Section 5. The congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriate

legislation, the provisions of this article.

The Fourteenth Amendment was proposed to the legislatures of the several

states by the thirty-ninth congress on June 16, 1866, and after delay

caused by withdrawals of ratifications and of rejections of

ratifications by many of the states, on July 28, 1868, it was announced

by the Secretary of State that it had become valid to all intents and

purposes, as a part of the Constitution of the United States.

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES. FIFTEENTH AMENDMENT.

Article XV. Sect. 1. The right of citizens of the United States to

vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States, or by any

state, on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Section 2. The congress shall have power to enforce this article by

appropriate legislation.

The fifteenth amendment was proposed to the legislatures of the several

states by the fortieth Congress on February 27, 1869, and was declared,

in a proclamation of the Secretary of State, dated March 30, 1870, to

have been ratified by the constitutional number of states, and to have

“become valid to all intents and purposes as part of the Constitution of

the United States.”

AFTER EMANCIPATION.

The history of the war shows that one hundred and seventy-eight thousand

nine hundred and seventy-five negroes, took part either in the army or

the navy of the United States, and the losses these troops sustained

from sickness, wounds, killed in battle and other casualties incident to

war, were sixty-eight thousand one hundred and seventy-eight.

The war was over in the spring of 1865. Then came the reconstruction

period, and in 1876, the Democratic party, most influential in the

Southern States, unqualifiedly accepted in its national platform all the

results of the war, including the war amendments to the Constitution.

Yet, while the race progressed with marvellous rapidity through

educational facilities eagerly sought for, and secured to them from

private and public sources, the condition of the freed slaves and their

descendants has not improved so materially as was anticipated.

President Lincoln’s solicitude has not been proven false or exaggerated,

“both the whites and negroes” _have_ suffered “by living in association

with each other.”

The tendency is to divide the whites from the blacks, the whites

avoiding those sections where the races are placed on an equality in

labor. The large plantations are being let out to colored tenants while

the landlord seeks a more congenial environment in the cities, the poor

whites seeking occupation in the manufacturing industries which have

arisen and are being developed.

It is asserted that the number of counties in the South in which the

negroes outnumber the whites, counties containing the best cotton,

tobacco, rice and sugar lands, has risen from 237 in 1860, to 279 in

1900, and that within these counties there are, on the average, 130

negroes to every 100 whites, and that in 1860, there were 71 counties in

which the negroes were more than twice as numerous as the whites, which

number in 1900, had increased to 108, and 92 per cent of the colored

race is found in the states which were in rebellion in 1861.

Notwithstanding the investment with citizenship which was supposed to

remove from the slave the disqualification of having no standing in

court, from the time of emancipation to the present, negro lynchings in

the southern and western portions of the United States have shocked the

civilized world by their frequency and cruelty; victims of both sexes

having been burnt at the stake without any pretense of a form of trial,

while local juries were unwilling to indict or condemn those who thus

transgressed constitutional law.

The Fourteenth Amendment has been virtually annulled, and the white vote

is apportioned on a fictitious representation, and based upon a black

majority.

Measures, more or less disguised as to their purpose, have been passed

by several southern states, tending to disfranchise the negroes, showing

an inclination to gradually return to former conditions, until they have

once more assumed their original bold attitude, and in the Fifty-eighth

Congress, which assembled December 7, 1903, notice was given that the

United States Senator from Tennessee would introduce a bill for the

repeal of the Fifteenth Amendment, “with a view to a permanent solution

of the vexing negro question, by eliminating the enfranchised negro as a

political factor.” It was said that the Senator would be supported by

every Southern member in Congress, and not a few members of other

sections of the Union. An ex-governor of Virginia was quoted as saying

in New York, that there is only one solution, and that is that the

Nation must recede from its position on negro suffrage, and plans to

that effect have been announced in several southern states.

AN APPEAL TO THE COUNTRY.

On their own behalf, in a mass meeting held in Boston, November 7, 1903,

forty years after Emancipation, and three years after the outside limit

of time, 1900, set in the resolution recommending the co-operation of

the Federal Government in the gradual abolishment of slavery, with

compensation, passed in March, 1862, the following appeal, involving the

rights of 10,000,000 colored people of the United States, was addressed

to the country by the Boston Negro Suffrage League:—

“We appeal to the conscience of the country to rally to our help, to

restore to us rights bought by us with a great price, the price of

nearly three centuries of faithful service and of blood shed by us in

four wars. We appeal to the American people in their strength, to have

regard for us in our weakness, and to grant us fair play and equal

opportunities with others, to make the most and the best of ourselves

in their midst. We call upon a Christian nation to treat us as fellow

Christians, as human beings. We implore a boastfully free republic to

save us from re-enslavement, to mete out to us even-handed justice,

and to throw over us everywhere the impartial protection of her laws

and Constitution.”

DEATH OF LINCOLN.

“So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long-suffering years.

Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses changed to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood:

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest—

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

· · · · ·

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,

Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.”

—_London Punch_, May 6, 1865.

Re-elected President of the United States for another term of four

years, and having seen the termination of the war, Abraham Lincoln died

in Washington by the hand of an assassin. He was shot by J. Wilkes

Booth, a member of a family of actors, in a private box of Ford’s

Theatre, a few minutes past ten o’clock on the evening of April 14,

1865, and was carried across the street to a private house, 516 Tenth

Street, where he died at 7.22 the next morning without recovering

consciousness. Reverent and devout by nature, his utterances had often

impressed the people with a sense of his own firm reliance on the Divine

arm. “I have been driven many times to my knees,” he once remarked, “by

the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom

and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day.” So when the

bewildering news of his death burst upon the world, that was the

characteristic most forcibly brought to mind, and “God lives” was the

chosen message flashed over the wires from a high state official to

quell the tumult of indignation which thrilled every corner of the great

Republic. At his obsequies the funeral procession was so long that the

head of it had begun to disperse at the Capitol, before the rear had

passed the Treasury Department on its way from the Executive Mansion.

At the cemetery in Springfield, Illinois, where he was buried May 4,

1865, the procession being under the immediate charge of Major General

Joseph Hooker, Bishop Simpson quoted his words spoken in relation to the

slave power, in 1859, beginning “Broken by it, I, too, may be, bow to it

I never will.”

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS.

On the evening of April 16th, just before sunset, when the news of the

assassination came to our camp, during an exhausting march from

Appomattox Court House after Lee’s surrender, to guard the railroad at

Nottaway C. H., a courier rode up with a despatch for General Charles S.

Wainwright of whose staff I was a member, announcing the event in a few

words.

The effect upon us was tremendous, we could not believe that it was

true, and I thought at the time that it must lead to some uprising or

revolution. It was a shock to both soldiers and citizens that they could

hardly realize. But his work was done, his life was complete, and he was

allowed to die in all the glory and dignity of an unselfish triumph.

In a building corner of Broadway and 10th Street, New York, between what

was then Stewart’s great dry goods establishment and Grace Church, I had

from 1874 to 1879, a little den. It looked, like all my rooms, very

cozy, with a medley of boyish, college, and army trophies hanging about,

and endless souvenirs of travel and previous years experience on the

walls, and in graceful confusion. Many of my old half discarded things

had fallen into place, and I wrote under the light of a Russian double

candlestick with a soft green shade, while my gas was being put in

order. My old army toggery I had arranged in a trophy—sword, belt, sash,

cap, pistol, spurs, blouse of Second Lieutenant of Artillery (Fifth

Massachusetts Battery, Light Artillery) with the holes through the right

sleeve and the blood on the lining, corps and other military badges,

etc., and as a background the American flag, in silk, given me by some

dear friends with whom I often stayed at Weston, Mass., and which I

carried with me in the army, and had suspended in my winter quarters on

the Rappahannock River, Va., 1863-’4. As I now look at them I can see on

my sword knot the very same crape which was twisted round it by my

servant “Joe,” when all the army went into mourning for the death of

Abraham Lincoln. It is to me a precious relic, and one such as I imagine

there are few preserved.

In April, 1879, I wrote what follows in a letter to the Boston

_Transcript_:—

“The writer paid a visit yesterday to that remarkable picture now on

exhibition at Doll and Richards’, 2 Park Street, (Boston) by Albion H.

Bicknell, representing President Lincoln at the dedication of the

cemetery at Gettysburg. Oh, that word! What a story does it tell! It was

the central turning point of the war, just as Bull Run was the

beginning, and Appomattox the end.

As you look at that wonderful painting, and gaze at the different men

there—men who were towers of strength for the Union,—you find, as you

count them off one by one, that more than two-thirds of those who were

there that bright autumn afternoon, November 19, 1863, have ere this

passed on,—Seward, Andrew, Everett, Meade, Chase, Wilson, Stanton,

Morton, Greeley, Sumner, Welles, Johnson, Hamlin, Fessenden,—are with us

no more.

The landscape, with the trees and the sky and the flavor of autumn in

the air, is admirable. The grouping is simple, natural and effective,

and the likenesses of the different persons are remarkable. There they

are, honest and earnest American citizens, in the prosaic dress of the

day,—real, not ideal,—some few of them in uniform, but a majority in the

habiliments of civil life. You can almost catch the serious words of

President Lincoln, just as he delivered them in that terse speech which

will go down to posterity as his masterpiece of oratory.”

STATUE AT SPRINGFIELD, ILL.—

GRANT’S LONGEST SPEECH.

Early in the year 1874, a bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln was placed

over his grave at Springfield, Illinois. It was unveiled with

appropriate ceremonies and in the presence of over 25,000 people. Prayer

was offered by Bishop Wayman of the (colored) Methodist Church, and an

oration was delivered by Senator Oglesby of Illinois. President Ulysses

S. Grant, Vice President Henry Wilson, ex-Vice President Schuyler Colfax

and General William T. Sherman were present, and all made brief

addresses, that of General Grant said to be the longest speech he ever

delivered. It was as follows:—

“Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: On an occasion like the present,

it is a duty on my part to bear testimony to the great and good

qualities of the patriotic man whose earthly remains now rest beneath

the dedicated monument. It was not my fortune to make the personal

acquaintance of Mr. Lincoln till the beginning of the last year of the

great struggle for national existence. During those years of trouble

and despondency, amongst the many patriotic men of the country,

Abraham Lincoln never for a moment doubted that the final result would

be in favor of peace, union, and freedom to every race in this broad

land. His faith in an all-wise Providence directing our arms to this

final result, was the faith of the Christian that his Redeemer liveth.

Amid obloquy, personal abuse and hate undisguised, which were given

vent to without restraint through the press, upon the stump, and in

private circles, he remained the same staunch, unyielding servant of

the people, never exhibiting revengeful feelings towards his

traducers, he, rather, pitied them, and hoped for their own sakes, and

the good name of their posterity, they might desist. It did not occur

to him for a single moment that the man Lincoln was being assailed,

but that a treasonable spirit, one waiting to destroy the fairest

government the sun ever shone upon, was giving vent to itself on him,

as the chief executive of the nation, only because he was such

executive. As a lawyer in your midst, he would have avoided all that

slander, for his life was a pure and simple one, and no doubt he would

have been a much happier man; but who can tell what might have been

the fate of the nation but for the pure, unselfish, and wise

administration of Lincoln?

From March, 1864, to the day when the hand of an assassin opened the

grave for Mr. Lincoln when President of the United States, my personal

relations with him were as close as the nature of our respective

duties would permit. To know him personally was to love and respect

him for his great qualities of head and heart, and for his patience

and patriotism.

