of Szopen (Chopin) in fine profile when laid out dead. For amusement,
there was a Paul Potter bull beside a Paul Potter willow, delightfully
unconscious of a coming Paul Potter thunderstorm, and a miniature of
Shakespeare which did not resemble any of the portraits of him that I
am familiar with. Any amount of Turkish trappings and reminiscences of
Potocki and Kosciuszko, of course. As I had no guide-book, I am quite
prepared to learn that I overlooked the most important relics.

In the cathedral, away up on the hill of Wawel, above the river Vistula
(Wisla) I prowled about among the crypts with a curious specimen of
beadledom who ran off long unintelligible histories in atrocious
Viennese patois about every solemn tomb by which we stood. So far as I
was concerned it might just as well have been the functionary who herds
small droves of visitors in Westminster Abbey. I never listen to these
people, because (i) I do not care to be informed; and (ii) since I
should never remember what they said, it is useless my even letting it
in at one ear. The kindly, cobwebby old person who piloted me
among those wonderful kings' graves in Cracow was personally not
uninteresting, indeed a fine study, and his rigmaroles brought up
infallibly upon three words which I could not fail to notice: these
were "silberner Sarg vergoldet" (silver coffin, gilded). It had an odd
fascination for me this phrase, as I stood always waiting for it; why, I
wondered, should anybody want to gild a good solid silver coffin?

At the time of my first visit, the excavation necessary to form the
crypt for the resting-place of Mickiewicz[18] was in progress, and I
went in among the limey, dusty workmen, with their tallow candles,
and looked round. In return for my gulden, the beadle gave me a
few immortelles from Sobieski's tomb, and some laurel leaves from
Kosciuszko's; and remembering friends at home of refinedly ghoulish