Historic Tales_ The Romance of Reality. Vol. 08 (of 15)_ Russian Charles Morris 1495 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Historic Tales: The
Romance of Reality. Vol. 08 (of 15), Russian

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: Historic Tales: The Romance of Reality. Vol. 08 (of 15), Russian

Author: Charles Morris

Release date: May 27, 2008 [eBook #25625]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25625

Credits: Produced by David Kline, Greg Bergquist and The Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORIC
TALES: THE ROMANCE OF REALITY. VOL. 08 (OF 15), RUSSIAN
***

THE KREMLIN.

Édition d'Élite

H i st or i cal Tal es
The Romance of Reality

By

CHARLES MORRIS
Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from the Dramatists," etc.

IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES

Volume VIII

Russian
J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON

Copyright, 1898, by J.B. Lippincott Company.
Copyright, 1904, by J.B. Lippincott Company.
Copyright, 1908, by J.B. Lippincott Company.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
The Ancient Scythians 5
Oleg the Varangian 14
The Vengeance of Queen Olga 21
Vladimir the Great 29
The Lawgiver of Russia 41
The Yoke of the Tartars 49
The Victory of the Don 55
Ivan, the First of the Czars 60
The Fall of Novgorod the Great 64
Ivan the Terrible 74
The Conquest of Siberia 80
The Macbeth of Russia 85
The Era of the Impostors 101
The Books of Ancestry 110
Boyhood of Peter the Great 114
Carpenter Peter of Zaandam 123
The Fall of the Strelitz 132
The Crusade against Beards and Cloaks 142
Mazeppa, the Cossack Chief 149
A Window open to Europe 155
From the Hovel to the Throne 165
Buffooneries of the Russian Court 174

How a Woman dethroned a Man 184
A Struggle for a Throne 195
The Flight of the Kalmucks 202
A Magical Transformation Scene 220
Kosciusko and the Fall of Poland 226
Suwarrow the Unconquerable 231
The Retreat of Napoleon's Grand Army 241
The Death-Struggle of Poland 248
Schamyl, the Hero of Circassia 258
The Charge of the Light Brigade 267
The Fall of Sebastopol 276
At the Gates of Constantinople 284
The Nihilists and their Work 293
The Advance of Russia in Asia 300
The Railroad in Turkestan 311
An Escape from the Mines of Siberia 319
The Sea Fight in the Waters of Japan 329

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

RUSSIAN.
PAGE
The Kremlin Frontispiece.
Cathedral at Ostankino, near Moscow 40
General View of Moscow 55
Church and Tower of Ivan the Great 78
Kiakhta, Siberia 84
Church of the Assumption, Moscow, in which the
109
Czar is Crowned
Alexander III., Czar of Russia 122
Dining-room in the Palace of Peter the Great,
136
Moscow
Peter the Great 142
St. Petersburg Harbor, Neva River 156
Sleighing in Russia 160
A Russian Drosky 189
The City of Kasan 199
Scene on a Russian Farm 223
Russian Peasants 249
Mount St. Peter, Crimea 267
The Walls of Constantinople 290
The Arrest of a Nihilist 297

Dowager Czarina of Russia 300
Group of Siberians 320

THE ANCIENT SCYTHIANS.

Far over the eastern half of Europe extends a vast and mighty plain,
spreading thousands of miles to the north and south, to the east and west, in
the north a land of forests, in the south and east a region of treeless levels.
Here stretches the Black Land, whose deep dark soil is fit for endless
harvests; here are the arable steppes, a vast fertile prairie land, and here
again the barren steppes, fit only for wandering herds and the tents of
nomad shepherds. Across this great plain, in all directions, flow myriads of
meandering streams, many of them swelling into noble rivers, whose waters
find their outlet in great seas. Over it blow the biting winds of the Arctic
zone, chaining its waters in fetters of ice for half the year. On it in summer
shine warm suns, in whose enlivening rays life flows full again.
Such is the land with which we have to deal, Russia, the seeding-place
of nations, the home of restless tribes. Here the vast level of Northern Asia
spreads like a sea over half of Europe, following the lowlands between the
Urals and the Caspian Sea. Over these broad plains the fierce horsemen of
the East long found an easy pathway to the rich and doomed cities of the
West. Russia was playing its part in the grand drama of the nations in far-off
days when such a land was hardly known to exist.
Have any of my readers ever from a hill-top looked out over a broad,
low-lying meadow-land filled with morning mist, a dense white shroud
under which everything lay hidden, all life and movement lost to view? In
such a scene, as the mist thins under the rays of the rising sun, vague forms
at first dimly appear, magnified and monstrous in their outlines, the
shadows of a buried wonderland. Then, as the mist slowly lifts, like a great
white curtain, living and moving objects appear below, still of strange
outlines and unnatural dimensions. Finally, as if by the sweep of an