With all his disappointments from failures on the part of those to

whom he intrusted command, and treachery on the part of those who had

gained his confidence but to betray it, I never heard him utter a

complaint, nor cast censure for bad conduct or bad faith. It was his

nature to find excuses for his adversaries. In his death the nation

lost its greatest head. In his death the South lost its most just

friend.”

Lincoln said to Grant, when as Lieutenant General he placed him in

charge of all the Armies:—

“The particulars of your plans I neither know, nor seek to know. You

are vigilant and self-reliant; and, pleased with this, I wish not to

obtrude any restraints nor constraints upon you.”

* * * * *

Boston is fortunate in having in Park Square the emancipation group by

Thomas Ball, of Lincoln breaking the fetters of a negro slave, the gift

of Hon. Moses Kimball to the city.

In Chicago, October 1, 1893, during the World’s Columbian Exposition, I

went to see the statue of Abraham Lincoln by Saint Gaudens in Lincoln

Park. It is splendid in every way, one of the finest certainly in the

country and perhaps in the world, and in 1903, a bronze statue of

Lincoln, cast in heroic mould with uplifted arm, was erected on a hill

in a town in Illinois from which point it may be seen for twenty miles

in every direction.

The theatre building where he was shot was never afterwards used for

entertainments, but for many years contained a collection of curios from

the battle fields, which was subsequently removed to the National

Museum, and it has since been attached to the War Department as an

office building for a bureau.

August 5, 1901, I visited the house where he died, now containing the

Oldroyd Lincoln Memorial Collection, consisting of over 3000 articles

pertaining to the martyred President.

CHAPTER THIRD.

BRUSSELS. THANKSGIVING IN BERLIN. WILNA.

“This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.”

—_Henry W. Longfellow._

“_A Gleam of Sunshine_,” edition of 1864.

LETTER TO MY MOTHER.

Berlin, Nov. 29, 1866,

Or, in other words, Thanksgiving Day.

I happen to be aware of this fact, Mama, because yesterday, strolling

about the Berlin gallery we met first Mr. Urbino (Dealer in choice

foreign books in Boston) and afterwards Mr. Kellogg, (My brother

Willie’s travelling friend) the latter of whom told us that all the

Americans were to have a big Thanksgiving dinner at some hotel here, and

so we also put our names down, and mean to do “the eminent American.”

Almost twelve and not breakfasted as yet! How lazy one does get, and we

have tickets to see the Schloss at twelve, precisely.

Well then, to begin,—We really left Paris on Saturday, arriving at

Brussels in time to take a cup of tea, a chicken cold, and retire, and

you have no idea how nice it is again to be on the move!

[Illustration:

WILNA.

]

Sunday, a drizzly day, we drove all the way out to Waterloo amidst the

hoots of the “rag, tag and bobtail” of the villages taking us for

British tourists. We scanned the scene of conflict with military gaze,

bought a cane and a lunch, chaffed the natives, and returned in time to

see Déjazet the celebrated old actress perform in a charming little

piece. Monday we strolled about the town, looked at a few pictures,

flattened our noses on the shop windows, very pretty they are, too, that

is, the things within, and would find ourselves suddenly bringing up at

some grand old cathedral, or a fascinating marketplace, with statues to

old “swells” whose heads had been discontinued there; gilt-edged houses

in which the ancient guilds and clubs held forth, crooked streets, high

hills, etc. etc.

That evening after dinner we billeted ourselves for Berlin viâ Cologne,

and I soon had an excellent opportunity of airing my execrable German,

and thanking myself for the little I possess.

Well, here we are in Berlin, the city of music and philosophy, and here

is Charlie,—by the way, the best travelling companion imaginable,—ready

to descend for breakfast.

P. M. I am now in my evening harness with just time to finish this

before going to dine. Yesterday we went to the Gallery, which I liked

exceedingly, although there are only a few real masterpieces, many of

which I knew well from your book “The Berlin Gallery,” at home. The

Murillo is perhaps the finest. The building itself is charmingly

arranged, all the different schools in order, and the temperature just

right, which you won’t find in the Italian galleries. We then sauntered

along to Unter den Linden, and caused a great sensation. Whether our

reefing jackets and little hats and blue scarfs, or our truly distingué

and _chic_,—tell Willie the word is still a favorite in

Paris,—appearance were the cause, I know not. I can here say that the

Berliners are not exactly “swells,” though big on metaphysics, and now

on diplomacy and war; certain it is, however, that many were the smiles

bestowed upon us as we gaily marched along.

In the evening we saw a very good ballet at the Victoria Theatre. Today

we have not accomplished much except the King’s old palace, and got fur

lined boots, very necessary for travelling, and filled our pockets with

roubles. Tomorrow we go to see the paintings in company with Mr. Thies

and probably in the evening start for Königsberg, where I will get you

an amber bracelet. The weather is quite mild now, but I think after

leaving Wilna it will be fresh enough. It is rather an odd city, this

Berlin, with a feeble little stream called the Spree, just under our

window. Charlie sends love to all. Good night, for I go to the feast of

Bacchus,—roast turkey and plumb pudding.

N. A.

* * * * *

Professor Thies, whom I met in Berlin, had been curator of the Gray

Collection of Engravings at Harvard College, and showed to a party of us

in the second term of my Junior year the famous prints, collected by

Francis Colley Gray principally abroad, which he bequeathed to the

College, and which were then in one of the alcoves of Gore Hall, or the

Library, up stairs. Our party consisted of Professor Longfellow and his

son Charlie, George B. Shattuck and his sister, my sister and myself. It

was a great treat and gave me my first real knowledge of art. We

examined all the engravings, taking several weeks, and the remarks of

Professor Thies were full of knowledge and charm. It was an education

not only in the art of different kinds of engraving, but of painting and

sculpture, as many of them were copies of the masterpieces of these two

branches of art. The Collection was transferred to the Boston Museum of

Fine Arts when it was opened, and now forms a part of the Fogg Museum at

Harvard.

BERLIN IN 1866.

In Berlin, the palaces, houses and stores on the principal

thoroughfares, stand before you as dull and unsentimental looking as the

Prussian sentinels. The people whom you meet, while appearing as

respectable and worthy as church deacons, have no elegance nor grace

about them, they come and go on every side as gravely and soberly as is

permitted to human beings, with nothing disorderly or gay in their

manner. They impress you all as being in what is called “comfortable

circumstances,” wearing a look of contented commonplaceness, and with

the most unbounded respect for things as they are in Prussia, from the

Kaiser down, and a corresponding ignorance of and pity for the situation

in other less favored countries. There is an egotistical patriotism in

this which is delicious, and which must have its merits, but it

certainly makes its supporters more objects of curiosity than of

interest to any outsiders, with whom they may come in contact. But, on

the other hand, there is a compactness in the forward march of the North

Germans as a nation, which is irresistible, and which is certain to

accomplish great results, and for it the philosophical student of

history cannot but feel an admiration which he does not accord to the

more attractive and mercurial inhabitants of other countries. He

respects intensely the Prussians, but he does not care to live among

them.

The next morning after our arrival in Berlin we sauntered forth to see

all there was in the city, and to provide ourselves with a complete

outfit of furs: caps, coats and boots. The weather was cold and we would

need these protections for the rest of our journey, and we knew there

was no better market in Europe for obtaining them of good quality and at

reasonable prices than in the city of Frederick the Great.

THANKSGIVING DINNER.

Wilna, Dec. 3, 1866.

My dear Mamma:

I begin you a letter here as we have some time before the train starts

for St. Petersburg which I will finish there, and will take up my story

at Berlin, where I left myself just going to dinner.

The dinner was quite successful and amusing: about one hundred Americans

of all styles collected together, one pretty girl, Miss R. of

Springfield, my classmate Green (The distinguished oculist Dr. J. Orne

Green.), lots of old professional buffers, and a good deal of ruff skuff

in long coats and red scarfs, and several military men. Charlie and I

got an old Russian gentleman between us and talked philosophy and _la

vie Russe_.

The minister, Mr. Wright, presided, and went through very gracefully the

rather difficult performance of drinking the health of the President!

The Opera House at Berlin is quite stunning, and they have the best

female singer in the world, Lucca. We did not have the good fortune to

hear her. Berlin is ahead of all the world in music. In other respects I

think it rather a dull city, but then, we have not as yet shaken off the

glitter of Paris from our garments.

[Illustration:

STATUE OF KANT. KÖNIGSBURG, 1866.

]

The next day we went to Königsberg on the Baltic, where we passed

twenty-four hours, and visited the Schloss where the Teutonic Knights in

ye ancient time held their revels, and where later the King and Queen of

Prussia lived when Napoleon captured Berlin and made the peace of

Tilsit. There is an old modern church in which the numberless columns

almost prevent your seeing across, and a very old cathedral, with lots

of interesting monuments.

Yesterday we came here, a flourishing Polish town before Russia “gobbled

it up,” and go through the experience of having our trunks and passports

examined every few hours, although, when they find we are Americans,

they are very civil. They can’t quite make us out, and look upon us as

curiosities, especially stopping at Wilna. America seems to them so far

off. The Russian surveillance is very strict in the Polish cities, more

so than in Russia proper, and it was here that lots of Poles were hung

only a few years ago. Napoleon slept in the palace here the night after

Alexander left it.

It is so awfully funny, this first taste of Russia, little sleighs just

holding one man all covered with furs, and a big hoop over the horse

like the pictures in our geography,—narrow streets with crowds of Jews,

great bulb like steeples to the churches, and everything different. They

keep the houses so warm that you almost suffer. Well, I must close for

tonight.

N. A.

MY FAIRY SLEIGH.

The spring previous to this Russian journey I received the following

note from Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis, on receiving a photograph of myself

in my fancy sleigh:—

“Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis presents her regards to Mr. Appleton, and

very much thanks him for the interesting photograph which she had

already admired. She hopes he will have more snow the next winter to

enjoy his fairy like equipage, and wishes him health and happiness as

a reward for his wounds in the service of his country.”

Mt. Vernon Street,

14th March, 1866.

My pretty sleigh had the appearance of a Russian one as I had arranged

what looked like a “duga” over the saddle of the horse, with a waving

plume. I once drove down State street in it with my colored groom, the

same old “Joe” who was with me in the army, sitting behind in the

rumble, and from its striking appearance, with the white fox robes, made

a mild sensation.

STOP OVER AT WILNA.

We broke the journey from Berlin to St. Petersburg, which is long and

uninteresting, by stopping over twenty-four hours at Wilna, once the

capital of Lithuania, afterwards an important Polish and at present an

unimportant Russian town. We thought we ought not to jump into the

middle of Russia at once; we ought to look a little at the edges, and

study the ways and customs of the provincials, which we were sure would

be curious and worth seeing, so it was decided that we pass a day at

Wilna.

[Illustration:

SINGLE SLEIGH.

]

There is probably no part of the civilized world where the annoyances

about passports and baggage are greater than in conquered Poland.

Everyone who enters the land is looked upon with suspicion, and the

difficulty is not by any means over when you get in, for there is the

same trouble to get out again, sometimes even worse. But few tourists

stop there, and so any well-dressed stranger seen is an object of

curiosity, and is most carefully watched by the police. Particularly is

this system of espionage strong in the small cities, and one’s life

there by it becomes a burden.

