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    Chapter 36

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    Chapter 37
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    We have got so far east, now--a hundred and fifty-five degrees of
    longitude from San Francisco--that my watch can not "keep the hang" of
    the time any more. It has grown discouraged, and stopped. I think it
    did a wise thing. The difference in time between Sebastopol and the
    Pacific coast is enormous. When it is six o'clock in the morning here,
    it is somewhere about week before last in California. We are excusable
    for getting a little tangled as to time. These distractions and
    distresses about the time have worried me so much that I was afraid my
    mind was so much affected that I never would have any appreciation of
    time again; but when I noticed how handy I was yet about comprehending
    when it was dinner-time, a blessed tranquillity settled down upon me, and
    I am tortured with doubts and fears no more.

    Odessa is about twenty hours' run from Sebastopol, and is the most
    northerly port in the Black Sea. We came here to get coal, principally.
    The city has a population of one hundred and thirty-three thousand, and
    is growing faster than any other small city out of America. It is a free
    port, and is the great grain mart of this particular part of the world.
    Its roadstead is full of ships. Engineers are at work, now, turning the
    open roadstead into a spacious artificial harbor. It is to be almost
    inclosed by massive stone piers, one of which will extend into the sea
    over three thousand feet in a straight line.

    I have not felt so much at home for a long time as I did when I "raised
    the hill" and stood in Odessa for the first time. It looked just like an
    American city; fine, broad streets, and straight as well; low houses,
    (two or three stories,) wide, neat, and free from any quaintness of
    architectural ornamentation; locust trees bordering the sidewalks (they
    call them acacias;) a stirring, business-look about the streets and the
    stores; fast walkers; a familiar new look about the houses and every
    thing; yea, and a driving and smothering cloud of dust that was so like a
    message from our own dear native land that we could hardly refrain from
    shedding a few grateful tears and execrations in the old time-honored
    American way. Look up the street or down the street, this way or that
    way, we saw only America! There was not one thing to remind us that we
    were in Russia. We walked for some little distance, reveling in this
    home vision, and then we came upon a church and a hack-driver, and
    presto! the illusion vanished! The church had a slender-spired dome that
    rounded inward at its base, and looked like a turnip turned upside down,
    and the hackman seemed to be dressed in a long petticoat with out any
    hoops. These things were essentially foreign, and so were the carriages
    --but every body knows about these things, and there is no occasion for
    my describing them.

    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?
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