enchanter's wand, the mists vanish, the land lies clear under the solar rays,
and we perceive that these seeming monsters and giants are but the familiar
forms which we know so well, those of houses and trees, men and their
herds, actively stirring beneath us, clearly revealed as the things of every
day.
It is thus that the land of Russia appears to us when the mists of
prehistoric time first begin to lift. Half-formed figures appear, rising,
vanishing, showing large through the vapor; stirring, interwoven, endlessly
coming and going; a phantasmagoria which it is impossible more than half
to understand. At that early date the great Russian plain seems to have been
the home of unnumbered tribes of varied race and origin, made up of men
doubtless full of hopes and aspirations like ourselves, yet whose story we
fail to read on the blurred page of history, and concerning whom we must
rest content with knowing a few of the names.
Yet progressive civilizations had long existed in the countries to the
south, Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Persia. History was actively being
made there, but it had not penetrated the mist-laden North. The Greeks
founded colonies on the northern shores of the Black Sea, but they troubled
themselves little about the seething tribes with whom they came there into
contact. The land they called Scythia, and its people Scythians, but the latter
were scarcely known until about 500 b.c., when Darius, the great Persian
king, crossed the Danube and invaded their country. He found life there in
abundance, and more warlike activity than he relished, for the fierce
nomads drove him and his army in terror from their soil, and only fortune
and a bridge of boats saved them from perishing.
It was this event that first gave the people of old Russia a place on the
page of history. Herodotus, the charming old historian and story-teller,
wrote down for us all he could learn about them, though what he says has
probably as much fancy in it as fact.
We are told that these broad levels were formerly inhabited by a people
called the Cimmerians, who were driven out by the Scythians and went—it
is hard to tell whither. A shadow of their name survives in the Crimea, and
some believe that they were the ancestors of the Cymri, the Celts of the
West.

The Scythians, who thus came into history like a cloud of war, made the
god of war their chief deity. The temples which they built to this deity were
of the simplest, being great heaps of fagots, which were added to every year
as they rotted away under the rains. Into the top of the heap was thrust an
ancient iron sword as the emblem of the god. To this grim symbol more
victims were sacrificed than to all the other deities; not only cattle and
horses, but prisoners taken in battle, of whom one out of every hundred died
to honor the god, their blood being caught in vessels and poured on the
sword.
A people with a worship like this must have been savage in grain. To
prove their prowess in war they cut off the heads of the slain and carried
them to the king. Like the Indians of the West, they scalped their enemies.
These scalps, softened by treatment, they used as napkins at their meals,
and even sewed them together to make cloaks. Here was a refinement in
barbarity undreamed of by the Indians.
These were not their only savage customs. They drank the blood of the
first enemy killed by them in battle, and at their high feasts used drinking-
cups made from the skulls of their foes. When a chief died cruelty was
given free vent. The slaves and horses of the dead chief were slain at his
grave, and placed upright like a circle of horsemen around the royal tomb,
being impaled on sharp timbers to keep them in an upright position.
Tribes with habits like these have no history. There is nothing in their
careers worth the telling, and no one to tell it if there were. Their origin,
manners, and customs may be of interest, but not their intertribal quarrels.
Herodotus tells us of others besides the Scythians. There were the
Melanchlainai, who dressed only in black; the Neuri, who once a year
changed into wolves; the Agathyrei, who took pleasure in trinkets of gold;
the Sauromati, children of the Amazons, or women warriors; the Argippei,
bald-headed and snub-nosed from their birth; the Issedones, who feasted on
the dead bodies of their parents; the Arimaspians, a one-eyed race; the
Gryphons, guardians of great hoards of gold; the Hyperboreans, in whose
land white feathers (snow-flakes?) fell all the year round from the skies.
Such is the mixture of fact and fable which Herodotus learned from the
traders and travellers of Greece. We know nothing of these tribes but the