It was late at night when we arrived at the depot. Our passports were

carefully scrutinized, our names recorded, the name of the hotel where

we intended to stop was taken down, and we were told that owing to the

lateness of the hour our trunks would not be examined that night, but

that we must come for the ceremony at ten o’clock the next morning. We

were also informed that we could not leave the city without again having

our passports examined and the proper _visa_ put on.

THE RUSSIAN BEGGAR.

When we looked out of our hotel window the next morning the street in

front was filled with beggars of every description, who on seeing us at

the window began going through every imaginable kind of pantomime which

might appeal to the pity or the pride of those to whom they were

addressed. Perhaps of all the types of beggars in the world, the Polish

Jew is the most striking. His long greasy hair, his longer and greasier

coat, his trowsers tucked in his boots and his peculiar cap, are

distinguishing traits. And then how he can pile on the agony in facial

expression and gesture! No imagined grief of Dante’s Inferno can excel

what the Polish Jew would make you believe are his sufferings as he

stands thus piteously addressing you. For a handful of copper coins

flung among the crowd, they fought hard and long.

A TOUR OF THE TOWN.

After, with some difficulty, getting possession of our trunks, and

showing that they contained no infernal machines, nor suspicious looking

insurrectionary pamphlets, we jumped into a sleigh, as the ground here

was well covered with snow, and wrapping ourselves up in our _shubes_

started off on a tour of inspection through the town.

There is something very fascinating in the first suspicion of the Orient

as seen in the outlying frontier towns of the Sclavonic race. The bright

colored churches with their bulbous steeples albeit dull and in

miniature, give a suggestive hint of what the glories of Moscow and

Constantinople will be. The queer costumes of the people, neither

Asiatic or European, and their manners in which the patriarchal

reverence for authority of the East is tinged with the curiosity and

thirst for knowledge of the West, make you regard them as a sort of

stepping stone or connecting link between Eastern and Western customs

and civilization. And then it is all so different from life in the other

European capitals, where each one is more or less a stilted copy of the

others. Here you have the mixture of the European and Asiatic elements

in such a peculiar way, that something astonishing strikes you

continually, and the social relations are so vague that real adventures

are likely to befall you in all the classes of society.

The rough wooden sleigh in which we were whisked through the place, with

its brightly painted _duga_ over the horse’s head, the light ornamented

harness, with the strange dress of the driver, made visions of winter

pleasures in St. Petersburg fill our imaginations, and we thought what a

sensation we would make could we only be transferred just as we were

into the Harlem Lane!

THE RUSSIAN HORSE, SLEIGH AND COACHMAN.

Your sleigh follows you round by day and night, always within call, and

so, enveloped in the dark furs of Astrachan or Siberia, you sally forth

on your round of conquest. The horses are superb, very fast trotters,

with high knee action, and holding their heads gracefully; the favorite

colors are black or dappled gray. The ordinary sleigh, that of the

_grand seigneur_, such, indeed, as the Emperor almost always uses, as

well as those you pick up anywhere in the streets, are not unlike our

well-known Portland cutters. Between the regular seat and the dash-board

is a little narrow seat on which the driver perches, with one foot

inside, and the other in a sort of stirrup outside, from which he braces

himself to hold the horse. A fur robe, or rather a thick cloth robe

trimmed with a deep border of fur, comes over you and is fastened around

you, and hooked at the corners of the sleigh in such a way that you

cannot tumble out. The sleighs are very plain, generally of varnished

wood, not even painted. The coachman is a type quite different from what

you will see in any other country. The most stylish are stout,

impressive looking men of middle age, with a long beard like a French

_sapeur_. They wear a dark, thick garment, which in shape I can only

compare to a dressing-gown, fastened around the waist with a brilliant

sash, and then falling nearly to the feet in great plaits.

The fashionable owners of these turnouts are seated behind their drivers

as comfortable as possible, and take as much interest in racing on the

road and passing those about them, as we do when handling the ribbons

ourselves. By far the most elegant turnout is the single sleigh with a

trotter in the shafts and a horse on each side, making three abreast,

galloping along. They are trained specially for this when young, and

they do it well; bending their heads down to the right or left, as it

may be, and rushing along madly. The Prefect of Police of St. Petersburg

had a stunning team of that kind.

Besides all I have mentioned there are many handsome double-seated

sleighs, with a flunkey standing up behind on a board near the ground in

some gorgeous livery, and cocked hat with turkey feathers of different

colors, like a major general’s.

I must not forget to mention the net that goes from the horse’s back to

the dash-board of the sleigh, to prevent the snow from being kicked in

your face, a most sensible idea, and one we could well copy in America.

These nets are of brilliant colors, red, blue, or green, to match the

livery and the sleigh, and the effect is fine as they float in the wind.

The winter of 1870-’1, after my return from Russia, I used the net to

keep the snow from being kicked in my face, a blue one, which I bought

in St. Petersburg. A young fellow who saw me passing and did not

understand what it was for, cried out:—“Look at that man, he’s afraid

the flies will bite his horse!”—Not a bad remark for mid-winter, and I

came to the conclusion that Russian ideas of sleighing were not

altogether appreciated in America.

AT WILNA. THE CHIEF OF POLICE.

The most amusing scene of our stop over at Wilna, was at the office of

the Chief of Police. To arrange our passports for departing we went to

the office during the afternoon, but as it was _jour de fête_, as it

generally is, in honor of some saint, the bureau was closed and the head

official was absent. In consideration of the great regard Russia felt

for the United States, the second in command agreed to attend to our

case, as we were in a hurry to leave the city, with the understanding

that it must be submitted to his chief for approval. The interview was

characteristic and ludicrous. The official spoke a little bad German,

nothing else except Russian. We had both neglected our German studies

and only knew a few phrases, sufficient to demand the necessities of

life in travelling. The gaps were filled up with gestures, and the

interrogatory of name, age, residence, occupation, went on slowly and

unintelligibly enough until the hotel keeper, having heard of the

dilemma in which all parties found themselves, came to the rescue with

the little French he knew and assurances of the good character of the

persons on trial, affirming that he had conversed with us long at his

hotel and he was certain there was nothing suspicious about us. This

only confused things more, and the poor official hardly knew what to do.

He was unwilling to take so great a responsibility upon himself and

began to think he had got some important political offenders. It is

difficult to say how the interview would have ended; it began to look as

if he intended locking us up until he should have time to reflect, but

fortunately the Chief of Police at this moment came in. He was a

gentleman of education and delicacy of feeling, one of those polished

Russian officers so often met, and what was more to the point spoke both

English and French fluently. He sat down quietly at his table, and in a

dignified manner saying a few words in Russian to his now abashed

assistant, examined carefully the passports, and finding everything _en

regle_, asked us a few simple questions, which being satisfactorily

answered, he said:—

“I must apologize, gentlemen, for the annoyance to which you have been

unavoidably subjected, but we poor officials have very strict orders in

Polish Russia, and mistakes will sometimes arise.”

When it was time to leave we were consigned to the best attention of all

the conductors and railroad officials of the line, with orders to be

treated as became American princes. The train was well filled with

passengers, and we took our places in carriage 722, C, _première

classe_, St. Petersburgh and Warsaw Railroad.

[Illustration:

NEVSKI PROSPECT ST. PETERSBURG.

]

CHAPTER FOURTH.

ST. PETERSBURG. TSAR ALEXANDER II.

“I shall not be particular in stating

His journey, we’ve so many tours of late,

Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose

That pleasant capital of painted snows:—

· · · · ·

Damsels and dances, revels, ready money,

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.”

—_Lord Byron._

LETTER TO MY MOTHER.

St. Petersburg, December 5, 1866. (Continuation of letter written at

Wilna.) Here we are at last, having arrived yesterday evening, and I

must say that our first impressions are in the midst of difficulties,

for on awakening this morning we found it actually thawing, and the

streets are all filled with slosh, but the funny little sleighs rush

about incessantly, and perfectly silently as there are no bells on the

horses. We have been occupied today going to the banker’s where I found

your letter, and to the American legation where we saw the minister, who

told us that my classmate, Jeremiah Curtin, had gone only yesterday to

Moscow for two or three weeks, and in looking up some kind of good

apartment.

I think we shall stay here some time over Christmas, which I believe

comes later in the Russian calendar than with us, and devote some time

to learning Russian and continuing our French. In fact for the latter

there can be no better place than here. There are only about six or

seven hours of daylight now, and these we must give up to sight seeing,

which I mean to do thoroughly, and to skating and sleighing. In my next

I will give you a good account of Saint Petersburg and its sights.

Till then adieu.

Nathan.

TO MY SISTER.

Saint Petersburg, December 14, 1866.

... Well, isn’t it droll, here is your young brother established as a

gay _flâneur_ in St. P., who means to delve into all the gayeties of the

Russian life.

Our Minister, General Cassius M. Clay, (Of Kentucky, then 56 years of

age.), presented Charlie and myself the other day to a most lovely

Russian Princess, who lives in a gorgeous palace worth about one million

roubles,—a rouble in gold is just our paper dollar. (This was true at

that time when our currency was depreciated.) After going through suites

of apartments, billiard room and salons, we found her in the boudoir,

and she received us with such a graceful cordiality that she won both

our hearts immediately, and we are now at her feet. Tomorrow General

Clay is to take us to the reception of the Spanish Ambassador, as they

are to give a ball soon to which he wants us to be invited. The Minister

seems very inclined to be attentive and kind. We shall presently be

presented in due form to the Imperial family.

Charlie and I are very comfortably established in a nice apartment with

our books, and I want to stay here indefinitely. One must pass the

winter somewhere, and why not here, where so few Americans have tried

it?

[Illustration:

HON. CASSIUS M. CLAY, MINISTER TO RUSSIA.

]

We have a jolly sleigh at our disposition, with a horse who rushes off

like mad. Vehicles are a necessity here, where the distances are so

tremendous, and no one ever walks, and you can hire excellent traps by

the day, week, or month, much cheaper than taking them by the course.

The sleighing has been splendid for the last week, and the Nevsky

Prospect any afternoon is a sight worth seeing, filled with all kinds of

sleighs. I have even seen one or two of our American cutters. All the

strange equipages you read about are actually true, and the _troika_

with one horse trotting and the other two galloping is no uncommon

sight. The sleighing, when it once begins, lasts right along, as there

is no sun at all to melt it, the days being very short, and what little

sky there is overcast. You don’t feel the cold much either as there is

very little wind,—how I shiver when I think of the Mill Dam,—(The “Mill

Dam Road” a favorite Boston drive.), and we are learning many a wrinkle

in the art of keeping warm, which we shall bring out in America. The

shops, too, are fascinating, and I expect to invest heavily during my

stay in all kinds of Russian articles, Persian silks and Circassian

silver, Russian amulets, and the thousand and one things which you don’t

see even in the cosmopolitan shops of Paris; among others a complete

Russian harness, with a cap for the driver. There is a huge bazaar,

where everything can be found, built in a parallelogram, with shops on

the four sides.

The most fascinating things are the hoods all the ladies wear, covering

just half their little fur caps. These are made of different colored

cloths with embroidery of gold or silver. The fur lined slippers, too,

are not bad, but I won’t tantalize you with descriptions. As I do not

anticipate coming here again soon I mean to do the thing up this time. I

skated today for the first time on a pond belonging to the Russian Yacht

Club, to which we have received tickets, but there were only a few

there, in fact the skating does not fairly begin until the Neva Skating

Club is open, which is the swell place, where all the nobility go. It is

gotten up by the English, and is a large square, fenced in with pine

trees planted in the ice, situated on the Neva in the city, with nice

houses to put on your skates and warm yourself, very necessary here, and

several times during the season they give _fêtes_ by night. We have

subscription tickets for the season, and I think it will be open in a

few days. But with all this we must not forget our art, and here we have

the magnificent gallery of the Hermitage, one of the finest though not

the best known in Europe, and we can wander a whole winter through its

endless galleries without exhausting the treasures.

