The Great Siberian Railway by Francis E. Clark

Vladivostock, on nearer approach, unlike many towns, carries out its more distant promise. It is not a trim and finished town, but it is one of strong outlines, and evidently built for a great future. Its chief buildings are substantial. The town looks as though it had come to stay. To be sure, the new outlet which Russia has obtained through eastern China to the sea at Port Arthur will rob Vladivostock of its unique importance as Russia's only open door on the Pacific, but her glory as the great natural port of Siberia, with a limitless country of vast resources behind her, can never be taken away. The huge ice-breaker which crunches up the harbor ice in winter with its sharp iron beak is a complete success, and it is no longer an ice-bound port for even three months of the year. The winter, though long, is not unusually severe, and the mercury, I am told, seldom or never sinks so low as it does in Boston or New York.

No sooner had we stepped on shore than we were treated to our first disillusionment concerning Russia and the Russians. We had heard much about the terrors of the Russian custom-house. We expected to have our baggage overhauled from turret to foundation-stone, and the feminine member of our party had pictured to herself a swarthy Cossack with sword and cutlass making hay of her feminine belongings, while he searched for dutiable goods. But our Chinese sampan-man landed us at the pier, and no customs officer appeared upon the scene. We waited, but he did not come. We inquired in two or three different languages for the custom-house, but no one knew what we meant. We wandered up and down the pier looking for some building that resembled the familiar office where duties are collected, but could find none. At length, having fully satisfied our consciences, we boldly loaded our _impedimenta_ into a drosky, and told the driver to take it to the Hôtel du Pacifique. This he successfully accomplished, and no officer of the law appeared to disturb our peace of mind, or to look into the innocent recesses of our trunks.