On a certain day, in
the year 1855, the most embarrassed man in all Russia was doubtless our
excellent American minister. The serf coachman employed at wages was
called up to receive his discharge for drunkenness. Coming into the
presence of a sound-hearted American democrat, who never had dreamed of
one mortal kneeling to another, Ivan throws himself on his knees,
presses his forehead to the minister's feet, fawns like a tamed beast,
and refuses to move until the minister relieves himself from this
nightmare of servility by a full pardon.
Time after time we have entered the serf field and serf hut; have seen
the simple round of serf toils and sports; have heard the simple
chronicles of self joys and sorrows: but whether his livery were filthy
sheepskin or gold-laced caftan; whether he lay on carpets at the door of
his master, or in filth on the floor of his cabin; whether he gave us
cold, stupid stories of his wrongs, or flippant details of his joys;
whether he blessed his master or cursed him--we have wondered at the
power which a serf system has to degrade and imbrute the image of God.
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