sight. "A man like Urko," he thought to himself, "is well worth becoming acquainted with" and when dinner was announced he managed to take his seat at the table next to Urko's.

Both Schultz and his wife, as well as their seventeen-yearold daughter, Lotchen, took great pains about the dinner, and everything was provided in abundance. Although Urko disposed of a quantity sufficient to feed four men, Adrian Prokhorof was not far behind in keeping pace with him; both did justice to the dinner. The conversation in German grew more and more noisy.

Suddenly the host demanded attention. Extracting a cork from a bottle and filling his glass, he uttered in broken Russian: "I drink to the health of my dear Louise." He then tenderly embraced his forty-five-year-old spouse and imprinted a loud kiss upon her healthy and rosy cheek. The guests followed his example, all draining their glasses to the good health of the "dear Louise."

"Here, I drink to the health of my noble friends," exclaimed the host, opening another bottle. The guests, thanking him for his courtesy, emptied their glasses for the second time. And here a general health drinking began in rapid succession. They drank to the health of every individual present as well as to the health of all as a body; to the health of the city of Moscow as well as to the health of a dozen German colonies within and around the city of Moscow; to the health of all mechanics and tradesmen as a body, as well as to the health of each known member individually; to the health of the "boss" mechanics and to the health of their apprentices.

Prokhorof drank glass after glass, becoming quite lively and proposing some sort of a humorous toast himself. His example was followed by a stout baker, who, seizing a glass full of wine, arose from his seat and proposed a toast to Unserer Kundleute (our customers). The last toast, not unlike all the former ones, was responded to heartily and unanimously. A general exchange of compliments now took place the tailor bowing to the shoemaker, the shoemaker bowing to the tailor, and the baker bowing to both the shoemaker and the tailor. While the bowing was thus going on, Urko arose and turning to his neighbor exclaimed: "See here, my friend, ain't you going to propose a toast to the health of your buried patrons?" This joke made the audience roar with laughter, but the undertaker,

finding himself insulted, assumed a very somber face. No one, however, paid any attention to him, and the health drinking, as well as the drinking for its own sake, kept up till an early hour in the morning. At last the guests started to depart. The stout baker and the bookbinder, whose face looked as though it was bound in red leather, escorted Urko arm in arm to his budka.

The undertaker came home very drunk and quite angry. "What made those fools laugh, anyhow? Is not my business as honorable as any of theirs? Ah," he argued to himself aloud, "do they mean to compare an undertaker with a hangman? You just wait! . . . I intended to invite them to my house to give them a dinner, .. but never now! . . . I will invite my customers, this I will do- my dead, Christian customers."

...

"What makes you talk such nonsense, master?" remarked the servant girl, who was busying herself about pulling off his boots. "What are you talking about? Cross yourself and go to bed. The idea of inviting the dead to a dinner! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Now, now, that's straight. As true as my name is Adrian, I will call them all, and to-morrow sure! Come all, my kindhearted dead friends, and partake of my hospitality! All of you! . .

After these last words he fell on his bed and was soon sound asleep.

Mrs. Truchina took her departure at last. A messenger was dispatched to summon Prokhorof at once. Prokhorof was quite pleased with this call; he even tipped the messenger with a ten-kopeck silver coin for the good tidings. He then dressed himself, took a drosky, and hurried off to Mrs. Truchina's house. At the gates he met a number of police officers, merchants, relations the whole crowd resembling a flock of ravens scenting a dead body. The corpse, yellow and disfigured, was put upon the table. Friends, relations, and the domestics came crowding around it. The windows and shutters were closed, candles were lit, and the priest read the appropriate prayers. Adrian approached Mrs. Truchina's son, a young merchant attired in fashionable clothes, and informed him that everything for the funeral was ready and in the best of order. The young heir thanked him for his pains, remarking that under the circum

As

stances he would not enter into any negotiations as to the price for his services, etc.; that he would leave the matter to him and that he would trust to his, Prokhorof's, conscience. usual, the undertaker assured him that he would not overcharge for his services, and, after exchanging a significant glance with one of the managers of Truchina's estate, who happened to be present, he left to make the necessary preparations for the funeral. It was a very busy day for Prokhorof, and he was glad when evening came and his work was over.

The night was bright and starry. As the undertaker approached his house some one opened his gate and entered the yard. "Who might it be?" he thought to himself. "Who else should want me at this hour? Maybe a thief or perhaps some lover calls to see my stupid little girls. Such things are to be expected nowadays." He thought of calling to his assistance his friend Urko, but at this moment another person approached the gate and intended to enter it, but upon seeing the frightened undertaker, he stopped and removed his white cap. His face seemed familiar to Prokhorof, though his attempt to recognize him and call him by his name was fruitless.

"You came to honor me with your visit," uttered Prokhorof, in a breathless tone-"step right in, please."