Sunday morning: I hope the little jacket and hat will be pleasing to

Master Billy, which Mr. Burgess is to bring from Paris. I will get him a

few of the Oriental and Cossack children’s dresses, which are stunning

and very plentiful here, and then I think he will make a sensation on

Beacon street.

Well, my dear, I must close and dispatch this. Today we are to skate on

the Yacht Club Pond, as they have a _fête_ there every Sunday, and

tonight at midnight is the first _bal masqué_ at the Grand Opera. “On

with the dance,” and _vive la jeunesse_! Last evening we passed at the

English consul’s and met some very pretty young Cossacks, quite

civilized, however. Charlie sends lots of love to you both. He is now in

front of the fire with his feet in the air. Well, goodbye, and pinch

Billy’s cheeks for me.

Nate.

There is a pretty arrangement in Russian houses, which is not to be

found elsewhere that I know of. Part of the large drawing-room,

generally a corner by windows, is often fenced off by itself, raised on

a platform, about a foot above the rest of the floor. Here is formed a

sort of garden in the house. The light iron fence is covered with some

green, flowering vine, and inside are some exotics, palms and other

tropical plants, and the effect is enchanting. The ladies select this as

their especial haunt, transforming it into a boudoir where they read

their favorite novels, write their notes, or work at embroidery.

I made my purchases of Circassian trinkets and toys, to send home to my

nephews and nieces, in the _Passage_, a much frequented place for the

idlers of the town, in imitation of the Burlington Arcade in London, and

the _Passage des Panoramas_ of Paris.

Those were pleasant skating parties we had on the Neva, in the open rink

of the Club, where all the nobility and swells of the place came out to

show their agility. Thanks to much practice and many a tumble upon the

Frog Pond of Boston, I was a skillful skater, and my partners were also

proficient in that difficult accomplishment. How we dashed along over

the place where Peter the Great had often been paddled in his rough-hewn

boat, now forward together arm-in-arm, now one backward and the other

forward, each bending in time to the graceful curves of the outside

edge!

TO MY MOTHER.

St. Petersburg, 27th Nov. Russian Calendar.

9th Dec. American Calendar.

My dear Mamma.

Your letter containing the tribute to Charlie Smith I found at the bank

yesterday. How true and good the account of him is. You expected it

would reach me in Paris, but you see we have got off before. We are

getting somewhat settled here now, though we are not as yet fairly

_lancés_ into the gay life. This is partly on account of the horrid

weather, for ever since we have been here it has been gradually melting

into slosh and the sleighing rapidly disappearing. Sudden changes are

common, and today is cold again with snow falling.

GREAT SEA STREET.

We have got a very nice little apartment on the great Moscow street,

just in the centre of the city, and the house opposite being very low we

get as much light as is possible anywhere.

We are in a French _maison meublée_ with a very pleasant Arthur O’Leary

style of _table d’hôte_, where we meet half a dozen different gentlemen

from all kinds of countries, and we talk in French of the relative

merits of our respective nationalities. In fact, we do more French

talking here than in Paris. In the afternoon before dinner we take a

lesson in Russian, our teacher using French as the basis of instruction,

and I presume by the time I leave Russia, I shall be unable to speak any

other language. It is considerable difficult though, but I go on the

principle of learning everything.

[Illustration:

BOLSHAJA MORSKAJA (GREAT SEA STREET).

]

The Church of Sault Isaac, which is about the only sight we have seen,

is perfectly gorgeous, with its huge pillars of malachite and _lapis

lazuli_ from the mines of Demidoff. You enter, and a mysterious feeling,

half oriental and half European, carries you away. The perpetual

incense, the prostrate worshipers, the delicious temperature and the

ornaments which combine the _luxe_ of Europe with the savage

gorgeousness of Asia, form a whole which the churches of Italy do not

have. Perhaps this combination of East and West is the great charm to

the life in Russia. The toilettes of the ladies have come from the brain

and fingers of Parisian _couturierès_ adapted to climate here. The

Oriental element you see strong in the livery of servants and the

uniforms of officers. The feeling of caste is very marked, and while the

London flunkey beats the world in servility, and the Italian beggar in

woe-begone dejection, the Russian servant seems to be afraid of you,

recognizing the superior man in everything.

[Illustration:

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IN ST. PETERSBURG.

]

PRETTY RUSSIAN MAIDENS.

I have not yet had a good chance to see all the different sleighs in

their glory, but from what I have seen I think they will be stunning. We

saw two pretty little Russian maidens, with their white furs, driving

along in a jolly sleigh, the horse in the shafts trotting gaily, and one

on his left cantering beside him.

The omnibuses have three horses, but I have not seen a swell in his

_troika_. The horses certainly trot faster than any except ours, and

some I see on the Nevsky Prospect would make a very creditable show on

the Brighton road.

P. M. We have been out today to visit Mr. Pierce, (A relative of the

Longfellows, who had been secretary of legation during President

Pierce’s administration, and at the time we were in Russia connected

with the Winans in the railroad building business.) who lives about four

miles outside the city, and after passing the place by mistake and

returning, we succeeded in finding him, and received a most hospitable

reception. He seemed much inclined to help us in any way to have a jolly

time. The sleighing was fine and the air deliciously cold and clear.

The Russian youths at the theatres are a most enthusiastic crowd, and I

have seen singers at the Opera, ballet dancers, or even a circus star

called out five or six times. The Grand Opera House is very fine, and

the ballet troupe gorgeous, quite as good, if not better, than the one

in Paris. There is a theatre (Saint Michel) where they give French and

German plays, so that one can have most everything.

Well, I have lots of letters to write and no time to write any of them,

so that this must suffice you for the week.

Nathan.

The theatre is large and finely decorated. The Imperial box is always

ready to be occupied by the Tsar or some member of his family, the

sentries standing on each side of it in their gorgeous uniforms as

motionless as statues. The pit is filled with the _viveurs_ of the city,

young and old, who are in their stalls, lorgnettes in hand, watching

every movement on the stage. Between the acts all file out into the

smoking room, when a _papyrus_ is inhaled, and some cooling beverage

partaken of in the interlude of the play.

The ballet itself is a masterpiece of skill in its peculiar style. The

dancers are trained carefully for years in a school under the Imperial

patronage, and only appear upon the stage after having gone through a

long apprenticeship. The story of the piece, of which the scene takes

place in Russia or some of the Oriental countries, is most carefully

worked up by the author, and entirely acted in pantomime and dance. All

the passions of love, hatred, jealousy and revenge will be exhibited by

motions aided by the changing strains of an excellent orchestra. When a

favorite _danseuse_ comes bounding across the stage, attired in Russian

costume, delineating in her movements sentiments which appeal to the

pride or patriotism of the audience, the enthusiasm of the house knows

no limit, and words and shouts of applause rend the air long and loud.

CHARLES K. SMITH.

I went to New York on my seventeenth birthday, February 2, 1860, when I

was a Freshman at Harvard College, to pay a visit to the family of David

Lane, whose wife was Caroline Lamson, sister of Colonel Daniel S.

Lamson, friends of my mother, who lived at 12 East 10th Street or

Brevoort Place, as it was called. The firm was Lane, Lamson, & Co. The

American flag in my trophy was given me by one of this family. It was on

this New York visit that I made the acquaintance of Charlie Smith, and

he seemed to take a great liking to me.

In my diary of Feb. 2, 1860, I find, “In the evening people came, it

being the Lanes’ reception evening, Mr. Smith and others.” This is the

first mention of him. One evening, shortly after this, he invited us all

to go to the Italian opera at the Academy of Music, in Brooklyn, and we

accepted, driving over and back.

The next mention is in regard to a visit to Weston, Mass., “Feb. 16,

1860. Went to Weston in a glorious snow storm. Stunning dinner. Went for

two of the party in an ox team to the station. Took profiles in the

evening. Supper stunninger.

Sunday, Feb. 19, 1860. There was no church but we went out in the sleigh

to see Mr. Smith’s protégé, deaf and dumb. (A boy he was interested in

and was having educated.) Good dinner.”

Daniel S. Lamson, our especial host and entertainer in 1860, was

commissioned Major 16th Mass. Infantry, Aug. 1, 1861, Lieutenant Colonel

July 23, 1862, and resigned for disability Sept. 29, 1862. But this was

the year before the War.

I always called him “Uncle Dan” and do so still (1904).

Charlie Smith was about ten years my senior, and that sort of regard

from an elder is always appreciated by a boy. At the time of my visit to

New York he was stopping at the Brevoort House. He was a member of the

New York Club in Broadway, the crack one at that time, and won my heart

and esteem at once. I was devoted to him. One day we strolled down

Broadway and he treated me to oysters and a glass of beer, and I thought

I was a man of the world.

When we met at Weston he fascinated me more than ever, with his stories

and songs, and we had many merry evenings. I was treated as a young man,

not a boy, and I look back to those old times with unmingled delight.

The letter I received from my mother announcing Charlie Smith’s death at

San Francisco, I can now recall and explain. Of Boston parentage, he had

gone to California in the early days, and made what at that time was

considered a good fortune. He was killed accidentally by a shot when out

gunning. He was so popular in the city of San Francisco that the body

was laid in state in the rooms of the Union Club of that city, as a

tribute to the appreciation in which he was held by its members.

THE NEW YORK CLUB.

The New York Club, corner of Broadway and Great Jones street, I never

visited with Charlie Smith, but during the War they moved to the Haight

house, Fifth avenue and 15th street. That was the apogee of their

greatness, and I was introduced and became a six months’ member. Great

Jones street was near property which belongs to the Jones-De

Trobriand-Post families.

TO MY MOTHER.

Wednesday, Dec. 20, 1866.

Saint Petersburg.

My dear Mamma:

I begin you a letter now, to finish sometime if possible. Your last one

talked to me about the furs. I think you are quite right to want lots of

Russian things, as they are fascinating, and you will probably never

have as good an opportunity of getting them. Be easy, then, for I am to

buy no end of various things, and send them all off to Boston, by the

first Spring boat of Mr. Ropes. Mr. Prince, who is the head one of the

house here, is very obliging, and being a good judge of furs, I think I

can satisfy you in that line, though they won’t be in time for this

winter. I shall buy the skins only, and you can have them made up in

Boston to suit you, as the fur goods they wear here are different from

ours, and might not please you. For instance, I have not seen a pair of

cuffs in St. Petersburg. I shall get handsome, dark Siberian sable

skins, worthy of a princess, Persian table cloths, malachite ornaments,

slippers, Circassian silver, etc., etc., and also something which will

make you very happy—a little box or two of the stunning tea, which is

brought across from Pekin in caravans.

We are to dine with Mr. Prince next Tuesday, which is Christmas day, and

have since had to decline an invitation for the same day, given us by

the English Ambassador.

EMPEROR ALEXANDER II.—PRESENTATION.

Two days ago we were presented to the Emperor. We were quite alone, no

other people being presented the same day. We marched through suites of

apartments, and were formally ushered into His Majesty’s billiard room,

where we were received by two of the chamberlains, and from there we

went into the reception room where we soon had a little conversation

with the head of all the Russias in our native (?) language of French.

