Never was pleasing illusion more rudely dispelled to make room for profound wonderment. So this resplendent being was the American minister to Russia. What was his name? Oh, yes, I remember—Lothrop, of Michigan. And that magnificent uniform? He must have been a general of volunteers at home, and so is entitled by act of Congress to wear it on ceremonial occasions abroad. A good idea, though some Americans who have no uniforms to wear may ridicule it as pompous and fussy. I have no doubt that the Russians are a great deal more impressed by all those buttons, feathers, and gold lace, than they would be by the plain black suit which I had supposed that Mr. Lothrop always wore. By-the-way, I wonder to what arm of the service Mr. Lothrop belonged? I don’t remember about that dark-green and that particular shape of hat.
Just then a gentleman in complete black who had been following the American minister, drew up alongside of him, and I could contrast the two styles of dress to great advantage. Prejudice apart, there could be no doubt that Mr. Lothrop looked more like a Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary of the United States of America in his military garb than he would have done in civilian’s clothes.
Can I believe my eyes? The minister is actually taking off his hat and bowing very respectfully to the somber-coated person by his side. Do my ears deceive me? He calls him “Your Excellency,” and seems to be receiving an order from him like a servant. The next instant a gentleman approaches the less conspicuous of the two figures and says to him with a Chicago accent, “The American minister, I believe?”
“Yes, sir! What can I do for you?” he kindly asks.
And then I know that this gorgeous person is attached to our quiet American minister as chasseur, and that it is his business to herald the approach of that functionary. It is a practice found to be very useful by our highest grade of representatives abroad; and that American must be a ferociously uncompromising republican who would object to this inexpensive but effective display of rank and dignity on their part.
One afternoon while sitting in the reading-room of the Hôtel d’Europe, looking over the last number of “Punch,” and trying to extract a laugh from it, I became aware that a gentleman near me was desirous to open conversation. Out of my side-eye I could see a monocle glaring at me, with suppressed feeling behind it, and I knew by the fidgety motion of a pair of hands, holding a newspaper aloft, that the owner had something to say if I would lend him an ear. I laid down “Punch,” and turning toward the stranger saw at once what was the matter. He was exposing to my gaze a newspaper—the London “Saturday Review,” I think it was—several pages of which had been badly mutilated by scissors. Bits of various lengths had been snipped out of its reading-columns. I immediately recognized the work of the Russian censor, specimens of which I had seen before. The man who displayed this mangled “Saturday Review” for my inspection was English. Seeing that he was somewhat excited, I resolved to tease him a little for fun, though the indignation which blazed from his face was honest, and certainly not without cause.
“I know that this is a land of tyranny,” said he, “but I’m an Englishman and not afraid to speak my mind. Isn’t that an outrage?”
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “what is the trouble?”
“This paper sent me by a friend; see the holes in it!”
“Ah! yes, he has picked out the plums for his scrap-book, and sent you the leavings.”