Rabbi and Priest | Page 2

after their
labors in the fields, and forget their fatigue in a dram of rank Russian
vodka. Upon the barren plot of ground before the tavern, the mir, or
communal assembly, was wont to meet, and in open session elect its
Elder, decide its quarrels, allot its ground to the heads of families, and
frame its rude and primitive laws.
In its bare and smoke-begrimed public room, the people of Togarog
assembled night after night, and discussed, as far as the autocratic
government of the Czar Nicholas would allow, the political news of the
day. Poor souls! They enjoyed little latitude in this direction. Items of
information concerning the acts of the central government in St.
Petersburg were few and vague. The newspapers, owing to an
extremely severe censorship, gave but meagre accounts of the political
situation in the capital, and these were of necessity favorable to the
government. Now and then, however, came rambling accounts of
insurrections, of acts of cruelty, of large bodies of political offenders
banished to a life-long slavery in Siberia. At times came the news that

the Czar had been inspired by Providence to inaugurate some new and
important reform, only to be followed by the announcement that Satan
had held a conference with his Imperial Majesty, and that the reform
had fallen through. All such information was carried into Togarog by
word of mouth, for few of the good moujiks could read the papers. Woe
to anyone, however, who allowed his tongue too great a license! Woe
to him who dared utter a suggestion that the existing laws bore heavily
upon him. It was a dangerous experiment to criticise in a hostile spirit
any of the abuses heaped upon the degraded people. The condition of
Russia was deplorable.[1] Insurrection and rebellion nourished in all
parts of the Empire. Degraded to the lowest depths, the crushed worm
turned occasionally, but free itself it could not. Brave spirits arose for
whom exile had no terrors. With their rude eloquence they incited their
fellow-sufferers to throw off the yoke of tyranny and assert their
freedom; and the morrow found them wandering toward the
snow-bound confines of Siberia. Patriotism was not very much
encouraged in Russia.
The proprietor of the tavern, a burly, red-faced Cossack, Peter
Basilivitch by name, was in the employ and under the protection of the
Governor of Alexandrovsk, in which department the village of Togarog
lay. The rent paid by Basilivitch was nominal, it is true, but he sold
enormous quantities of liquor, all of which he was obliged to buy from
the Governor's stills; furthermore, he furnished his master with such
information concerning the actions, words, and even thoughts of his
patrons, as came under his observation; and as the serfs that frequented
"Paradise" had no suspicion of the true relation betwixt master and man,
the Governor was enabled to keep himself accurately informed as to the
sayings and doings of his subjects.
Let us enter the public room, this bright Sunday afternoon in the month
of April, in the year 1850. A dense crowd has assembled to-day to do
honor to Basilivitch's wretched liquor. The face of the host fairly gloats
in anticipation of the lucrative harvest that he will glean. He rubs his
hands gleefully, as he orders his servants about.
"Here, Ivan, a pint of vodka, and be quick about it! Alexander, you lazy

dog, here comes the village elder, Selaski Starosta--see that he is
served!"
And the crowd continues to grow, until his room will scarcely seat all
the guests.
There are sturdy farmers, wearing their heavy coats and fur caps, in
spite of the sultry weather and still warmer alcoholic beverages, and
swearing and vociferating in sonorous Russian. There are gossiping
women, decked in their caps and many-colored finery. There are
smartly-arrayed young girls, chatting merrily with the swains at their
side. Unruly children scamper, barefooted and bareheaded, around and
under the tables. Puling infants and barking dogs add their discord to
the din and confusion. It is a scene one is not apt to forget.
We repeat it, this is Sunday; the one day when the arm of the laborer
obtains a respite from the tasks imposed upon it during the week; and
the serf of Russia knows no diversion, can find no relaxation, but in the
genial climate of a tavern. But this is no ordinary occasion. Not every
Sunday ushers in so bountiful a supply of customers to Peter
Basilivitch's inn as this. There must be something of unusual
importance, perhaps some interesting bit of rumor from the capital, that
unites the inhabitants of Togarog. After the alcoholic beverages that are
so freely imbibed fulfil their mission and loosen the wits and the
tongues of these good moujiks, we may arrive at the cause. Nor have
we