisible agent which carries sickness and possible death so far afield, and has the power to weaken the energy and stunt the growth of those who are doomed to live on malarious soil 7 “We do not live,” said an inhabitant of the Pontine marshes to a stranger; “we die.” Malaria constitutes the chief obstacle to the exploration and colonization of the African continent, and threatens to reduce to the condition of a desert vast tracts of the Southern States of America, which flourished so long as they were cultivated by the negro race, which, better than any other, resists its action.* Cicero, in allusion to Romulus having built Rome, remarks that he selected a healthy spot in a pestilential region (“locum delegit in regione pestilenti salubrem”). At one time a terrible epidemic visited Rome, which carried off multitudes of the inhabitants, including Camillus the Dictator. Toward the close of this visitation the earth opened in the middle of the forum (doubtless by volcanic action), which was probably also the cause of the poisonous miasmata rising from the bowels of the earth. Indeed, the volcanic nature of the Italian peninsula generally may be taken into the list of causes which contribute to its insalubrity. The volcanic soil of Italy, we are told,t acts as a sponge in absorbing and retaining an immense quantity of moisture. Hence after a period of drought, the tropical rains, which fall steadily for days together, make but little impression on the surface of the parched earth till the underlying sponge is saturated. The overflow then becomes sudden, the brooks rapidly fill, every extinct crater becomes a lake replenished, every valley a bog, and the country a universal swamp. So long ago as 300 years before Christ, the connection between the fever and the swamp was fully recognized in that region of the earth. But, although true that the disease is more prevalent in the low-lying grounds, it may also be found in the higher altitudes, where soil, temperature, and moisture favor its production. Still it does not haunt the damp and marshy places alone; for even in dry, sun-baked parts of the earth the malaria finds egress through the fissures of the soil, keeping its base of operations in the moisture far beneath. If the upper crust is unbroken and dry, it acts as a barrier against the egress of germs from below, just as a coating of water over malarious land neutralizes, for the time being, the necessary conditions of activity. When the surface water is withdrawn by the heat of the

* Life of C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe.

* Memoir by Professors Tommasi-Crudeli and Klebs. t Dr. Johnston's Changes of Air, 1833. William North : Investigations for the Grocers' Company.

summer sun, and the oxygen of the air comes into direct contact with the decomposing vegetation underneath, there, in all probability, may be discovered the home of the deadly malaria. For miles around any natural centres of malaria, the germs of the disease may be carried on the pollen of marsh flowers, or on cryptogamic dust, along the valleys or up the mountain sides. Just as ordinary visible dust drifts into places here and there, leaving other parts free, so does the disease-laden dust settle in favorable spots. It is not always uniformly spread, but may be dotted in innumerable foci over the land. Thus a wayside hedge, or belt of trees acting as a filter, the leeward or windward side of a mound, is sufficient to make all the difference between security and danger. Mr. William North, in his lectures at the London Institution two years ago, accounted in this way for the fact that, in the Roman Campagna, one house will be fever-stricken while another, only a few yards off, will be free : the reason being that the one occupies the open line of route for malarial currents, the other being raised above the level, or otherwise protected. The consequence is that, throughout the plains, whole villages have been deserted, the peasants having taken refuge from the fever below by migrating to the higher lands. In some of the upper provinces of India even birds and beasts have to migrate during the unhealthy time of year. The late Bishop Heber gives the following striking picture of the influence of malaria in that portion of the globe :—

I asked Mr. Boulderson if it were true that the monkeys forsook these woods during the unwholesome months. He answered that not the monkeys only, but everything which has the breath of life instinctively deserts them from the beginning of April to October. The tigers go up the hills; the antelopes and wild hogs make incursions into the cultivated plain ; and those persons, such as dāk-bearers, or military officers who are obliged to traverse the forest in the intervening months, agree that not so much as a bird can be heard or seen in the frightful solitude.

Yet, during the time of the heaviest rains, while the water falls in torrents, and the cloudy sky tends to prevent evaporation from the ground, the forest may be passed with tolerable safety. It is in the extreme heat, and immediately after the rains have ceased, in May, the latter end of August, and the early part of September, that it is most deadly. In October the animals return. By the latter end of that

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