in obtaining official permission to print the bills and programmes of a musical and variety entertainment.  To this end they had brought not only the list of performers and proposed selections, but also the pictures for advertisement, and the music which was to be given.  As the rare traveler who can read Russian is already aware, the programme of every public performance bears the printed authorization of the censor, as a matter of course, quite as much as does a book.  It is an easy way of controlling the character of assemblages, the value of which can hardly be disputed even by those prejudiced persons who insist upon seeing in this Russian proceeding something more arbitrary than the ordinary city license which is required for performances elsewhere, or the Lord Chancellor’s license which is required in England.  In Russia, as elsewhere, an ounce of prevention is worth fully a pound of cure.  This, by the way, is the only form in which a foreigner is likely to come in contact with the domestic censure in Russia, unless he should wish to insert an advertisement in a newspaper, or issue printed invitations to a gathering at his house, or send news telegrams.  In these cases he may be obliged to submit to delay in the appearance of his advertisement, or requested to go to the elegance and expense of engraved invitations, or to detain his telegram for a day or two.  Such things are not unknown in Germany.

Just as these gentlemen had paid their fee, and resigned their documents to the official who had charge of their case, another official issued from the inner room, approached me, requested me to sign my name in a huge ledger, and, that being done, thrust into my hands a bulky manuscript and departed.  The manuscript had a taking title, but I did not pause to examine it.  Penetrating the inner sanctum, I brought out the official and endeavored to return the packet.  He refused to take it, —­it was legally mine.  This contest lasted for several minutes, until I saw a literary-looking man enter from the anteroom and look rather wildly at us.  Evidently this was the owner, and, elevating the manuscript, I inquired if it were his.  He hastened to my assistance and proved his rights.  But as erasures do not look well in account-books, and as my name already occupied the space allotted to that particular parcel, he was not requested to sign for it, and I believe that I am still legally qualified to read, perform, or publish—­whatever it was —­that talented production.

A dapper little gentleman, with a dry, authoritative air, then emerged and assumed charge of me.  I explained my desire to receive, uncensured, a journal which was prohibited.

“Certainly,” said he, without inquiring how I knew the facts.  “Just write down your application and sign it.”

“I don’t know the form,” I answered.

He seemed surprised at my ignorance of such an every-day detail, but fetched paper and dictated a petition, which I wrote down and signed.  When we reached the point where the name of the publication was to be inserted, he paused to ask:  “How many would you like?”