"You need not stand on ceremony with us," answered the stranger, bluntly; "go ahead and show your visitors the way." The little gate was thrown open. Prokhorof and his visitor entered the yard. "Go ahead and lead the way to your reception room," commanded the stranger. Prokhorof obeyed in silence and was soon climbing the flight of stairs leading to the second story. It seemed to him that his rooms were full of strangers. "What in the d-does all this mean?" he thought to himself as he hastened to enter his sitting room. "Is it possible?" but he could think no longer; he trembled like an aspen leaf and it seemed as if he were nailed to the spot he stood upon. His room was full of ghosts. Their ghastly faces, sunken mouths, their turbid and half-open eyes, were fearful to behold. Prokhorof recognized with terror all his patrons; the stranger who followed him was the retired army officer whom he had buried during the recent memorable rain storm. Prokhorof was soon surrounded by a number of gentlemen and ladies -all bowing and complimenting him in various ways. One individual, however, kept aloof from the audience. He seemed to be ashamed of his garb, which was poor and shabby-looking.

It was the one who had been recently buried at the expense of the community. All the others were attired in the finest of cloth, silks and satins, the noblemen wearing their uniforms and the merchants their Sunday Kaftans.

"Don't you know, Prokhorof," began the retired officer of the army, in behalf of the audience, "we have accepted your invitation, and we have come to partake of your hospitality. Except those who were utterly unable to move, who fell apart, whose flesh and skin is stripped off their bones, except those, I say, you see all your patrons here. And even from among those unfortunate, one individual could not decline your tempting invitation and came to see you. At this moment a little skeleton pushed himself through the crowd and approached Prokhorof. His clothes were in shreds and his feet, or mere bones, produced a loud rattle in his long top boots.

"Don't you know me, Prokhorof?" asked the skeleton. "Cannot you recollect the ex-sergeant of the guard, Peter Petrovitch Kurilkin, the very man to whom in 1799 you sold your first coffin? Don't you remember that pine coffin, which you kindly substituted for the oak one, after the bargain was made and closed?" Here the skeleton offered his bony embrace. Prokhorof uttered a shriek of terror and felled him to the ground. A general uproar filled the room. All were ready to fight for the honor of their comrade. Poor Prokhorof was surrounded on all sides with threats of revenge. Squeezed and almost deafened by the tumult, he fell upon the bones of the ex-sergeant of the guard and became unconscious.

The sun had already long risen and cast his rays upon Prokhorof's bed. He opened his eyes. The servant girl was in the room, busying herself about the samovar. The events

of last night inspired his mind with terror. He expected to hear from the servant girl about the result of last night's

occurrence.

"You slept pretty well," remarked Akulina, handing him his chalat (smoking jacket). "Our neighbor, the tailor, was here to invite you to a birthday feast, but we thought we had better not disturb you from your sleep."

"Has anybody been here from Mrs. Truchina?"

"Why, is she dead?"

"What a stupid girl you are! Where is your memory? Have not you yourself helped me to get ready for her funeral?" "Are you out of your mind, master, or are you still drunk?

What funeral are you talking about? You spent all day yesterday with the Germans, came home dead drunk, went to bed, and slept to this very hour."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed the undertaker, with a sigh of

relief.

66

Certainly," replied Akulina.

"Well, if such is the case, call the girls and let us have some breakfast.”

AN INVOLUNTARY IMPOSTOR.1

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL.

(From "The Inspector General": translated by Arthur A. Sykes.)

[NIKOLAI VASSILIEVITCH GOGOL: A Russian novelist; born at Sorochintzy in the government of Poltava, March 31, 1809; died at Moscow, March 4, 1852. He was called the "father of modern Russian journalism." His works include: "Evenings on a Farm" (2 series, 1831 and 1834); "The Inspector," a play (1836); "Dead Souls," his greatest work (1837); "Marriage," a play; "How the Two Ivans Quarreled "; "Jaras Bulba," an historical novel; and many others.]

[Khlestakóf, a clerk, is mistaken by the local authorities for the "revizór" or inspector general.]

The POLICE OFFICERS throw both folding doors open. KHLESTAKÓF enters; after him the GOVERNOR, then the CHARITY COMMISSIONER, the DIRECTOR OF SCHOOLS, and BOBCHÍNSKI with plaster on his nose. The GOVERNOR points out a piece of paper lying on the floor to the POLICE OFFICERS, who rush breathlessly to pick it up, and butt against each other.

Khlestakof-Splendid institutions! I'm charmed with the way you have of showing strangers all that's to be seen in your town! In other places they showed me nothing.

Governor-In other towns, I venture to suggest, the authorities and officials care most for their own advancement; but here, one may say, there is no other thought than how to win the recognition of the Government by good order and vigilance.

Khlestakof-That lunch was excellent; I've quite overeaten myself. D'you then have a spread like that every day? Governor No; it was in honor of such an acceptable

guest!

1 By permission of Walter Scott, Ltd. (Small 8vo. Price 38. 6d.)