The person with whom I conversed, changed from gay to grave, and from
lively to severe. With calm dignity he remarked, "I am unable to say,
if our letters can be used at the place you mention. They are good all
over the civilized world, but I don't know anything about Irkutsk.
Never heard of the place before."

I bowed myself out of the establishment, with a fresh conviction of
the unknown character of the country whither I was bound. I obtained a
letter of credit at the opposition shop, but without a guarantee of
its availability in Northern Asia.

In a foggy atmosphere on the morning of March 21, 1866, I rode through
muddy streets to the dock of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. There
was a large party to see us off, the passengers having about three
times their number of friends. There were tears, kisses, embraces,
choking sighs, which ne'er might be repeated; blessings and
benedictions among the serious many, and gleeful words of farewell
among the hilarious few. One party of half a dozen became merry over
too much champagne, and when the steward's bell sounded its warning,
there was confusion on the subject of identity. One stout gentleman
who protested that he _would_ go to sea, was led ashore much against
his will.

After leaving the dock, I found my cabin room-mate a gaunt,
sallow-visaged person, who seemed perfectly at home on a steamer. On
my mentioning the subject of sea-sickness, he eyed me curiously and
then ventured an opinion.

"I see," said he, "you are of bilious temperament and will be very
ill. As for myself, I have been a dozen times over the route and am