He is very nice, I give you my word, but we were disappointed in not

seeing the Empress, though this comes some other time.

We have a good many occasions of airing our French in the _beau monde_

of Russia, and I find that there is no trouble with it; the only thing

to do being to go right along regardless of errors, for I see that

although I do not speak very well, there are plenty who speak quite as

bad and worse, and this being a neutral ground of course one is bolder.

However, a great many of the well educated speak English admirably.

All this goes to show that we are in for society now, and have to await

quietly a round of balls, operas, and dinners, and return our calls most

punctiliously, a form of etiquette about which the Russians are very

exacting.

We went to a jolly young count’s (Koucheleff Besborodko) the other day,

who immediately made us at home with a delicious cigar. His house, take

it all in all, was about as lovely as any I have ever seen, with an

Oriental smoking room, a Pompadour boudoir, a Chinese room, a long

gallery of paintings, an immense dancing hall, and a conservatory

arranged with grottoes and cascades, a rustic bridge, and an original

old statue of a satyr, picked up in Rome. The Count is a great

connoisseur of art, and his collection in all its branches is

magnificent, with souvenirs of every city of Europe, and all the ages of

the world, enough to drive to despair any such little dabblers as

myself.

I have met quite a charming young Austrian lady, who lives with the

Spanish Ambassador’s wife, but I shall take good care of my heart and

bring it back to Boston.

Our acquaintances, thus far, are eminently diplomatic, as you see, the

English consul’s family especially being very attentive.

We skated yesterday on the Neva Club place for the first time, as the

grounds are only just opened, but today it is thawing again, and we must

wait a bit for it to freeze.

I think you would be rather frightened at the way they drive here in the

sleighs, rushing off as fast as possible, yelling to people and

carriages to get out of the way, and then bringing the horse up suddenly

with a droll sound—bhr-r-r-r!—which corresponds to “whoa” in English. In

some letter I will describe a sleigh for you, but they are all alike,

from the Emperor’s to the street cabs, except in finish. There are very

few covered vehicles here to hire, and you always go, by night and day,

in an open sleigh, so you can judge from that, that the cold is not so

awfully severe here as you imagine. We take very good care not to be

frozen, as we both have a horror of the amusement, but enough for today.

Nate.

THE PRESENTATION.

The Hon. Cassius M. Clay, the American Minister, presented C. A.

Longfellow and myself to the Emperor.

THE INVITATION.

Translated from the French.

Ministry of the Imperial Court.

Direction of Ceremonies.

St. Petersburg, 5–17 December, 1866.

The Grand Master of Ceremonies has the honor to inform Mr. N.

Appleton, that he will have the honor of being presented to His

Majesty the Emperor tomorrow, Tuesday, 6–18 December, at half past one

in the afternoon at the Winter Palace.

You are requested to come to the door of Her Majesty the Empress.

[Seal]

[See binding of this book.]

The invitation was gladly accepted, not only from the desire of meeting

in person the Autocrat of all the Russias, but also because once done

your name was put upon the list of distinguished visitors to the

capital, and, as a matter of course, you were invited to all the balls

and festivities of the season. General Clay called for us in his sleigh,

and we drove to the Winter Palace, where we were met by some of the

officers of the staff, on horseback. The regulation dress prescribed for

us was “black or blue dress coat, black vest and pantaloons, white

cravat and white kids,” as stated in a marginal note by General Clay.

Having been ushered into the presence of the Emperor, as detailed in my

letter to my mother, we had a little chat with him, principally

answering some questions about America, and then retired, and went down

stairs.

While waiting in the hall below for our sleigh to drive up, the Tsar

came bounding down the staircase, followed by his favorite Newfoundland

dog, with which he was often photographed, and before jumping into his

sleigh and dashing off on some call, he stopped and exchanged a few more

words with us. Indeed the whole interview made a most agreeable

impression upon me.

GORTSCHAKOFF.

“The days when the great Nicholas leaned on him sweep back from the

mists of the buried years. In his old age, he is the Richelieu of

another Tsar, for Russia draws the sword in fight once more.”

—_Col. Richard Henry Savage_ on Gortschakoff in 1876.

I was naturally very much delighted with the prospect of being presented

to the distinguished veteran Russian diplomatist and chancellor of the

empire. This occurred in December of this year, 1866. General Clay had

arranged the interview beforehand with Count Gortschakoff, and one

morning called for us at our hotel in his sleigh to take us there.

Another person was of the party, and strangely enough a negro, a certain

Captain Chester, who was out in Russia on some special business.

We started off through the cold, clear air, and were soon at the door of

the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where we were expected, and ushered in.

We first met Mr. Westerman, a gentleman who for some time had been Count

Gortschakoff’s right hand man and assistant in the tremendous duties of

his office, and were then shown by him into the private cabinet of the

chancellor.

Our interview was, of course, not lengthy, but most interesting. The old

gentleman chatted with us very pleasantly on different topics, and in

his manner and reception of us was as simple and unaffected as a child.

He looked hale and hearty, and as though he had before him many years,

which he meant to devote to aiding the development of Russian progress

and civilization, and he did live two years after the death of the Tsar

and died in Baden-Baden March 11, 1883.

LETTER TO MY MOTHER.

St. Petersburg,

Thursday, Dec. 27, 1866.

My dear Mamma.

Another week has glided rapidly by, finding us still at St. Petersburg,

and I have two of your letters to acknowledge, the last one bearing date

of December 9th.

TO CRONSTADT—AN AMERICAN PARTY.

What have we been doing? Among other things yesterday a party of

Americans went to see Cronstadt. We were, General Roberts, U. S. A., a

good specimen of an American general (Benjamin Stone Roberts, graduate

of West Point, served in the Mexican war and the Rebellion, brevetted

Brig. Gen. U. S. A., and Major Gen. U. S. V., inventor of the Roberts

breech-loading rifle, which he was trying to introduce to the Russians.

He was a remarkably genial fellow, and had lots of good stories which he

delighted in telling.), Mr. Sawyer, correspondent of the New York

_Herald_, and a very pleasant companion, C. A. L., and myself, and we

had a Russian colonel put at our disposal to open the gates of

everything. We went down by rail to a place opposite Cronstadt, and then

crossed over the Gulf of Finland on the ice, with two funny little

Finnish ponies to each sledge, one trotting and the other galloping, but

going like the wind, and doing the five miles in less than half an hour,

without lessening speed once. It was very cold and our fur coats were

necessary. We visited some of the forts, and afterwards breakfasted at

the Navy and Army Club of the place. The whole effect of the day and the

adventures were eminently Russian. We had to get up long before

daylight, and saw the sun rise about 9 o’clock, something one does not

often see here, as we are generally asleep at that time.

THE IMPERIAL STABLES.

One day last week we visited the Imperial stables, which I thought very

shabby, although many of the horses were stunning, and afterwards we

examined all the swell carriages and sledges, which have been used at

coronations, weddings and _fêtes_ from the time of Peter the Great to

the Princess Dagmar. They showed all varieties of taste, and are more

magnificent than those at the Trianon at Versailles.

On Christmas Day Charlie and self dined with Mr. Prince, and attended

just before dinner the christening of his youngest child. It was quite a

large dinner, Anglo-American, and most decidedly respectable. It is

curious how very few American families there are living in St.

Petersburg. Last Sunday we dined with Mr. Whistler, (George W., father

of the artist James Abbott McNeill W.) who is one of the gentlemen

connected with the Winans car manufactory. There were about twelve, all

gentlemen, and all Americans, indeed it included almost all the American

males here,—General Clay, and the Consul, Mr. Winans, Mr. Pierce, and

others, and it was jolly enough.

On Saturday next Charlie and I think of starting for Moscow, spending

ten days, or so, and then returning, as we give up the Odessa plan, but

we have not quite decided.

Well, I must stop now, as I go in a minute to drive with the Spanish

Ambassador and his wife, the Duke and Duchess d’Osuna et de l’Ynfantado,

but whether it is a “_grand diner diplomatique_” or a “_petite causerie

intime_” I know not.

Friday morning: I have just time to finish and dispatch this now, before

going out to perform the numerous last duties on the eve of our

departure for Moscow. Cards must be sent round, etc. etc.

The dinner yesterday was very good, rather in the heavy diplomatic line,

old swells with countless decorations, and jewelled dowagers nodding

over the table, with a sprinkling of youthful _attachés_ and officers

filling up the corners. Later in the evening I went to a ball at the

rooms of the Artists’ Club, and danced a little.

Well, I must rush out, one is always hurried here, as I have before

observed. My next will probably be from Moscow, where I can give you an

account of our cousin Eliza, and deliver her your present; also, the

Kremlin, and the tea-drinking gardens. A hard snow storm which looks

like continuing.

Adieu. Nate.

ROSS WINANS.

In a letter from my mother visiting Baltimore in 1852, to my sister and

myself in Boston, she wrote:—“This morning we have been to see the most

superb house in the country, built by a gentleman of the name of Winans,

who has been employed by the Russian government in the construction of

railroads and cars, and has made an immense fortune.” This letter was

sealed according to the custom of the time with a red wafer.

Ross Winans, a native of New Jersey, was an inventor and manufacturer of

railroad machines in Baltimore, and undertook the Russian railroads by

the advice of George W. Whistler. He died in Baltimore, in 1877, at the

age of eighty-one. He had two sons who went to Russia; Thomas de Kay,

who died in Newport, R. I., June 11, 1878, aged fifty-eight, and William

Louis, who never returned to this country, but went to England after the

completion of the St. Petersburg and Moscow railroad, and died in

London, June 25, 1897, aged seventy-five.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

MOSCOW. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS.

TROTTING IN RUSSIA.

“Say, Mandarin, fresh from the Orient old,

Will they give us the queue when they give us the gold?

Rise, Curtin, arise! Let the Manchu declare—

Is he under the paw of the Great Northern Bear?

You uncovered the Pole, brought Pan Michael to light,

Ran Sienkievitch down through the vast polar night;

Then, skirting the coast to the isles of the Celt,

You caught the sweet ballads that make the heart melt,

Thus linking two worlds. Nate Appleton tried,

But the Gulf was too deep, or the Isthmus too wide.

Brother Pratt had the keynote—he doesn’t know which,

Art, music, the lingo of Ivanovitch.”

—_James Herbert Morse._

Harvard College Class of 1863. Poem at Class Dinner of 1901.

FROM ST. PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW.

The journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow is a long ride, and in winter

when the days are short, seems to be a night which will never end. You

take the train in the afternoon and have not accomplished many scores of

versts, or disposed of many hours, before twilight fades into dark, and

the great snow plain on every side loses its brilliant whiteness, and

has a grey and mysterious look. So, too, in the morning, though late,

the sun is not more than fairly up when you behold in the distance the

gilded domes and fairy minarets of the old Russian metropolis, as they

first appear, and you feel that at last you are in the heart of the

Empire. But the hours passed in the cars are far from tedious. “Car” is

the word that can be used, for those on that railroad line much more

resembled what we have in the United States, than anything to be found

in Europe. They were divided into small rooms or compartments, a large

saloon being left in the middle, and a passage going the length of the

car, so that you could pass from one end to the other, and get off on

either platform. At that time no regular beds were made up, as in our

“sleepers,” but the cushions could be comfortably arranged and the weary

traveller repose very satisfactorily. There was, too, a room overhead

for smoking, which you entered by climbing up a narrow, ladder-like

staircase, and where the fragrant Havana could be enjoyed in security.

