Memories of the Neva. 169 



lighted by lamps filled with oil. In the brief and severe 

 frost which set in early in the winter the Neva froze, within a 

 few days, to a thickness of three feet, but not till recently 

 has the ice been thoroughly safe. Some few weeks ago 

 a party of thirteen sleighers were drowned not far from the 

 spot upon which our three highly-mettled steeds dash with 

 a bound of pleasure from the shore. It is an uncanny 

 thought that beneath you the deep tide is rolling rapidly 

 seawards, and that you are far beyond the reach of help 

 should an accident happen. Thick as the ice is, there is, 

 moreover, an ugly cracking sound under the dozen hoofs. 

 The Neva at this point is no wider than the Thames at 

 Westminster Bridge ; but our roadway taking an oblique 

 direction gives us a full half-mile of glorious, gliding, noise- 

 less, express speed. The long rows of lamps in the 

 distance, the palaces lighted within by myriads of wax- 

 candles, the snowy prospect, the blue shadowy ice of the 

 river where the wind has swept it bare, mingle together in a 

 strangely-enchanting picture. 



Soon we are amongst the islands formed by the two 

 Nevas and the branch canals. An icy wind blows, and but 

 for the sleigh-bells a weird silence prevails around. There 

 are festivities in progress in the houses by which we flit in 

 the starlight, but the fingers of the great artist Frost have 

 been weaving delicately-designed curtains over the window- 

 panes, and the candles within only serve to reveal to the 

 best advantage the fantastic tracery. In the summer, when 

 there is no night to speak of, these island retreats are the 

 popular resort of all classes ; but now the gardens are 

 shrouded in the white wrappings of a long recess. 



Returning to the Neva we face the wind ; it comes down 

 the river, and brings volleys of hard-frozen sleet, aimed 

 point-blank at such slight portions of the face as we expose. 



