nor "ignorant shoemakers and mechanics," as they were once contemptuously described to me by a Russian officer, but are serious, cultivated, thinking men. If such men are in exile in a lonely Siberian village on the frontier of Mongolia, instead of being at home in the service of the state—so much the worse for the state!
We spent with the political exiles in Ulbínsk the greater part of one night and a day. I became very deeply interested in them, and should have liked to stay there and talk with them for a week; but our excursion to the Katúnski Alps had occupied more time than we had allotted to it, and it was important that we should, if possible, reach the convict mines of Eastern Siberia before the coming on of winter. Sunday afternoon at four o'clock we set out for Ust Kámenogórsk. Messrs. Blok and Karélin accompanied us on horseback as far as the ferry across the Ulbá, and then, after bidding us a hearty and almost affectionate good-by, and asking us not to forget them when we should return to "a freer and happier country," they remounted their horses and sat motionless in their saddles, watching us while we were being ferried over the river. When we were ready to start on the other side, a quarter of a mile distant, they waved their handkerchiefs, and then, taking off their hats, bowed low towards us in mute farewell as we dashed away into the forest. If these pages should ever be read in one of the lonely cabins of the political exiles in Ulbínsk, the readers may feel assured that "in a freer and happier country" we have not forgotten them, but think of them often, with the sincerest esteem and the most affectionate sympathy.
We reached Ust Kámenogórsk before dark Sunday afternoon and took up our quarters in the post station. The town, which contains about 5000 inhabitants, is a collection of 600 or 800 houses, built generally of logs, and is situated in the midst of a treeless plain on the right bank of the Írtish, just where the latter is joined by its tributary the