names. Their ancestors may have dwelt for thousands of years on the
Russian plains; their descendants may still make up part of the great
Russian people and retain some of their old-time habits and customs; but of
their doings history takes no account.
The Scythians, who occupied the south of Russia, came into contact with
the Greek trading colonies north of the Black Sea, and gained from them
some little veneer of civilization. They aided the Greeks in their commerce,
took part in their caravans to the north and east, and spent some portion of
the profits of their peaceful labor in objects of art made for them by Greek
artists.
This we know, for some of these objects still exist. Jewels owned by the
ancient Scythians may be seen to-day in Russian museums. Chief in
importance among these relics are two vases of wonderful interest kept in
the museum of the Hermitage, at St. Petersburg. These are the silver vase of
Nicopol and the golden vase of Kertch, both probably as old as the days of
Herodotus. These vases speak with history. On the silver vase we may see
the faces and forms of the ancient Scythians, men with long hair and beards
and large features. They resemble in dress and aspect the people who now
dwell in the same country, and they are shown in the act of breaking in and
bridling their horses, just as their descendants do to-day. Progress has had
no place on these broad plains. There life stands still.
On the golden vase appear figures who wear pointed caps and dresses
ornamented in the Asiatic fashion, while in their hands are bows of strange
shape. But their features are those of men of Aryan descent, and in them we
seem to see the far-off progenitors of the modern Russians.
Herodotus, in his chatty fashion, tells us various problematical stories of
the Scythians, premising that he does not believe them all himself. A
tradition with them was that they were the youngest of all nations, being
descended from Targitaus, one of the numerous sons of Jove. The three
children of Targitaus for a time ruled the land, but their joint rule was
changed by a prodigy. There fell from the skies four implements of gold,—a
plough, a yoke, a battle-axe, and a drinking-cup. The oldest brother
hastened eagerly to seize this treasure, but it burst into flame at his
approach. The second then made the attempt, but was in his turn driven

back by the scorching flames. But on the approach of the youngest the
flames vanished, the gold grew cool, and he was enabled to take possession
of the heaven-given implements. His elders then withdrew from the throne,
warned by this sign from the gods, and left him sole ruler. The story
proceeds that the royal gold was guarded with the greatest care, yearly
sacrifices being made in its honor. If its guardian fell asleep in the open air
during the sacrifices he was doomed to die within the year. But as reward
for the faithful keeping of his trust he received as much land as he could
ride round on horseback in a day.
The old historian further tells us that the Scythian warriors invaded the
kingdom of Media, which they conquered and held for twenty-eight years.
During this long absence strange events were taking place at home. They
had held many slaves, whom it was their custom to blind, as they used them
only to stir the milk in the great pot in which koumiss, their favorite
beverage, was made.
The wives of the absent warriors, after years of waiting, gave up all
hopes of their return and married the blind slaves; and while the masters
tarried in Media the children of their slaves grew to manhood.
The time at length came when the warriors, filled with home-sickness,
left the subject realm to seek their native plains. As they marched onward
they found themselves stopped by a great dike, dug from the Tauric
Mountains to Lake Mæotis, behind which stood a host of youthful warriors.
They were the children of the slaves, who were determined to keep the land
for themselves. Many battles were fought, but the young men held their
own bravely, and the warriors were in despair.
Then one of them cried to his fellows,—
"What foolish thing are we doing, Scythians? These men are our slaves,
and every one of them that falls is a loss to us; while each of us that falls
reduces our number. Take my advice, lay aside spear and bow, and let each
man take his horsewhip and go boldly up to them. So long as they see us
with arms in our hands they fancy that they are our equals and fight us
bravely. But let them see us with only whips, and they will remember that
they are slaves and flee like dogs from before our faces."

It happened as he said. As the Scythians approached with their whips the
youths were so astounded that they forgot to fight, and ran away in
trembling terror. And so the warriors came home, and the slaves were put to
making koumiss again.
These fabulous stories of the early people of Russia may be followed by
an account of their funeral customs, left for us by an Arabian writer who
visited their land in the ninth century. He tells us that for ten days after the
death of one of their great men his friends bewailed him, showing the depth
of their grief by getting drunk on koumiss over his corpse.
Then the men-servants were asked which of them would be buried with
his master. The one that consented was instantly seized and strangled. The
same question was put to the women, one of whom was sure to accept.
There may have been some rare future reward offered for death in such a
cause. The willing victim was bathed, adorned, and treated like a princess,
and did nothing but drink and sing while the obsequies lasted.
On the day fixed for the end of the ceremonies, the dead man was laid in
a boat, with part of his arms and garments. His favorite horse was slain and
laid in the boat, and with it the corpse of the man-servant. Then the young
girl was led up. She took off her jewels, a glass of kvass was put in her
hand, and she sang a farewell song.
"All at once," says the writer, "the old woman who accompanied her, and
whom they called the angel of death, bade her to drink quickly, and to enter
into the cabin of the boat, where lay the dead body of her master. At these
words she changed color, and as she made some difficulty about entering,
the old woman seized her by the hair, dragged her in, and entered with her.
The men immediately began to beat their shields with clubs to prevent the
other girls from hearing the cries of their companion, which might prevent
them one day dying for their master."
The boat was then set on fire, and served as a funeral pile, in which
living and dead alike were consumed.