Double doors and windows kept out the excessive cold, and a good stove

plentifully supplied with wood made the temperature within all that was

to be desired. The buffets on the road could not be excelled, and a

_table d’hôte_ dinner was taken at one of the stations about six

o’clock, which offered a glittering array of glass and silver as you

entered on leaving the train, while the display of viands alone would

tempt one, were he not ravenous with travel.

[Illustration:

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW.

]

The occupants of the car, in an easy fellow-feeling way, soon get

acquainted with each other, and throwing off the reserve they might

otherwise have, mix together in democratic freedom. Their nationalities

are soon known, if not their names, for there is always one man aboard

who has a knack of finding them out and of communicating adroitly his

information to the others, and stories of travelling adventures in

different countries, with accounts of the queer persons met, and the

dangers escaped, beguile the hours.

St. Petersburg is entirely a modern city, and a modern city like other

European capitals, or, rather, like the modern parts of them. The

stranger going there expects, very naturally, to see predominant the

stamp of Muscovite nationality but he does not find it, as the principal

public buildings were designed by foreign architects, and show plainly

traces of the country from which the brain that gave them birth has

come.

Moscow, fortunately, is quite different, and is well worthy of being the

place where the Tsars are crowned. Any one who dropped down their

blindfold would, as soon as the bandage was removed from his eyes, cry

out like the soldiers of Napoleon’s army, as its green roofs and gilded

cupolas met their anxious gaze, “Moscow, Moscow!”

No city in the world has a more marked style, which is neither of the

East nor of the West, but rather suggestions of both. Constantinople,

Venice, Vienna, all can be seen in part, and as you look at it calmly,

in awe and admiration, you can only say, “This place is unique, it

resembles nothing else,” and you know why it is so, in reflecting that

here is the old homestead of the great Slavonic race, a race

sufficiently different from all others to be well warranted in leaving

one typical city as a monument.

FIRST LETTER FROM MOSCOW.

To my mother from Moscow I wrote as follows:—I cannot date this as there

is no French paper about, and also, what with the Russian and our

difference in the calendar, time is considerably mixed up. This cannot

be better shown than by the agreeable fact that we have two Christmas

Days this year, one which we passed in St. Petersburg, and the other

which comes next week, when we are to see a real German Christmas tree

at the Carnatzes.

Well, then to begin, Mrs. Appleton, we are now in Moscow, a truly

Russian city, and as different to St. Petersburg as Boston is to Paris.

We left St. P. on Saturday afternoon, and after a journey of hours, with

several Americans in the train, we arrived here, and are comfortably

established in the Hotel Dusaux.

I first went to find Curtin, my old classmate and the secretary of our

Legation, who was much surprised at seeing me, and said he would do his

best possible to make our stay pleasant. We then called on my cousin

Eliza Carnatz, and had no difficulty in finding her and making ourselves

known, and she was delighted at seeing her relatives and appreciated

your present, which I am happy to say has finally reached its

destination safely. This picture (The letter-head showing a colored view

of the Kremlin.) will do for your scrap book, so I will leave it entire.

In the evening Curtin took us to a Russian party, and I think I passed

about the pleasantest evening there in Europe. It was at the house of

General Behring, a lineal descendant of the one who discovered the

Straits, and the _soirée_ began with private theatricals in Russian and

French, afterwards dancing, then the mazourka, then a sit down supper,

the universal custom at parties here, and finally the _cotillon_,

something as with us, and home between four and five.

The General received us with charming cordiality, and would make us

believe we were doing him a favor in coming, and his lovely

daughters,—their mother being dead,—acted well in the plays, and did the

honors of the house most gracefully.

There were several pretty Russian young ladies there, and many were the

sentiments and toasts for the friendship between Russia and America, the

two great rising nations of the world!

The young ladies here nearly all speak English well, besides French,

German, Russian, and also, sometimes, Italian. This is true of many of

the young men, too, and although this seems to make us very ignorant,

still, in the matter of general education, the classics, philosophy,

mathematics, etc., I imagine we are their superiors. Moreover, languages

are almost a necessity here, while with us they are only a very

desirable luxury.

Wednesday p. m.: The day after the ball we did not rise much before

dinner time, when we dined with the Carnatzes. The party consisted of

Coz. Eliza and husband, Mr. Watson, the father of his first wife, a

brother, a French lady friend, and one or two others. It seemed quite

natural there, as there were several family portraits on the walls, and

her album was filled with photographs of all of us. We had a quietly

pleasant evening, with long chats about Russia and America, family

events, literature, politics,—and drank tea indefinitely.

RUSSIAN TEA-DRINKING.

Tea is the national drink of the Russians, and a genuine tea-drinking

restaurant is very curious. We went to one the other evening which is

the resort of the _isvoschiks_ (cabbies) and the peasants. Your true

Russ orders a pot of tea and another larger one of hot water, the latter

of which is often replenished, and he will sit over it several hours,

drinking fifteen or twenty cups of tea, and not finishing until he can

get no more color out of it. What do your delicate nerves think of this?

[Illustration:

DRINKING TEA.

]

The tea is wonderfully good, and the commonest stuff here would put to

the blush the very best hotel article in America and much of that you

have at family tea parties also.

Yesterday morning we went with Mr. Young, a very pleasant and attentive

young American from Niagara, who has been here several years in the

business of agricultural implements, to see the Kremlin, and all the big

bells therein, which are truly wonderful, and can make much noise when

they try, and in the evening to the Carnatz’s box at the ballet of the

Grand Theatre. The building is considered, perhaps, the finest in

Europe, and the ballet itself as is always in Russia, remarkably fine.

After the ballet Charlie and I went to a ball at the Kosakoff’s, where

we had a good idea of a fine Moscow house and the Muscovite _beau

monde_. Dancing, supper, music, etc., and finally I had for my partner

in the German cotillon the prettiest girl in Moscow, a Miss Martinoff.

FAST TROTTERS IN MOSCOW.

We went out today to the race course, where they often have races in

sleighs, and saw the sports of Moscow exercising their fast trotters.

The scene was very like ours at home, and we conversed on the relative

merits of Russian and American trotters, and one enthusiastic old Russ

wanted to bet two hundred thousand roubles on his country, so that if I

buy and import “Dexter” (The fastest trotter of the time.) I can make a

goodly sum.

SNOW HILLS.

The snow hills are a national institution on the same principle as our

coasting, only the hills are artificial and are all ice, and you take a

lady on the sled with you, and dash down like the wind. There are two

hills opposite, so that they go from one to the other and then return.

Remembrance to all,

Nate.

THE CARNATZ CONNECTION.

My diary when a boy of fourteen had the following entry:—“January 16,

1858. Our Russian cousin sent us some nice things; among them were a

malachite pin and sleeve buttons, and one of the medals thrown to the

peasants at the coronation of the present Emperor Alexander.”

My mother’s mother, Mrs. Jesse Sumner, was a daughter of Mrs. Nathaniel

Coffin, whose son Thomas established himself in business in Moscow about

1829, and died in Perovo, Russia, in 1832. His daughter Eliza married

Mr. Carnatz, a German. In 1870, we received the intelligence that they

proposed to remove to Dresden.

THE CARNATZ CHILDREN.

Nothing has ever shown me more conclusively how easy it is for children,

when very young, to learn and speak several languages, than my

experience with my little Carnatz cousins. Of course being Russians by

birth, that may naturally have been their first language, but their

mother, who insisted upon being an American, the country of her father,

had them at once instructed, probably by herself, in the English tongue.

Then her husband, their father, being a German the language of the

Fatherland had its proper place. After that came French, which was the

cosmopolitan language of all well-to-do people in the Russian empire.

They could rattle off these various languages “as easily as rolling off

a log,” and so can any one who begins them in childhood.

A RUSSIAN MANSION.

A good type of the elegant Russian mansion was large, made of wood and

only two stories, with a long array of rooms running _en suite_. At the

door stood the ever watchful porter, ready to take the _shubes_ and

overshoes of the guests, and never forgetting to whom each belonged,

resplendent in his showy livery with the eagles embroidered in the wide

border of his cape, looking the picture of comfort as he stood by the

blazing fire, the thermometer outside showing a temperature well below

the zero of Fahrenheit. Beyond him, at the foot of the stairs, a huge,

stuffed black bear stood erect, in his paws a salver, with a pitcher and

glasses, as if bidding you welcome to the hospitalities of the house.

THE CITY AND ITS ENVIRONS.

We went on many excursions in the city and its environs. The Kremlin,

with its endless interesting objects, the churches so numerous that they

say there is one for every day in the year, and the old historical

monuments from which can be gleaned a knowledge of all the phases from

barbarism to civilization through which the vast Muscovite nationality

has passed, were carefully and intelligently studied. We would ramble

for hours through the curious bazaar, the Gostinny Dvor, gazing at the

different wares exposed, talking and bargaining with the shrewd Jew

shopkeepers, and picking up many curiosities, from Persian talismans to

Siberian rugs, which had found their way to this cosmopolitan mart in

boats through the Caspian Sea and up the curving Volga River, or in

caravans all along the dreary plains and through the steep mountain

ranges, from the interior of China and Hindostan. Malachite from the

mines in the Ural Mountains, fragrant packages of high-priced tea,

chain-armor from Circassia, and quaint Albanian gems, gorgeous colored

silks, pipes of every description, in short, a perfect medley of

_bric-a-brac_, we hunted up leisurely, sending daily some newly

discovered treasure to our collections.

TROTTING IN RUSSIA.

The trotting during the winter months takes place on the ice, when a

large river or pond is accessible; as, for instance, on the Neva itself

at St. Petersburg, which is the favorite place of all. But a well made

track on the frozen snow is nearly, if not quite, as good, and this can

be found and laid out anywhere. The course, which is one or two versts

long,—the Russian verst is 3501 English feet,—is in the form of an

ellipse; that is, the length of two of the curving sides is much greater

than that of the other two, as is often seen in American tracks, where a

long and narrow piece of ground only can be obtained. But now comes the

great peculiarity of the Russian race, which is, that the horses do not

start or trot together. One starts from a line in the centre of one of

the long sides of the course, while the other starts from a line exactly

opposite and on the other side. Should there be four horses entered they

have two parallel tracks close to each other, and for six horses three

of these ellipses, and so on. When there is more than one track the

effect is most peculiar: for, at the signal for starting, the horses all

seem to be rushing off in different directions.

Then, too, the horses all start from a standstill, each one toeing the

line before the word “go” is given. Of course, in this system, there is

not the excitement of seeing the horses together, changing places, now

one ahead, and now another; those who break held in, and all trying to

secure and keep the pole from the others. They merely trot round the

course at their greatest speed and the one which returns to his goal or

starting point first, is declared the winner. In case of breaking, a

certain number of steps at a gallop only is allowed during the heat, and

any horse that is not brought down into this allotted number is thrown

out of the races by the judges, and loses his chance. It is common to

have a running horse by the side of the trotter to excite him to his

utmost speed, but generally this horse is not harnessed, but is mounted

by a skillful rider, who keeps close alongside of the other, knowing

exactly the pace at which he can go without breaking.

