onions, raw salt herring, and bread, all in diminutive slices, while glasses of corresponding size surround a bottle of kuemmel, or cordial of caraway-seed.  This, at least, was the zakouski on board the Valamo, and to which our valiant captain addressed himself, after first bowing and crossing himself towards the Byzantine Christ and Virgin in either corner of the cabin.  We, of course, followed his example, finding our appetites, if not improved, certainly not at all injured thereby.  The dinner which followed far surpassed our expectations.  The national shchee, or cabbage-soup, is better than the sound of its name; the fish, fresh from the cold Neva, is sure to be well cooked where it forms an important article of diet; and the partridges were accompanied by those plump little Russian cucumbers, which are so tender and flavorous that they deserve to be called fruit rather than vegetables.

When we went on deck to light our Riga cigars, the boat was approaching Schluesselburg, at the outlet of the lake.  Here the Neva, just born, sweeps in two broad arms around the island which bears the Key-Fortress,—­the key by which Peter opened this river-door to the Gulf of Finland.  The pretty town of the same name is on the south bank, and in the centre of its front yawn the granite gates of the canal which, for a hundred versts, skirts the southern shore of the lake, forming, with the Volkhoff River and another canal beyond, a summer communication with the vast regions watered by the Volga and its affluents.  The Ladoga Canal, by which the heavy barges laden with hemp from Mid-Russia, and wool from the Ural, and wood from the Valdai Hills, avoid the sudden storms of the lake, was also the work of Peter the Great.  I should have gone on shore to inspect the locks, but for the discouraging persistence of the rain.  Huddled against the smoke-stack, we could do nothing but look on the draggled soldiers and mujiks splashing through the mud, the low yellow fortress, which has long outlived its importance, and the dark-gray waste of lake which loomed in front, suggestive of rough water and kindred abominations.

There it was, at last,—­Lake Ladoga,—­and now our prow turns to unknown regions.  We steamed past the fort, past a fleet of brigs, schooners, and brigantines, with huge, rounded stems and sterns, laden with wood from the Wolkonskoi forests, and boldly entered the gray void of fog and rain.  The surface of the lake was but slightly agitated, as the wind gradually fell and a thick mist settled on the water.  Hour after hour passed away, as we rushed onward through the blank, and we naturally turned to our fellow-passengers in search of some interest or diversion to beguile the time.  The heavy-bearded, peasants and their weather-beaten wives were scattered around the deck in various attitudes, some of the former asleep on their backs, with open mouths, beside the smoke-stack.  There were many picturesque figures among them, and,