OLEG THE VARANGIAN.

For ages and ages, none can say how many, the great plain of Russia
existed as a nursery of tribes, some wandering with their herds, some
dwelling in villages and tilling their fields, but all warlike and all
barbarians. And over this plain at intervals swept conquering hordes from
Asia, the terrible Huns, the devastating Avars, and others of varied names.
But as yet the Russia we know did not exist, and its very name had never
been heard.
As time went on, the people in the centre and north of the country
became peaceful and prosperous, since the invaders did not cross their
borders, and a great and wealthy city arose, whose commerce in time
extended on the east as far as Persia and India, on the south to
Constantinople, and on the west far through the Baltic Sea. Though seated
in Russia, still largely a land of barbarous tribes, Novgorod became one of
the powerful cities of the earth, making its strength felt far and wide,
placing the tribes as far as the Ural Mountains under tribute, and growing so
strong and warlike that it became a common saying among the people,
"Who can oppose God and Novgorod the Great?"
But trouble arose for Novgorod. Its chief trade lay through the Baltic
Sea, and here its ships met those terrible Scandinavian pirates who were
then the ocean's lords. Among these bold rovers were the Danes who
descended on England, the Normans who won a new home in France, the
daring voyagers who discovered Iceland and Greenland, and those who
sailed up the Mediterranean as far as Constantinople, conquering kingdoms
as they went.

To some of these Scandinavians the merchants of Novgorod turned for
aid against the others. Bands of them had made their way into Russia and
settled on the eastern shores of the Baltic. To these the Novgorodians
appealed in their trouble, and in the year 862 asked three Varangian
brothers, Rurik, Sinaf, and Truvor, to come to their aid. The warlike
brothers did so, seated themselves on the frontier of the republic of
Novgorod, drove off its foes—and became its foes themselves. The people
of Novgorod, finding their trade at the mercy of their allies, submitted to
their power, and in 864 invited Rurik to become their king. His two brothers
had meantime died.
Thus it was that the Russian empire began, for the Varangians came from
a country called Ross, from which their new realm gained the name of
Russia.
Rurik took the title of Grand Prince, made his principal followers lords
of the cities of his new realm, and the republic of Novgorod came to an end
in form, though not in spirit. It is interesting to note at this point that Russia,
which began as a republic, has ended as one of the most absolute of
monarchies. The first step in its subjection was taken when Novgorod
invited Rurik the Varangian to be its prince; the other steps came later, one
by one.
For fifteen years Rurik remained lord of Novgorod, and then died and
left his four-year-old son Igor as his heir, with Oleg, his kinsman, as regent
of the realm. It is the story of Oleg, as told by Nestor, the gossipy old
Russian chronicler, that we propose here to tell, but it seemed useful to
precede it by an account of how the Russian empire came into existence.
Oleg was a man of his period, a barbarian and a soldier born; brave,
crafty, adventurous, faithful to Igor, his ward, cruel and treacherous to
others. Under his rule the Russian dominions rapidly and widely increased.
At an earlier date two Varangians, Askhold and Dir by name, had made
their way far to the south, where they became masters of the city of Kief.
They even dared to attack Constantinople, but were driven back from that
great stronghold of the South.

