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Tellus crowned with half-embrownéd wheat, Wearing within the braids of her long hair In thick festoons her scarlet poppy-wreath Pants hot and breathless in the July air:

And scorchéd white the bearded barley bends, Parched and all-drooping to the sultry breeze, And sullen roars the distant thunder-voice, Shaking with coming wrath the fretful trees:

Ariseth he—Physician much belied!— Fruitful Saint Swithin, and with out-stretched hand, His crystal vase of sweet cool rain down-pours In gift baptismal on the craving land.

Come, bounteous Rain-god, in thy watery car, For to thine influence owe we, and thy power All earth’s green verdure, her rich crops, her fruit, The thousand Iris-hues of each sweet flower!

Nature revives! And she, whose o’er-taxed womb But for all blesséd rain would sterile be, Rises refreshed, and blushing through her tears Wears the glad heart-smile of maternity.

Take courage, then, for when in life’s high noon Faints the strong man upon his sultry way, Faith with her out-poured vial pointing on Lets fall the rain-dew of a July day!

the question which is just now asked oftenest in every country in Europe is—“Who lights up all these fires all over Russia?” I very much doubt whether anybody knows, and whether there are any means of knowing. To those of us who have friends in Russia, and who have read all that has been written about the country for many years past, the mystery is more confounding than to the most careless. What purpose can be answered to anybody by this terrific and useless destruction of property and of public order? Among the lowest order of serfs there are millions who would do anything that came into their puzzled heads and angry hearts. One of the most dreadful blows that the late Czar ever received was when the news reached him of what had been done by the serfs on an estate on the Volga, in consequence of some words of his. A deputation of serfs had sought him, and told him their griefs; he said to them, “I sympathise with you,” and promised not to forget them. They made sure of immediate freedom, went home, and spread their news; and the next tidings were that the officers of the estate had been taken into the woods, and there burnt alive, flayed alive, crucified, subjected to nameless horrors. The Czar was long in getting over the shock, if he ever did get over it. One of the most eulogistic of English describers of Russian society told us, not long ago, of what happened when she was on one of the estates much further to the south. A young lady, walking in her father’s garden, observed an odd appearance on the walls of the house (which were of wood); she called her father’s attention to it; and it proved to be a coating of phosphorus, which would have ignited in an hour or two of noon sunshine. One of the house-servants, a young man, confessed that he had done it, and that he meant to burn the mansion, on account of some personal grudge which possessed his mind. That people like these should burn houses is less wonderful than that the Norfolk labourers of thirty years ago should burn stacks; but the late Russian fires are not of this character. Public offices in the chief cities, churches, market-houses, and whole streets of shops are not likely to be attacked by domestic or agricultural serfs. There is even less concert among the widely scattered class of thralls in Russia than among the negroes in America; and the recent fires have broken out all over the empire,—in Odessa as well as St. Petersburg,—near the European frontier, and far eastwards towards Siberia. The higher order of thralls, the traders and artisans in the towns, know too much of life to be likely to follow so ruinous a policy, even if there were any conceivable purpose to be answered by such incendiarism. Such fires as have happened in the rural communes might be the work of serfs; but there must be other mischief-makers at St. Petersburg and Moscow, Novgorod and Odessa.

It cannot be the Old Russian party. They are under discouragement at present; but such a course would be simply their own destruction. The modern German party have every inducement to promote the prosperity of the country in every way. The Secret Societies which are the constant bugbear of all Russian governments are less and less believed in from generation to generation, as they never do anything, and can never be found; but, if they did exist and work, this is about the very last thing they would do, as it would place out of reach every object they can be supposed to desire. It is not supposed that Government knows—and no one class, more than any other, seems to be thought able to throw any light on the mystery. So the old remedy is called in—repression by military force; and the mischief is kept under for the moment.

The most careless may now have some idea and feeling of what it must be to live in Russia. While, in the chief cities, the great merchants are failing every day, and the insurance offices are bankrupt; and while, in the country, the families of nobles do not know which way to turn to obtain the luxuries of life, which have become necessaries to them, or even to get clothes to wear, the outside world at last learns to pity them; and it is enough to make anybody shudder to think of living in a groping panic from day to day, not knowing whom to trust, and afraid to let anybody in, for fear of fire-balls and lucifer-matches. While it is quite true, however, that society there is in a state of fearful suspense, awaiting a hurricane, without knowing to what quarter to look for it, or how to make preparation against it, it is also true that this state of mind is so far from being anything new, that Russians may suffer less from it than we should. The gentry of South Carolina declare that they enjoy life under conditions which would spoil our pleasure in everything,—under dread of fire, dread of being out after dark, dread of country rambles, dread of poor whites in the woods, and of poor blacks in their own houses;