There rise rows upon rows
of jewelled cimeters, and vases and salvers of gold, and old saddles
studded with diamonds and with stirrups of gold--presents of frightened
Asiatic satraps or fawning European allies. There too are the crowns of
Muscovy, of Russia, of Kazan, of Astrakhan, of Siberia, of the Crimea,
and, pity to say it, of Poland. And next this is an index of despotic
hate--for the Polish sceptre is broken and flung aside. Near this stands
the full-length portrait of Alexander I, and at his feet are grouped
captured flags of Hungary and Poland--some with blood-marks still upon
them. But below all, far beneath the feet of the Emperor, in dust and
ignominy and on the floor, is flung the _very_ Constitution of
Poland--parchment for parchment, ink for ink, good promise for good
promise--which Alexander gave with so many smiles, and which Nicholas
took away with so much bloodshed.
And not far from this monument of the deathless hate Nicholas bore that
liberty he had stung to death stands a monument of his admiration for
straightforward tyranny, even in the most dreaded enemy his house ever
knew.
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