It by no means pleased Oleg to find this powerful kingdom founded in
the land which he had set out to subdue. He determined that Kief should be
his, and in 882 made his way to its vicinity. But it was easier to reach than
to take. Its rulers were brave, their Varangian followers were courageous,
the city was strong. Oleg, doubting his power to win it by force of arms,
determined to try what could be done by stratagem and treachery.
Leaving his army, and taking Igor with him, he floated down the Dnieper
with a few boats, in which a number of armed men were hidden, and at
length landed near the ancient city of Kief, which stood on high ground
near the river. Placing his warriors in ambush, he sent a messenger to
Askhold and Dir, with the statement that a party of Varangian merchants,
whom the prince of Novgorod had sent to Greece, had just landed, and
desired to see them as friends and men of their own race.
Those were simple times, in which even the rulers of cities did not put
on any show of state. On the contrary, the two princes at once left the city
and went alone to meet the false merchants. They had no sooner arrived
than Oleg threw off his mask. His followers sprang from their ambush, arms
in hand.
"You are neither princes nor of princely birth," he cried; "but I am a
prince, and this is the son of Rurik."
And at a sign from his hand Askhold and Dir were laid dead at his feet.
By this act of base treachery Oleg became the master of Kief. No one in
the city ventured to resist the strong army which he quickly brought up, and
the metropolis of the south opened its gates to the man who had wrought
murder under the guise of war. It is not likely, though, that Oleg sought to
justify his act on any grounds. In those barbarous days, when might made
right, murder was too much an every-day matter to be deeply considered by
any one.
Oleg was filled with admiration of the city he had won. "Let Kief be the
mother of all the Russian cities!" he exclaimed. And such it became, for he
made it his capital, and for three centuries it remained the capital city of the
Russian realm.

What he principally admired it for was its nearness to Constantinople,
the capital of the great empire of the East, on which, like the former lords of
Kief, he looked with greedy and envious eyes.
For long centuries past Greece and the other countries of the South had
paid little heed to the dwellers on the Russian plains, of whose scattered
tribes they had no fear. But with the coming of the Varangians, the conquest
of the tribes, and the founding of a wide-spread empire, a different state of
affairs began, and from that day to this Constantinople has found the people
of the steppes its most dangerous and persistent foes.
Oleg was not long in making the Greek empire feel his heavy hand.
Filling the minds of his followers and subjects with his own thirst for blood
and plunder, he set out with an army of eighty thousand men, in two
thousand barks, passed the cataracts of the Borysthenes, crossed the Black
Sea, murdered the subjects of the empire in hosts, and, as the chronicles say,
sailed overland with all sails set to the port of Constantinople itself. What
he probably did was to have his vessels taken over a neck of land on wheels
or rollers.
Here he threw the imperial city into mortal terror, fixed his shield on the
very gate of Constantinople, and forced the emperor to buy him off at the
price of an enormous ransom. To the treaty made the Varangian warriors
swore by their gods Perune and Voloss, by their rings, and by their swords,
—gold and steel, the things they honored most and most desired.
Then back in triumph they sailed to Kief, rich with booty, and ever after
hailing their leader as the Wise Man, or Magician. Eight years afterwards
Oleg made a treaty of alliance and commerce with Constantinople, in which
Greeks and Russians stood on equal footing. Russia had made a remarkable
stride forward as a nation since Rurik was invited to Novgorod a quarter-
century before.
For thirty-three years Oleg held the throne. His was too strong a hand to
yield its power to his ward. Igor must wait for Oleg's death. He had found a
province; he left an empire. In his hands Russia grew into greatness, and
from Novgorod to Kief and far and wide to the right and left stretched the
lands won by his conquering sword.

He was too great a man to die an ordinary death. According to the
tradition, miracle had to do with his passing away. Nestor, the prince of
Russian chroniclers, tells us the following story:
Oleg had a favorite horse, which he rode alike in battle and in the hunt,
until at length a prediction came from the soothsayers that death would
overtake him through his cherished charger. Warrior as he was, he had the
superstition of the pagan, and to avoid the predicted fate he sent his horse
far away, and for years avoided even speaking of it.
Then, moved by curiosity, he asked what had become of the banished
animal.
"It died years ago," was the reply; "only its bones remain."
"So much for your soothsayers," he cried, with a contempt that was not
unmixed with relief. "That, then, is all this prediction is worth! But where
are the bones of my good old horse? I should like to see what little is left of
him."
He was taken to the spot where lay the skeleton of his old favorite, and
gazed with some show of feeling on the bleaching bones of what had once
been his famous war-horse. Then, setting his foot on the skull, he said,—
"So this is the creature that is destined to be my death."
At that moment a deadly serpent that lay coiled up within the skull
darted out and fixed its poisonous fangs in the conqueror's foot. And thus
ignobly he who had slain men by thousands and conquered an empire came
to his death.

THE VENGEANCE OF QUEEN OLGA.

