I HAD before me a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a
country more than half barbarous, and entirely destitute of all
accommodation for travellers. Southern Russia was the Scythia of Darius,
"savage from the remotest time." "All the way," says an old traveller, "I
never came in a house, but lodged in the wilderness by the river side, and
carried provisions by the way, for there be small succour in those parts;"
and we were advised that a century had made but little change in the
interior of the empire. There were no public conveyances, and we had our
choice of three modes of travelling; first, by a Jew's wagon, in which the
traveller stretches out his bed, and is trundled along like a bale of goods,
always with the same horses, and therefore, of necessity, making slow
progress; secondly, the char de poste, a mere box of wood on four wheels,
with straw in the bottom; very fast, but to be changed always with the
posthorses; and, thirdly, posting with our own carriage. We did not
hesitate long in choosing the last, and bought a carriage, fortunately a good
one, a large calêche which an Italian nobleman had had made for his own
use in travelling on the Continent, and which he now sold, not because he
did not want it, but because he wanted money more.