The sleighs used are very light, seemingly made of some kind of

basket-work, and also very low, the driver being seated not more than a

foot off the ground or snow, bracing himself with his feet in a sort of

stirrup on either side. Low vehicles are also used for racing on the

gravel track, and primitive they are in appearance, a narrow board

supported on the axles, with four small wheels nearly the same size, and

the American twowheeled spider-sulky has come into use, as the small

wheeled vehicles detract from the speed, on account of a badly regulated

centre of gravity and excessive friction.

For getting the greatest pulling power out of the horse with the least

fatigue, and leaving all the muscles unimpeded and in full play, the

Russian method of harnessing is excellent. The shafts of the _drosky_ or

sleigh, the collar of the horse and the duga meet at one point on the

horse’s shoulder, and at this point is all the strain of pulling. There

are neither traces nor breeching to interfere with the action. The

collar, made of wood, is carefully fitted to the horse’s neck, and while

the shafts are inclined to press it _against_ the neck, the duga exerts

a corresponding pressure out on either side, and these three parts of

the harness are so lashed together by leather thongs that they remain

firmly in place, and it is a rare sight to find a horse with his neck

galled from exercise.

[Illustration:

A COURSIER.

]

The horses are put on the track very young, at the age of two, three or

four years, and after that time, are found rather to lose than increase

their speed. Perhaps there may be peculiarities in the breed which gives

them their greatest strength when young, or it may be the climate brings

out forces which in milder regions it takes more time to develop.

Certain it is that the Russian horse, of which the Orloff is the

handsomest type, when taken to a foreign country soon loses his grace of

action and fire. At home they are the _beau ideal_ of beauty, with great

natural knee action, arching necks, distended nostrils and flashing

eyes, but it has often happened that the same horse which would attract

the attention of every passer by on the Nevski Prospect, when seen in

the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde Park has lost his distinguishing traits and

seems but an ordinary animal.

As there is always a question as to the beauty of “banging” the horse’s

tail in accordance with the English taste, or of leaving the natural

growth as was more common in America some years ago than at present, I

would state that the tail in Russia is left as nature made it, long and

waving, and sometimes even trailing on the ground. And for another

disputed question, whether or not it is beneficial to clip the horse in

winter, without touching on the numerous arguments which humanity,

convenience and preference have brought plausibly up on either side, I

will simply say that in Russia it is the universal rule to leave the

horses, whether they be for work or for pleasure, with the long-haired

coat, God has given them, untouched all through the months when they

need some protection against the cold.

TO HARNESS A HORSE A LA RUSSE.

First put on the bridle, which is merely a headstall without blinders.

Saddle and surcingle together. Collar and breeching together. Put the

horse in the shafts and put on the hoop, strapping the shafts and hoop

together with a long strap, which is afterwards wound around the shafts.

There is a strap on each shaft just opposite the saddle. The one on the

left shaft goes over the saddle, passing through rings, and is wound

around the right shaft. The one on the right shaft goes through loops

under the surcingle and is wound around the left shaft. These straps

help to keep the shafts firmly in place. The horse pulls from his

collar. The ends of the shafts and hoop must just meet, the hoop going

inside of the shafts and pressing them out. Of the four straps from the

top of the hoop, two go under the check strap and fasten to the bit

ring, and the other two, with the loops through which the reins pass,

are fastened to the shafts, behind the hoop. The bit should be simple

snaffle.

The running horse is on the left side. A strap goes from his bit to the

shaft of the wheeler, passing through the martingale ring. This strap is

quite long, and gives him considerable play. The rein, _only one_, goes

from the outside ring of the bit.

For a pair of horses there are no saddles. The traces are fastened to

leather rings on the collar. A surcingle is fastened on the traces and

passes under each horse, close behind his forelegs.

They always drive with four reins but this is useless.

The ridiculous custom of having blinders over the horse’s eyes is

unknown to the Russians, except as imported from other countries. The

animal is allowed to see for himself on all sides, pleasant or ugly

sights, and is not treated like an infant, whom his human doctors

suppose is going to be frightened at what may meet his gaze. Sensible

both for horse and man is this, as the former doubtless derives pleasure

in his way from the sights of the street or the scenery of the country,

while the latter enjoys seeing what is one of the finest points of a

horse—his eye.

Check reins are happily not a part of the Russian harness.

The men who congregate about the race-course are pretty nearly the same

types in all the nations of the world. There are the elaborate dandies,

known as _petits crévès_ in France, who go because it is the fashion to

see and be seen, whether or not they have any taste for the racing

itself, and can tell one horse from another. There are gentlemen who

really are devoted to the noble animal, who are interested in improving

the breeds, and who, if possessed of fortune, generally have some of

their own stock taking part in the races. Then comes the sporting

fraternity of all degrees, horse dealers sharp for making a good bargain

in buying or selling, trainers, jockeys, stable boys and besides them

plenty of loafers who are there for betting on the race, or for “turning

an honest (?) penny” in any way that their wits suggest.

LETTER TO MY MOTHER.

Moscow, Dec. 27, 1866. This is dated by the Russian calendar, which is

just twelve days behind ours, so you can calculate. I have a few minutes

before going to dine with Cousin Eliza to begin this and I will dip

promiscuously into some of the events of the past week.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

Let me see,—Christmas has come and gone for the second time this year,

and we have seen the way it is done in Russia. It is the same old

story—a tree, _arbre de Noël_,—everywhere, though the custom has been

brought here by the Germans.

We went to the Carnatzes about half-past seven, and they being German of

course all the arrangements were _a la mode Allemande_. The tree always

comes off Christmas eve, and is generally a family gathering, gotten up

especially for the amusement of the little ones. A large tree just like

ours at home, greeted our gaze on entering, placed on a table,

brilliantly lighted, covered with all kinds of things, bonbons, gold

balls, etc., topped off with an American flag in compliment to us. The

presents were all lying around on tables, and the tree remains untouched

for a week, so that poor children can come in and enjoy it on different

days.

Charlie and I were not forgotten, and we received each a portfolio

filled with different views of Moscow.

Every guest, on leaving, also, takes a huge box filled with almonds,

sugar plums, cakes, etc., etc., quite enough to make you ill for a week.

The party was not very large, and we broke up just before midnight to go

to the French Catholic church to hear the mass, but the place was

jammed, and we did not stay long. Charlie and I then jumped into our

sleigh, and the great bells of the Kremlin and the neighboring churches

were booming all around.

THE PATRIARCHAL CATHEDRAL.

We wended our way up the hill and pushed into the Patriarchal Cathedral

of Russia, where all the Tsars are crowned, and here we saw the Russian

mass. The crowd was so dense that it was impossible to penetrate more

than a few feet into the church, and we soon left.

THE RUSSIAN BATH.

One evening last week we did the Russian bath. It is perfectly

delicious, a general steaming all over first, and then you are bodily

champooed by the careful attendant,—the soap suds being, so to speak,

whipped in with a bunch of rushes flourished round you,—and then recline

at your ease, as long as you please, and finally cool off with

differently moderated showers of water.

We have made the acquaintance of a Mr. Arnoldi, who has a charming wife.

He is a great lover of horse flesh, and took us over a stable, where we

saw splendid specimens of the different types of the Russian horse, and

afterwards we went to the trotting track and saw the sports with their

fast trotters. The scene was not unlike Riverside Park at home, and very

interesting to me. They want to get up international races.

We afterwards dined with Mr. A., quite _en famille_.

THE MAZOURKA.

We have been to another party at the aunt’s of my lovely Miss M—, and I

again watched her going through the graceful slides of the mazourka.

There are two public balls every night now during the holidays,

sometimes a masquerade at the Nobility Club or the Grand Opera, or again

a dance or concert at the German Club, and so on, but the masquerades,

after Paris, are tame.

The holidays are much made of here, and every one celebrates them by

getting tipsy, for the Russian, besides his everlasting tea, also

manages to dispose of considerable _vodki_, the alcoholic drink of the

country. (Spelled _vodki_ and _vodka_, distilled from rye, also from

potatoes.)

To a hard working Yankee it is odd, the slowness and want of ambition of

all. For instance, Sunday is a holiday, and the day before he prepares

himself for it, and the day after he gets sober, and as there is on the

average one fête day during the week, when the same game is tried, it

does not leave many days for work.

OFF TO ST. PETERSBURG.

Thus you see the days slip along on golden wings, and your _flâneur_

looks with horror on the bore of packing up his traps, but we may be off

on Saturday to St. Petersburg. I have your letter No. 11, with the

Boston gayeties. I will get you some nice postage stamps some time, but

for the present these will suffice. Accept, also, the photograph of

Chawls and myself _à la Russe_, with the Kremlin in the background, and

us in the front, done up in our _shubes_ and boots, and waiting the

approach of many bears. (See frontispiece.)

Fear not for our ears and noses now, for although the thermometer keeps

down steadily in the region of “Niblo” (Meaning zero, an old joke of

First Lieutenant Peleg W. Blake of the Fifth Mass. Battery, who when

speaking of the weather always called zero “Niblo,”) we are much more

comfortable in the streets than we are at home, where it seems to be the

fashion to be cold always out of doors.

The photographs of Moscow are the best in the world. (I had never seen

such beautifully glazed ones at that time.) We do not get much news here

about Americans, as there is no French paper in Moscow, and even if

there were there would be no time to read it, we are in such a whirl of

excitement. Going to bed at four gives you a short morning.

[Illustration:

THE STAIGG PORTRAIT.

]

I read the President’s (Johnson’s) message with interest, and great

satisfaction in regard to everything except the internal politics of the

United States. How pleasant, too, is the report of the Treasury. People

here look upon our diminishing debt with perfect amazement. Indeed the

influence which our country is giving to the world is more perceptible

every day and very noticeable here.

We are of course much interested in the great yacht race, and want

brother Tom to come over in the Spring, and give the graceful little

_Alice_ another wetting in the Channel. Tell him she must not go home in

May. I want to sail in her once in the summer. What a carnival there

will be in Paris, and how much nicer to be a “swell” in Moscow than an

individual in the former.

Well, adieu. Nate.

FROM MY MOTHER IN BOSTON.

THE STAIGG PORTRAIT.

Dec. 27, 1866.

You can judge of my amazement, my excitement, on going up to the

drawing-room after dinner on Christmas Day, to find before my eyes a

portrait of you, my dear Nathan, gracefully standing with your arm

holding the bridle of your horse, and looking so like life that I really

started, reading the announcement, put on by Hattie:—“By Atlantic

Telegraph, St. Petersburg. A Merry Christmas!”—Why, I felt that it had

actually come from there! It is a charming picture. What a villain you

are! Of course it is not finished, and is to go back to have some

alterations.

Oh you sly boy! Coming up from Lynn (Our summer home at the beach.)

every day to give me this delightful surprise! _I thank you._

We had a charming Christmas dinner, and, will you believe it? the

presents for the third time were so hid they had great difficulty in

finding them, and some were obliged to be told.

NEW YEAR’S DAY IN MOSCOW.

Russ., January 2, 1867.

I begin you this, Dear “Mum,” from Moscow, but I may finish it in St.

Petersburg. Children of chance, that we are, how dare we calculate on

even the events of a few days? With this moral question at the

beginning, I will tell you that we are still here, and have been through

various adventures. Among others was the dedication of a church in the

Russo Greek style, and the magnates of the city thought we had better

see it. I did not object, as a dinner formed an important feature.

