The people in London said very unkind things of you:  they hurt me very much at the time; but now I am out of their way, I do not seem to think their opinion of much consequence.  I am sure, when I recollect, at leisure, everything I have seen and heard among them, I cannot make out what they do that is so virtuous, as to set them up for judges of morals.  And I am sure they never speak the truth about any thing, and there is no sincerity in either their love or their friendship.  An old Welsh bard here, who wears a waistcoat embroidered with leeks, and is called the Green Bard of Cadair Idris, says the Scotch would be the best people in the world, if there was nobody but themselves to give them a character:  and so I think would the Londoners.  I hate the very thought of them, for I do believe they would have broken my heart, if I had not gone out of their way.  Now I shall write you another letter very soon, and describe to you the country, and the people, and the children, and how I amuse myself, and every thing that I think you will like to hear about; and when I seal this letter, I shall drop a kiss on the cover.

Your loving daughter,

SUSANNAH TOUCHANDGO.

P.S.  Tell Mr. Robthetill I will write to him in a day or two.  This is the little song I spoke of: 

  Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
  My heart is gone, far, far from me;
  And ever on its track will flee,
  My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.

  Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
  The swallow wanders fast and free: 
  Oh! happy bird, were I like thee,
  I, too, would fly beyond the sea.

  Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
  Are kindly hearts and social glee;
  But here for me they may not be: 
  My heart is gone beyond the sea.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

THE AUTOCRAT’S PRAYER.

  Europe! hear the voice that rose
  From the chief of Freedom’s foes—­
  When he bade war’s thunders roll
  O’er the country of the Pole—­
  To his Cossacks on parade
  Thus the Calmuck robber said: 

  “Mine the might, and mine the right,
  Stir ye, spur ye to the fight—­
  Bare the blade, and strike the blow
  To the heart’s core of the foe—­
  Slaughter all the rebel bands
  Found with weapons in their hands;
  On! the holy work of fate
  Russia’s God will consecrate.

  “’Tis decreed that they shall bleed
  For their dark and trait’rous deed. 
  Poles! to us by conquest given,
  Ye provoke the wrath of Heaven: 
  Therefore, purging sword and shot
  Use we must, and spare you not. 
  Guardian of our northern faith,
  Guide us to the field of death!

  “Ere we’ve done, many a one
  Shall weep they ever saw the sun. 
  Rouse the noble in his hall
  To a fiery festival;
  Dash the stubborn peasant’s mirth—­
  Drown in blood his alien hearth;
  Babe or mother, never falter—­
  Spear the priest before the altar. 
  Onward, and avenge our wrong! 
  God is good, and Russia strong!”