The death of Oleg brought Igor his ward, then nearly forty years of age,
to the throne of Rurik his father. And the same old story of bloodshed and
barbarity went on. In those days a king was king in name only. He was
really but the chief of a band of plunderers, who dug wealth from the world
with the sword instead of the spade, threw it away in wild orgies, and then
hounded him into leading them to new wars.
The story of the Northmen is everywhere the same. While in the West
they were harrying England, France, and the Mediterranean countries with
fire and sword, in the East their Varangian kinsmen were spreading
devastation through Russia and the empire of the Greeks.
Like his predecessor, Igor invaded this empire with a great army, landing
in Asia Minor and treating the people with such brutal ferocity that no
earthquake or volcano could have shown itself more merciless. His
prisoners were slaughtered in the most barbarous manner, fire swept away
all that havoc had left, and then the Russian prince sailed in triumph against
Constantinople, with his ten thousand barks manned by murderers and
laden with plunder.
But the Greeks were now ready for their foes. Pouring on them the
terrible Greek fire, they drove them back in dismay to Asia Minor, where
they were met and routed by the land forces of the empire. In the end Igor
hurried home with hardly a third of his great army.
Three years afterward he again led an army in boats against
Constantinople, but this time he was bought off by a tribute of gold, silver,
and precious stuffs, as Oleg had been before him.

Igor was now more than seventy years old, and naturally desired to
spend the remainder of his days in peace, but his followers would not let
him rest. The spoils and tribute of the Greeks had quickly disappeared from
their open hands, and the warlike profligates demanded new plunder.
"We are naked," they bitterly complained, "while the companions of
Sveneld have beautiful arms and fine clothing. Come with us and levy
contributions, that we and you may dwell in plenty together."
Igor obeyed—he could not well help himself—and led them against the
Drevlians, a neighboring nation already under tribute. Marching into their
country, he forced them to pay still heavier tribute, and allowed his soldiers
to plunder to their hearts' content.
Then the warriors of Kief marched back, laden with spoils. But the
wolfish instincts of Igor were aroused. More, he thought, might be squeezed
out of the Drevlians, but he wanted this extra plunder for himself. So he
sent his army on to Kief, and went back with a small force to the country of
the Drevlians, where he held out his hand—with the sword in it—for more.
He got more than he bargained for. The Drevlians, driven to extremity,
came with arms instead of gold, attacked the king and his few followers,
and killed the whole of them upon the spot. And thus in blood ended the
career of this white-haired tribute-seeker.
The fallen prince left behind him a widow named Olga and a son named
Sviatoslaf, who was still a child, as Igor had been at the death of his father.
So Olga became regent of the kingdom, and Sveneld was made leader of
the army.
How deeply Olga loved Igor we are not prepared to say, but we are told
some strange tales of what she did to avenge him. These tales we may
believe or not, as we please. They are legends only, like those of early
Rome, but they are all the history we have, and so we repeat the story much
as old Nestor has told it.
The death of Igor filled the hearts of the Drevlians with hope. Their great
enemy was gone; the new prince was a child: might they not gain power as
well as liberty? Their prince Male should marry Olga the widow, and all
would be well with them.

So twenty of their leading men were sent to Kief, where they presented
themselves to the queenly regent. Their offer of an alliance was made in
terms suited to the manners of the times.
"We have killed your husband," they said, "because he plundered and
devoured like a wolf. But we would be at peace with you and yours. We
have good princes, under whom our country thrives. Come and marry our
prince Male and be our queen."
Olga listened like one who weighed the offer deeply.
"After all," she said, "my husband is dead, and I cannot bring him to life
again. Your proposal seems good to me. Leave me now, and come again to-
morrow, when I will entertain you before my people as you deserve. Return
to your barks, and when my people come to you to-morrow, say to them,
'We will not go on horseback or on foot; you must carry us in our barks.'
Thus you will be honored as I desire you to be."
Back went the Drevlians, glad at heart, for the queen had seemed to
them very gracious indeed. But Olga had a deep and wide pit dug before a
house outside the city, and next day she went to that house and sent for the
ambassadors.
"We will not go on foot or on horseback," they said to the messengers;
"carry us in our barks."
"We are your slaves," answered the men of Kief. "Our ruler is slain, and
our princess is willing to marry your prince."
So they took up on their shoulders the barks, in which the Drevlians
proudly sat like kings on their thrones, and carried them to the front of the
house in which Olga awaited them with smiling lips but ruthless heart.
There, at a sign from her hand, the ambassadors and the barks in which
they sat were flung headlong into the yawning pit.
"How do you like your entertainment?" asked the cruel queen.
"Oh!" they cried, in terror, "pity us! Forgive us the death of Igor!"

