Did mourners come in scorn,
   And thus forlorn,
Leave him, with grief and shame
   To silence and decay,
And hide the tarnished name
   Of the unconscious clay?

It may be from his side
   His loved ones died,
And last of some bright band,
   (Together now once more),
He sought his home, the land
   Where they were gone before.

No matter, limes have made
   As cool a shade,
And lingering breezes pass
   As tenderly and slow,
As if beneath the grass
   A monarch slept below.

No grief, though loud and deep,
Could stir that sleep;
And earth and heaven tell
Of rest that shall not cease
Where the cold world's farewell
Fades into endless peace.

MORE CHILDREN OF THE CZAR.

M. TOURGHENIEF,* when travelling on the
road from Moscow to Toula, six years ago,
was obliged to stop a whole day at a wayside
post-house, for want of a fresh relay of horses.
He was returning from the chace, and had
had the imprudence to send his own troika
away. While detained there, another
traveller arrived, shouting, "Horses, as quick as
possible!" but he also had to submit to the
discourteous refusal of the postmaster. To
while away the time, the two new acquaintances
took tea together, which it is the
Russian fashion to drink out of glasses, and
to qualify with a greater or less admixture of
rum. The chance companionship in a solitary
inn, the wearisomeness of having nothing to
do, the tea, and the rum, had the combined
effect of setting the new arrival— one Peotre
Pétrovitch Karataëf, a territorial seigneur of
the second class, some thirty years of age—
to talk unreservedly of his own private
affairs. The communication made is startling
enough to persons not familiar with Russian
institutions, and makes us occidental freemen
ask for how many years longer it will be
possible for the slavery of whites to continue,
now that black slavery is going out of
fashion. Not to anticipate the purport of the
story, we leave M. Tourghenief to relate it,
in the way in which, he says, it was told to
him.
* See No. 258, page 108.

After we had finished taking our refreshment,
Karataëf covered his face with his
hands, and rested his elbows on the table. I
watched him in silence, expecting one of
those effusions of sentiment, and even of
tears, which are so apt to flow from people
who have been drinking a little; so that I
was forcibly struck by the expression of
depressed spirits, of absolute prostration, which
his features bore, and I could not help asking
him what was the matter with him.

"It is nothing," he said. "The past
returned to my memory,— one anecdote
particularly. I should like to tell it to you; but
really you must be getting tired of my"—

"Oh, by no means. Let me hear your story,
Peotre Pétrovitch, and be assured that I shall
listen with a friendly ear."

"So I will, then. What occurred to me
was this. I resided in my own village, and
being a professed sportsman, of course I
rambled about the neighbourhood. One day
I caught sight of a girl. Ah! what a pretty
girl! A real beauty! And with all that,
what a good and clever creature she was!
Her name was Matrèna. But she was only
one of the common people,— quite common,
you understand,— a servant, a slave. She
did not belong to me, and there was the
difficulty. She belonged to another estate,—
she was the property of another person,—
and I was over head and ears in love with
her. My story is a love-tale. Excuse my
troubling you with it. And she was in love
as well as myself; and there she was, begging
and praying me to buy her, to go and see her
lady, pay whatever sum was asked, and then
take her away with me. The same thought
had also occurred to myself. Her lady was a
rich woman, of one of the oldest families.
The old lady's residence was situated fifteen
versts from mine. Well, one fine morning, as
the saying is, I had my best troïge, my very
best team of three horses, harnessed to my
best drochka. I put my hackney in front in
the middle. Oh! such an Asiatic as you
do not often see, and whom, on account of
the brightness of his coat, I called Lampourdos,
I dressed myself in my Sunday's best,
and set off to pay a visit to Matrèna's lady.

"With these arrangements for producing a
good effect at first sight, I arrived at my
destination. I beheld a large house flanked
with a couple of elegant wings, with an
avenue and square in front, and with large
gardens at the back. Matrèna was waiting
for me at a certain turn: she tried to speak
to me. All she could do was to kiss her
hand. I entered the ante-chamber; I asked
if the lady were at home. A great simpleton,
of a footman came forward, and said, ' How
is it your pleasure to be announced?'— ' Go,
my fine fellow, and announce M. Karataëf, a
neighbouring gentleman proprietor, and say
that I am come to talk about business.'—The
footman retired. I waited, I considered, and
said to myself, 'Shall I succeed, or shall I
fail? And if the old fool should take it into
her head to ask me an extravagant price!
She is rich,— yes, that's evident; she is not a
bit the less likely on that account to want for