It is fine, one is obliged to concede it; it is a great picture, and impressive. The mongrel handles his pen well. Still, with opportunity, I would cruci—flay him.... “A spineless god.” It is the Czar to a dot—a god, and spineless; a royal invertebrate, poor lad; soft-hearted and out of place. “A spineless god _to whom dumb millions pray_.” Remorselessly correct; concise, too, and compact—the soul and spirit of the human race compressed into half a sentence. On their knees—140,000,000. On their knees to a little tin deity. Massed together, they would stretch away, and away, and away, across the plains, fading and dimming and failing in a measureless perspective—why, even the telescope’s vision could not reach to the final frontier of that continental spread of human servility. Now _why_ should a king value the respect of the human race? It is quite unreasonable to expect it. A curious race, certainly! It finds fault with me and with my occupations, and forgets that neither of us could exist an hour without its sanction. It is our confederate and all-powerful protector. It is our bulwark, our friend, our fortress. For this it has our gratitude, our deep and honest gratitude—but not our respect. Let it snivel and fret and grumble if it likes; that is all right; we do not mind that. [_Turns over leaves of a scrapbook, pausing now and then to read a clipping and make a comment_] The poets—how they do hunt that poor Czar! French, Germans, English, Americans—they all have a bark at him. The finest and capablest of the pack, and the fiercest, are Swilburne (English, I think), and a pair of Americans, Thomas Bailey Eldridge and Colonel Richard Waterson Gilder, of the sentimental periodical called _Century Magazine and Louisville Courier-Journal_. They certainly have uttered some very strong yelps. I can’t seem to find them—I must have mislaid them.... If a poet’s bite were as terrible as his bark, why dear me—but it isn’t. A wise king minds neither of them; but the poet doesn’t know it. It’s a case of little dog and lightning express. When the Czar goes thundering by, the poet skips out and rages alongside for a little distance, then returns to his kennel wagging his head with satisfaction, and thinks he has inflicted a memorable scare, whereas nothing has really happened—the Czar didn’t know he was around. They never bark at me; I wonder why that is. I suppose my Corruption-Department buys them. That must be it, for certainly I ought to inspire a bark or two; I’m rather choice material, I should say. Why—here _is_ a yelp at me. [_Mumbling a poem_] “... What gives thee holy right to murder hope And water ignorance with human blood? · · · · · From what high universe-dividing power Draw’st thou thy wondrous, ripe brutality? · · · · ·