But they begged in vain, for at her command the pit was filled up and the
Drevlians were buried alive.
Then Olga sent messengers to the land of the Drevlians, with this
message to their prince:
"If you really wish for me, send me men of the highest consideration in
your country, that my people may be induced to let me go, and that I may
come to you with honor and dignity."
This message had its effect. The chief men of the country were now sent
as ambassadors. They entered Kief over the grave of their murdered
countrymen without knowing where they trod, and came to the palace
expecting to be hospitably entertained.
Olga had a bath made ready for them, and sent them word,—
"First take a bath, that you may refresh yourselves after the fatigue of
your journey, then come into my presence."
The bath was heated, and the Drevlians entered it. But, to their dismay,
smoke soon began to circle round them, and flames flashed on their
frightened eyes. They ran to the doors, but they were immovable. Olga had
ordered them to be made fast and the house to be set on fire, and the
miserable bathers were all burned alive.
But even this terrible revenge was not enough for the implacable widow.
Those were days when news crept slowly, and the Drevlians did not dream
of Olga's treachery. Once more she sent them a deceitful message: "I am
about to repair to you, and beg you to get ready a large quantity of
hydromel in the place where my husband was killed, that I may weep over
his tomb and honor him with the trizna [funeral banquet]."
The Drevlians, full of joy at this message, gathered honey in quantities
and brewed it into hydromel. Then Olga sought the tomb, followed by a
small guard who were only lightly armed. For a while she wept over the
tomb. Then she ordered a great mound of honor to be heaped over it. When
this was done she directed the trizna to be set out.

The Drevlians drank freely, while the men of Kief served them with the
intoxicating beverage.
"Where are the friends whom we sent to you?" they asked.
"They are coming with the friends of my husband," she replied.
And so the feast went on until the unsuspecting Drevlians were stupid
with drink. Then Olga bade her guards draw their weapons and slay her
foes, and a great slaughter began. When it ended, five thousand Drevlians
lay dead at her feet.
Olga's revenge was far from being complete: her thirst for blood grew as
it was fed. She returned to Kief, collected her army, took her young son
with her that he might early learn the art of war, and returned inspired by
the rage of vengeance to the land of the Drevlians.
Here she laid waste the country and destroyed the towns. In the end she
came to the capital, Korosten, and laid siege to it. Its name meant "wall of
bark," so that it was, no doubt, a town of wood, as probably all the Russian
towns at that time were.
The siege went on, but the inhabitants defended themselves obstinately,
for they knew now the spirit of the woman with whom they had to contend.
So a long time passed and Korosten still held out.
Finding that force would not serve, Olga tried stratagem, in which she
was such an adept.
"Why do you hold out so foolishly?" she said. "You know that all your
other towns are in my power, and your countrypeople are peacefully tilling
their fields while you are uselessly dying of hunger. You would be wise to
yield; you have no more to fear from me; I have taken full revenge for my
slain husband."
The Drevlians, to conciliate her, offered a tribute of honey and furs. This
she refused, with a show of generosity, and said that she would ask no more
from them than a tribute of a pigeon and three sparrows from each house.
Gladdened by the lightness of this request, the Drevlians quickly
gathered the birds asked for, and sent them out to the invading army. They

did not dream what treachery lay in Olga's cruel heart. That evening she let
all the birds loose with lighted matches tied to their tails. Back to their nests
in the town they flew, and soon Korosten was in flames in a thousand
places.
In terror the inhabitants fled through their gates, but the soldiers of the
bloodthirsty queen awaited them outside, sword in hand, with orders to cut
them down without mercy as they appeared. The prince and all the leading
men of the state perished, and only the lowest of the populace were left
alive, while the whole land thereafter was laid under a load of tribute so
heavy that it devastated the country like an invading army and caused the
people to groan bitterly beneath the burden.
And thus it was that Olga the widow took revenge upon the murderers of
her fallen lord.

VLADIMIR THE GREAT.

