We were only to stay here a day and a night and take in coal; we consulted the guide-books and were rejoiced to know that there were no sights in Odessa to see; and so we had one good, untrammeled holyday on our hands, with nothing to do but idle about the city and enjoy ourselves.  We sauntered through the markets and criticised the fearful and wonderful costumes from the back country; examined the populace as far as eyes could do it; and closed the entertainment with an ice-cream debauch.  We do not get ice-cream every where, and so, when we do, we are apt to dissipate to excess.  We never cared any thing about ice-cream at home, but we look upon it with a sort of idolatry now that it is so scarce in these red-hot climates of the East.

We only found two pieces of statuary, and this was another blessing.  One was a bronze image of the Duc de Richelieu, grand-nephew of the splendid Cardinal.  It stood in a spacious, handsome promenade, overlooking the sea, and from its base a vast flight of stone steps led down to the harbor—­two hundred of them, fifty feet long, and a wide landing at the bottom of every twenty.  It is a noble staircase, and from a distance the people toiling up it looked like insects.  I mention this statue and this stairway because they have their story.  Richelieu founded Odessa —­watched over it with paternal care—­labored with a fertile brain and a wise understanding for its best interests—­spent his fortune freely to the same end—­endowed it with a sound prosperity, and one which will yet make it one of the great cities of the Old World—­built this noble stairway with money from his own private purse—­and—.  Well, the people for whom he had done so much, let him walk down these same steps, one day, unattended, old, poor, without a second coat to his back; and when, years afterwards, he died in Sebastopol in poverty and neglect, they called a meeting, subscribed liberally, and immediately erected this tasteful monument to his memory, and named a great street after him.  It reminds me of what Robert Burns’ mother said when they erected a stately monument to his memory:  “Ah, Robbie, ye asked them for bread and they hae gi’en ye a stane.”

The people of Odessa have warmly recommended us to go and call on the Emperor, as did the Sebastopolians.  They have telegraphed his Majesty, and he has signified his willingness to grant us an audience.  So we are getting up the anchors and preparing to sail to his watering-place.  What a scratching around there will be, now! what a holding of important meetings and appointing of solemn committees!—­and what a furbishing up of claw-hammer coats and white silk neck-ties!  As this fearful ordeal we are about to pass through pictures itself to my fancy in all its dread sublimity, I begin to feel my fierce desire to converse with a genuine Emperor cooling down and passing away.  What am I to do with my hands?  What am I to do with my feet?  What in the world am I to do with myself?