takes such pride in, we called him Ferguson, just as we had done with all other guides.  It has kept him in a state of smothered exasperation all the time.  Yet we meant him no harm.  After he has gotten himself up regardless of expense, in showy, baggy trowsers, yellow, pointed slippers, fiery fez, silken jacket of blue, voluminous waist-sash of fancy Persian stuff filled with a battery of silver-mounted horse-pistols, and has strapped on his terrible scimitar, he considers it an unspeakable humiliation to be called Ferguson.  It can not be helped.  All guides are Fergusons to us.  We can not master their dreadful foreign names.

Sebastopol is probably the worst battered town in Russia or any where else.  But we ought to be pleased with it, nevertheless, for we have been in no country yet where we have been so kindly received, and where we felt that to be Americans was a sufficient visa for our passports.  The moment the anchor was down, the Governor of the town immediately dispatched an officer on board to inquire if he could be of any assistance to us, and to invite us to make ourselves at home in Sebastopol!  If you know Russia, you know that this was a wild stretch of hospitality.  They are usually so suspicious of strangers that they worry them excessively with the delays and aggravations incident to a complicated passport system.  Had we come from any other country we could not have had permission to enter Sebastopol and leave again under three days—­but as it was, we were at liberty to go and come when and where we pleased.  Every body in Constantinople warned us to be very careful about our passports, see that they were strictly ‘en regle’, and never to mislay them for a moment:  and they told us of numerous instances of Englishmen and others who were delayed days, weeks, and even months, in Sebastopol, on account of trifling informalities in their passports, and for which they were not to blame.  I had lost my passport, and was traveling under my room-mate’s, who stayed behind in Constantinople to await our return.  To read the description of him in that passport and then look at me, any man could see that I was no more like him than I am like Hercules.  So I went into the harbor of Sebastopol with fear and trembling—­full of a vague, horrible apprehension that I was going to be found out and hanged.  But all that time my true passport had been floating gallantly overhead—­and behold it was only our flag.  They never asked us for any other.

We have had a great many Russian and English gentlemen and ladies on board to-day, and the time has passed cheerfully away.  They were all happy-spirited people, and I never heard our mother tongue sound so pleasantly as it did when it fell from those English lips in this far-off land.  I talked to the Russians a good deal, just to be friendly, and they talked to me from the same motive; I am sure that both enjoyed the conversation, but never a word of it either of us understood.  I did most of my talking to those English people though, and I am sorry we can not carry some of them along with us.