and History--when they ariv in New York, most their first thoughts wuz
to visit the Grand Tomb of our Hero--

The one who their rulers had delighted to honor--the one who had been
welcomed in the dazzlin' halls of their Kings. And them halls had felt
honored to have his shadow rest on 'em as he passed through 'em to
audiences with royalty.

They journeyed to that tomb. Some on 'em had been used to stand by the
tombs of their own great dead under the magestic aisles of Westminster
Abbey, whose lofty glories dwarfs the human form almost to a pigmy.

Some had stood by the white marble poem of the Tag Megal in India,
wherein a royal soul has carved his love for a woman. If that race, to
whom we send missionaries to civilize them, could raise such a tomb over
its dead, and a woman too, who had done no great things, only loved the
man who raised this incomparable monument over her--what could they
expect to find raised by this great and dominant race over the dead form
of the man who had saved the hull country from ruin?

So with feelin's of awe and wonder in their hearts, expectin' to see
they knew not what, the awestruck, admirin' foreigner paused before the
tomb of the Great Leader--and he see nothin'. Not even a respectable
grave-stun, such as you see in any New England graveyard. (Or that has
been the case till very lately. But now things look a little brighter in
the monument line.)

But it has been a shame, and a burnin' one, so burnin' that it has
seemed to me that it would take all the cool blue waters that glide
along below, a-complainin' of the slight and insult to our Hero--it