One of the objects of the tour was to see the fair at Nijni Novgorod, and here the travellers arrived on August 6th, after a miserable railway journey.  Owing to the breaking down of a bridge, the unfortunate passengers had been compelled to walk a mile through drenching rain.

     We went to the Smernovaya (or some such name) Hotel, a
    truly villainous place, though no doubt the best in the
    town.  The feeding was very good, and everything else very
    bad.  It was some consolation to find that as we sat at
    dinner we furnished a subject of the liveliest interest to
    six or seven waiters, all dressed in white tunics, belted at
    the waist, and white trousers, who ranged themselves in a
    row and gazed in a quite absorbed way at the collection of
    strange animals that were feeding before them.  Now and then
    a twinge of conscience would seize them that they were,
    after all, not fulfilling the great object of life as
    waiters, and on these occasions they would all hurry to the
    end of the room, and refer to a great drawer which seemed to
    contain nothing but spoons and corks.  When we asked for
    anything, they first looked at each other in an alarmed way;
    then, when they had ascertained which understood the order
    best, they all followed his example, which always was to
    refer to the big drawer.  We spent most of the afternoon
    wandering through the fair, and buying eikons, &c.  It
    was a wonderful place.  Besides there being distinct quarters
    for the Persians, the Chinese, and others, we were
    constantly meeting strange beings with unwholesome
    complexions and unheard-of costumes.  The Persians, with
    their gentle, intelligent faces, the long eyes set wide
    apart, the black hair, and yellow-brown skin, crowned with a
    black woollen fez something like a grenadier, were about the
    most picturesque we met.  But all the novelties of the day
    were thrown into the shade by our adventure at sunset, when
    we came upon the Tartar mosque (the only one in Nijni)
    exactly as one of the officials came out on the roof to
    utter the muezzin cry, or call to prayers.  Even if it had
    been in no way singular in itself, it would have been deeply
    interesting from its novelty and uniqueness, but the cry
    itself was quite unlike anything I have ever heard before. 
    The beginning of each sentence was uttered in a rapid
    monotone, and towards the end it rose gradually till it
    ended in a prolonged, shrill wail, which floated overhead
    through the still air with an indescribably sad and
    ghostlike effect; heard at night, it would have thrilled one
    like the cry of the Banshee.

This reminds one of the wonderful description in Mr. Kipling’s “City of Dreadful Night.”  It is not generally known that Mr. Dodgson was a fervent admirer of Mr. Kipling’s works; indeed during the last few years of his life I think he took more pleasure in his tales than in those of any other modern author.