Accordingly, one of the selectmen of Moscow routed us out of bed, and I

gave him audience in my _robe de nuit_, and after he had conversed some

time in Russ he thought matters would be expedited by an interpreter. I

soon discovered that his sleigh was at the door, and that he wanted us

to be off, so I hastened, and was ready,—Charlie following in our sleigh

with Curtin.—He wore a medal and his horse was a high stepper. We soon

reached the church, and had standing places of honor, _vide_ Moscow

_Gazette_ of the next day with our distinguished names in Russian

print,—for above three and a half hours, and we were not sorry to rattle

off to the good dinner, which the opulent merchant, who had given the

church, had had prepared for his guests. The lunch was stunning,

entirely _à la Russe_, with some little wrinkles I mean to remember, and

the _menu_ on very gorgeous frosted paper, and a photograph of the

church under each plate. We returned from our day’s work very much

satisfied.

The society of this place is quite funny. We have got into the very

“swell” little clique of the town, the Faubourg Saint Beacon Street of

Moscow, and like the same set in our own blessed “Hub,” it is a close

oligarchy with an endless array of cousins. The other evening we saw a

most pretty phase of the holidays. About twenty young ladies and

cavaliers of this set, with one or two matrons, went round the town in

masquerade with fancy domino costumes, stopping at half a dozen

different houses, at each of which they would dance once, with a supper

later. Chawls and I went to two of the houses to see them and the effect

was stunning; a postillion rushing in first, and then the others

following in couples, Poles, Spaniards, and Tartars, Folly, a Cook, a

Baby and her Nurse, &c., and so on. The coachman and footman, even, were

in mask, to make the disguise as complete as possible, but we soon

discovered our friends.

I think we will try it in Boston next winter.

The society of the merchant families is quite another set, but as they

have the money now their entertainments are on a most gorgeous scale.

NEW YEAR’S DAY.

After all how like people are in all countries. This is well shown by

yesterday, the Russian New Year’s Day. We got up a very “swell” trap,—a

trotter and a runner by his side,—and went about slaughtering all our

acquaintances. It was precisely the same as in New York, except that

they gave you no grub anywhere, nor wine, though we did see one

inebriate youth driving off. Every one always drives about the city and

you get into the state of being unable to walk ten steps. You wo’n’t do

it. Sleighs are very cheap, and the distances are very great, so that

you keep your sleigh about you as an indispensable companion, from

twelve noon until after midnight. The coachman follows you round like a

dog, merely going off to feed his horses some time in the afternoon.

With all this it is strange that the Russians never drive themselves,

and no matter how fine the horses of the gay youth of the city, and how

elegant his equipage, the coachman always drives. Perhaps this is

because horses are a necessity, not a luxury, and having to drive so

much every day you do not care to do it yourself. I think I, myself,

with all my fondness for horses, would soon be indisposed to drive in

Russia.

THE RUSSIAN GROOM.

The “swell” groom here has a _chic_ quite his own, and totally different

from the London “tiger,” which has spread over the rest of the continent

and America. My “Tom,” with his neat tights and top boots, carefully

trimmed whiskers and square shoulders is very different from your

bearded Russian coachman, the stouter the better, with lozenged-shaped,

pin-cushion like, velvet hat, long tunic with a gorgeous colored sash

and big boots. They drive with both arms stretched out at full length,

and have four reins for a single pair of horses.

Tuesday, p.m.: I will finish this off now and take it on with me to St.

Petersburg, tomorrow, to mail it there, as we have decided to change our

base, in fact, having slaughtered all the fair ones of Moscow, and

having left a good impression, it is much better to make our bows and

retire quickly.

I have been skating today and yesterday with a most bright and

attractive young lady, the Princess G—— (Princess Julie Gagarine now for

years Madame la Princesse Ourousoff, one of the same great family

represented at the Races on the Newport beach in 1866.) a cousin of the

beautiful Miss M——. Being in mourning we have not seen her in society.

She goes to St. Petersburg in a few days where we shall meet her again.

We go to our last party tonight. Private theatricals and a ball

afterwards. Last evening a _soirée musicale_ at the Martinoffs, and a

dance later at another house.

We go to St. Petersburg to be quiet(?) as you imagine, and we shall

arrive just in time for the “Blessing of the Neva,” breakfast at the

Winter Palace, Review of Troops, etc., etc., and from now until Lent we

shall have all we want of gayety.

Adieu, oh Moscow! with thy Kremlin and gilded turrets, thy fair

princesses, thy fast horses, thy caviar and thy mazourka. Fain would we

linger here, but the hand of time points onward, and the vague sensation

of joys now past, vibrates in the brain!

I have some little packages for you and Hattie from Coz. Eliza, which

will I hope reach you safely some day. I am off now to bid her good bye.

Nate.

FROM MY SISTER IN BOSTON.

January 8, 1867.

Your letter from St. Petersburg arrived by the same steamer that brought

Mr. Burgess and little Billy’s blue suit, for both of which many thanks.

I wish you could see the little man in the jacket and cap, he looks

awful cunning, and the color just suits his complexion. They are just

the right size, and all beholders say “How remarkable that a young man

like Mr. Appleton should know just what to get for a baby like that!”

The worsted work for the old lady was also a great success. She thinks

it the funniest thing she ever saw. And all this page and not a word yet

about the picture!

THE STAIGG PORTRAIT. THE SURPRISE.

... I took Elias (The old family servant.) into the secret, and he was

so important, and so excited with it that I never expected he would get

through waiting on table that dinner, without smashing something. You

know we got it into the house very quietly, during church time, and hid

it on the back piazza, and Elias got it up into the drawing-room while

we were eating dinner, and coming down made such telegraphic signals

that Erny (Ernest Longfellow) who was next me, said, “What has come over

Elias? he is winking and making such faces at you. There’s some immense

secret!”

As I had not my “eyes” on it was unfortunately thrown away. When Mamma

did get up and saw it, she was fairly terrified, apparently thinking you

were there yourself in some incomprehensible way. I don’t know but she

will pull down “Rosalie” to have a place to hang it. Brother Tom takes a

great interest in it, and brings artists to see it, who mostly think it

Staigg’s best work.... Dear me. I have not told you about the piano we

are having constructed to match our book cases, and with Mr. Staigg’s

first sketch of you inserted in a panel,—truly lovely!

ON THE 11TH MY MOTHER WROTE:—

Your brother Tom has just been in to read a letter from Charlie. He was

quite excited in hearing about Russia, and really wished he was with you

to enjoy something so new. He would have been a great addition, and

talked French and made everything as jolly as possible. He hopes that

you have made known that you were officers in the army and wounded men,

and I trust it is understood that C. A. L. is son of the “great poet.”

Your letters stir us all up, and though this is not a regular writing

day, I could not resist telling you how much we enjoy hearing from you.

The “presentation” must have been rather a trial, not speaking French

fluently. How T. G. A. would have rattled it off! He rather wonders that

he came home. Of course the yachting will take him out in the Spring. We

have now fine sleighing, and he is every day on the Brighton road, but

not a “fascinating hood” is to be seen; all the women with veils tied

tight over their faces. T. G. A. drives his pair and has some damsels

with him.

Monday Eve: Little Billy (Curtis) came to see his Grandma this morning

in full French costume; his pretty blue coat and hat, and Astrachan fur.

It is lovely and very becoming to the little man.

All are so charmed with your picture. It gives life and light to the old

house. I cannot bear to part with it, and I believe Staigg does not

consider it finished.

I am glad you have nice quiet apartments, and are not at a hotel. Please

be moderate, and do not dash about and make yourself conspicuous. It is

foreign to the family name.

LETTER FROM GEO. B. SHATTUCK.

“Boston. January 8, 1867.

My dear Nathan.

A visit to No. 39, a few days since, and the exhibition of your portrait

by Staigg, spurred me up to an undertaking which I have long been

proposing to myself, answering a letter which you wrote to me before

your departure and after mine from San Francisco, and which was

forwarded to me here.... I was much pleased with your picture, and

thought it an excellent likeness for the number of sittings I was told

you had.

Of course, as is the duty of a good artist, he exerts his best effort

that your personal pulchritude may not suffer, and the war-horse, etc.

is rather in the style of General Washington. You ought to have had your

negro “Joe” brought into the picture holding the charger. The horse, as

well as I could judge from a short inspection, is well done, and

surprisingly so, if, as Mrs. Appleton told me, this is Staigg’s first

horse. I speak so at length as I suppose the thing to have been

completed since you left home.”

[Illustration:

ROSALIE.

]

ALLSTON’S ROSALIE.

The picture of “Rosalie” by Washington Allston, mentioned in my sister’s

letter as hanging in the drawing-room at 39 Beacon street, and to which

the author addressed some exquisite verses, became mine after the death

of my father, at whose request it was painted.

It was in 1835, that my half-sister, the wife of the poet Longfellow,

then Miss Frances Elizabeth Appleton, made a copy, which I now have in

her own handwriting, of the following verse which was added by Allston

some time after the original three verses were composed:—

“So, at that dreamy hour of day

When the last lingering ray

Stops on the highest cloud to play,

So thought the gentle Rosalie,

As in her maiden reverie,

First fell the strain of him who stole

In music to her soul.”

The original three verses are as follows:—

“Oh! pour upon my soul again

That sad unearthly strain

That seems from other worlds to plain;

Thus falling, falling, from afar,

As if some melancholy star

Had mingled with her light her sighs,

And dropped them from the skies.

· · · · ·

No—’tis not born of aught below,

That melting breath of wo

Which now doth o’er my spirit flow;

Waking the deeply-seated springs

Of silent joy; that round me flings

This nameless light—if light it be—

That veils the world I see.

For every form around me wears

The hue of other spheres:

And something mixed of smiles and tears

Comes from the very air I breathe.

Oh, nothing, sure, the stars beneath

Can mold a sadness like to this—

So like angelic bliss.” —_Wa. Allston._

These three verses have the signature as given above, in the copy in my

possession. To the peculiar circumstances under which the picture was

painted, an allusion is made in a letter to my brother Tom in Paris, by

Mr. Tom Kemper Davis in Boston, a member of the legal profession with a

strong leaning toward literary pursuits.

THOMAS SULLY.

“Sully, the artist,” he wrote, “is in town. I went with him yesterday

and bowed at the shrine of the divine ‘Rosalie’. Sully’s first

exclamation, after gazing some time at the picture, was,—

‘Raphael and Titian combined!’

Allston, by the way, has in conversation with me frequently alluded to

your father’s purchase of this picture, and as I never heard him allude

before to any like transaction. The manner in which the thing was done

seems to have touched his heart.”

When they went to see it, the picture hung in the drawing-room of our

old house, 39 Beacon street. That the artist Sully may have had a

personal interest in the “Rosalie,” was suggested to me by a letter from

the pen of a Washington correspondent of the New York _Daily Graphic_,

signed “Mary E. Nealy,” which I chanced to see. I, being then in London,

addressed a letter to this correspondent from 449 Strand, the Reading

Room and Exchange of Robert Bowles, dated October 26, 1875, in the

following words:—

“I noticed in a recent number of the _Graphic_, a letter of yours from

Washington, in which you gave quite a long account of a collection of

pictures painted by Sully. My attention was attracted to it by what you

say of ‘Rosalie’, and the verses written by Allston, because I am the

owner of the painting of ‘Rosalie’, which Washington Allston painted,

and for which he wrote the verses.

This picture was painted for my late father and hung by the direction of

Allston himself at our house, where it has remained many years, the

admiration of all. Should you ever go to Boston, I think it will give

you pleasure to see it.