The embassy was composed of 270 persons.  Among them was a young man twenty-five years old, calling himself Peter Mikhailof, who a few weeks later might have been seen at Saardam in Holland, in complete outfit of workman’s clothes, in dust and by the sweat of his brow learning the art of ship-carpentry.  Such was the first introduction to Europe of the Tsar of Russia!  They had long heard of this autocrat before whom millions trembled, ruling like a savage despot in the midst of splendors rivaling the Arabian Nights.  Now they saw him!  And the amazement can scarcely be described.  He dined with the Great Electress Sophia, afterwards first Queen of Prussia, and she wrote of him:  “Nature has given him an infinity of wit.  With advantages he might have been an accomplished man.  What a pity his manners are not less boorish!”

But Peter was not thinking of the impression he made.  With an insatiable inquisitiveness and an omnivorous curiosity, he was looking for the secret of power in nations.  Nothing escaped him—­cutlery, rope-making, paper manufacture, whaling industry, surgery, microscopy; he was engaging artists, officers, engineers, surgeons, buying models of everything he saw—­or standing lost in admiration of a traveling dentist plying his craft in the market, whom he took home to his lodgings, learned the use of the instruments himself, then practiced his new art upon his followers.

At The Hague he endured the splendid public reception, then hurried off his gold-trimmed coat, his wig and hat and white feathers, and was amid grime and dust examining grist-mills, and ferry-boats, and irrigating machines.  To a lady he saw on the street at Amsterdam he shouted “Stop!” then dragged out her enameled watch, examined it, and put it back without a word.  A nobleman’s wig in similar unceremonious fashion he snatched from his head, turned it inside out, and, not being pleased with its make, threw it on the floor.

Perhaps Holland heard without regret that her guest was going to England, where he was told the instruction was based upon the principles of ship-building and he might learn more in a few weeks than by a year’s study elsewhere.  King William III. placed a fleet at his disposal, and also a palace upon his arrival in London.  A violent storm alarmed many on the way to England, but Peter enjoyed it and humorously said, “Did you ever hear of a Tsar being lost in the North Sea?” England was no less astonished than Holland at her guest, but William III., the wisest sovereign in Europe, we learn was amazed at the vigor and originality of his mind.  The wise Bishop Burnet wrote of him:  “He is mechanically turned, and more fitted to be a carpenter than a Prince.  He told me he designed a great fleet for attacking the Turkish Empire, but he does not seem to me capable of so great an enterprise.”  This throws more light upon the limitations of Bishop Burnet than those of Peter the Great, and fairly illustrates the