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his palace-garden with his own hand; and he did do it-for I see him with my own eyes. He wanted to ask me so much about our schools and rail-roads, and one thing or another, that he invited me to come again, and see his daughters: for he said his wise could speak better English than he could. So I went again yesterday; and she's a fine, knowing woman, I tell you; and his daughters are nice gals."
8. What did the empress say to you?
“Oh, she asked me a sight o' questions. Don't you think, she thought we had no servanis in Ameriky! I told her poor folks did their own work, but rich folks had plenty of
• But then you don't call 'em servants,' said she ; * you call 'em help. I guess, ma'am, you've been reading Mrs. Trollope ? says I. We had that 'ere book aboard our ship. The emperor clapped his hands, and laughed as if he'd kill himself. • You’re right, sir,' said he; you 're right. We sent for an English copy, and she's been reading it this very morning!'
9. “Then I told him all I knew about our country, and he was mightily pleased. He wanted to know how long I expected to stay in these parts. I told him I'd sold all the notions I brought over, and I guessed I should go back in the same ship. I bid 'em good-bye, all round, and went about my
business. And I have had a glorious time! I expect you did n't calculate to see me run such a rig ?”
10. No, indeed, I did not, my lad. You may well consider yourself lucky; for it's a very uncommon thing for crowned heads to treat a stranger with so much distinction.
11. A few days after, he called again, and said, " I guess I shall stay here a while longer, I'm treated so well. T'other day a grand officer come to my room, and told me the emperor had sent him to show me all the curiosities; and I dressed myself, and he took me with him in a mighty fine carriage, with four horses ; and I've been to the theatre and the museum ; and I expect I've seen about all there is to be seen in St. Petersburg. What do you think of that, Mr. Dallas?”
12. It seemed so incredible that a poor, ungainly Yankee lad should be thus loaded with attentions, that the ambassador scarcely knew what to think or say.
13. In a short time, his strange visitor reäppeared. “ Well,” said he, “I made up my mind to go home ; so I went to thank the emperor, and bid him good-bye. I thought I could n't do no less, he'd been so civil. Says he, · Is there anything else you'd like to see before you go back to America ?' I told him I should like to get a peep at Moscow; for I'd heard considerable about their setting fire to the Kremlin, and I'd read a deal about General Bonaparte; but it would cost a sight o' money to go there, and I wanted to carry my earnings to mother. So I bid him good-bye, and
14. “ Now, what do you guess he did? Next morning very early, he sent the same man, in regimentals, to carry me to Moscow in one of his own carriages, and bring me back again, when I've seen all I want to see! And we're going to-morrow morning, Mr. Dallas. What do you think now?"
15. And, sure enough, the next morning the Yankee boy passed the ambassador's house in a splendid coach and four, waving his handkerchief, and shouting “Good-bye! Goodbye !”
16. Mr. Dallas afterwards learned from the emperor that all the particulars related by this adventurous youth were strictly true. He again heard from him at Moscow, waited upon by the public officers, and treated with as much attention as is usually bestowed on ambassadors. The last tidings of him reported that he was travelling in Circassia, and writing a journal, which he intended to publish. Now, who but a Yankee could have done all that?
CHAPTER L XVIII.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead
That all of thee we loved and cherished,
Has with thy summer roses perished ;
An ashen memory in its stead –
Where fading light is cold and vain;
The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart
- that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,
Its sunny light on all around,
And sympathies which found no rest,
Save with the loveliest and the best.
But sorrow in the mourner's breast ?
Can lift for thee the veil which doubt
And human fear have drawn about
* Died in Brooklyn, L. I., on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged 24 years.
'Midst lapse of waters, and the tone
Of all we knew and loved in thee.
Baptized in immortality!
Of souls that, with their earthly mould,
Cast off the loves and joys of oldUnbodied like a pale moonbeam,
As pure, as passionless, and cold ; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,
Of slumbering in oblivion's rest,
In blank annihilation blest;
Not others, but themselves are they.
A change from twilight into day.
They've laid thee 'midst the household graves,
Where father, brother, sister lie ;-
Above thee bends the summer sky.
Farewell! a little time, and we
Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee
As pilgrims through the gate of fear,
All that is left our hearts meanwhile ;
Shall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty —
Thy generous scorn of all things wrongThe truth, the strength, the graceful beauty,
Which blended in thy song. All lovely things by thee beloved
Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved
Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn eves
Reflecting on the deep, still floods,
Of rainbow-tinted woods,