Vladimir, Grand Prince of Russia before and after the year 1000, won
the name not only of Vladimir the Great but of St. Vladimir, though he was
as great a reprobate as he was a soldier and monarch, and as unregenerate a
sinner as ever sat on a throne. But it was he who made Russia a Christian
country, and in reward the Russian Church still looks upon him as "coequal
with the Apostles." What he did to deserve this high honor we shall see.
Sviatoslaf, the son of Olga, had proved a hardy soldier. He disdained the
palace and lived in the camp. In his marches he took no tent or baggage, but
slept in the open air, lived on horse-flesh broiled by himself upon the coals,
and showed all the endurance of a Cossack warrior born in the snows. After
years of warfare he fell on the field of battle, and his skull, ornamented with
a circle of gold, became a drinking-cup for the prince of the Petchenegans,
by whose hands he had been slain. His empire was divided between his
three sons, Yaropolk reigning in Kief, Oleg becoming prince of the
Drevlians, and Vladimir taking Rurik's old capital of Novgorod.
These brothers did not long dwell in harmony. War broke out between
Yaropolk and Oleg, and the latter was killed. Vladimir, fearing that his turn
would come next, fled to the country of the Varangians, and Yaropolk
became lord over all Russia. It is the story of the fugitive prince, and how
he made his way from flight to empire and from empire to sainthood, that
we are now about to tell.
For two years Vladimir dwelt with his Varangian kinsmen, during which
time he lived the wild life of a Norseman, joining the bold vikings in their
raids for booty far and wide over the seas of Europe. Then, gathering a large
band of Varangian adventurers, he returned to Novgorod, drove out the men

of Yaropolk, and sent word by them to his brother that he would soon call
upon him at Kief.
Vladimir quickly proved himself a prince of barbarian instincts. In
Polotsk ruled Rogvolod, a Varangian prince, whose daughter Rogneda,
famed for her beauty, was betrothed to Yaropolk. Vladimir demanded her
hand, but received an insulting reply.
"I will never unboot the son of a slave," said the haughty princess.
It was the custom at that time for brides, on the wedding night, to pull
off the boots of their husbands; and Vladimir's mother had been one of
Queen Olga's slave women.
But insults like this, to men like Vladimir, are apt to breed bloodshed.
Hot with revengeful fury, he marched against Polotsk, killed in battle
Rogvolod and his two sons, and forced the disdainful princess to accept his
hand still red with her father's blood.
Then he marched against Kief, where Yaropolk, who seems to have had
more ambition than courage, shut himself up within the walls. These walls
were strong, the people were faithful, and Kief might long have defied its
assailant had not treachery dwelt within. Vladimir had secretly bought over
a villain named Blude, one of Yaropolk's trusted councillors, who filled his
master's mind with suspicion of the people of Kief and persuaded him to fly
for safety. His flight gave Kief into his brother's hands.
To Rodnia fled the fugitive prince, where he was closely besieged by
Vladimir, to whose aid came a famine so fierce that it still gives point to a
common Russian proverb. Flight or surrender became necessary. Yaropolk
might have found strong friends among some of the powerful native tribes,
but the voice of the traitor was still at his ear, and at Blude's suggestion he
gave himself up to Vladimir. It was like the sheep yielding himself to the
wolf. By the victor's order Yaropolk was slain in his father's palace.
And now the traitor sought his reward. Vladimir felt that it was to Blude
he owed his empire, and for three days he so loaded him with honors and
dignities that the false-hearted wretch deemed himself the greatest among
the Russians.

But the villain had been playing with edge tools. At the end of the three
days Vladimir called Blude before him.
"I have kept all my promises to you," he said. "I have treated you as my
friend; your honors exceed your highest wishes; I have made you lord
among my lords. But now," he continued, and his voice grew terrible, "the
judge succeeds the benefactor. Traitor and assassin of your prince, I
condemn you to death."
And at his stern command the startled and trembling traitor was struck
dead in his presence.
The tide of affairs had strikingly turned. Vladimir, late a fugitive, was
now lord of all the realm of Russia. His power assured, he showed himself
in a new aspect. Yaropolk's widow, a Greek nun of great beauty, was forced
to become his wife. Not content with two, he continued to marry until he
had no less than six wives, while he filled his palaces with the daughters of
his subjects until they numbered eight hundred in all.
"Thereby hangs a tale," as Shakespeare says. Rogneda, Vladimir's first
wife, had forgiven him for the murder of her father and brothers, but could
not forgive him for the insult of turning her out of his palace and putting
other women in her place. She determined to be revenged.
One day when he had gone to see her in the lonely abode to which she
had been banished, he fell asleep in her presence. Here was the opportunity
her heart craved. Seizing a dagger, she was on the point of stabbing him
where he lay, when Vladimir awoke and stopped the blow. While the
frightened woman stood trembling before him, he furiously bade her
prepare for death, as she should die by his own hand.
"Put on your wedding dress," he harshly commanded; "seek your
handsomest apartment, and stretch yourself on the sumptuous bed you there
possess. