People of all classes turn in here for a moment of prayer, to “place a candle” to some saint, for the health, in body or soul, of friend or relative:  the workman, his tools on his back in a coarse linen kit; the bearded muzhik from the country, clad in his sheepskin tulup, wool inward, the soiled yellow leather outside set off by a gay sash; ladies, officers, civilians,—­the stream never ceases.

The only striking feature about the next building of importance, the Gradskaya Duma, or City Hall, is the lofty tower, upon whose balcony, high in air, guards pace incessantly, on the watch for fires.  By day they telegraph the locality of disaster to the fire department by means of black balls and white boards, in fixed combinations; by night, with colored lanterns.  Each section of the city has a signal-tower of this sort, and the engine-house is close at hand.  Gradskaya Duma means, literally, city thought, and the profundity of the meditations sometimes indulged in in this building, otherwise not remarkable, may be inferred from the fact discovered a few years ago, that many honored members of the Duma (which also signifies the Council of City Fathers), whose names still stood on the roll, were dead, though they continued to vote and exercise their other civic functions with exemplary regularity!

Naturally, in a city which lies on a level with the southern point of Greenland, the most characteristic season to select for our observations of the life is winter.

The Prospekt wakes late.  It has been up nearly all night, and there is but little inducement to early rising when the sun itself sets such a fashion as nine o’clock for its appearance on the horizon, like a pewter disk, with a well-defined hard rim, when he makes his appearance at all.  If we take the Prospekt at different hours, we may gain a fairly comprehensive view of many Russian ways and people, cosmopolitan as the city is.

At half-past seven in the morning, the horse-cars, which have been resting since ten o’clock in the evening, make a start, running always in groups of three, stopping only at turnouts.  The dvorniki retire from the entrance to the courtyards, where they have been sleeping all night with one eye open, wrapped in their sheepskin coats.  A few shabby izvostchiks make their appearance somewhat later, in company with small schoolboys, in their soldierly uniforms, knapsacks of books on back, and convoyed by servants.  Earliest of all are the closed carriages of officials, evidently the most lofty in grade, since it was decided, two or three years ago, by one of this class, that his subordinates could not reasonably be expected to arrive at business before ten or eleven o’clock after they had sat up until daylight over their indispensable club vint—­which is Russian whist.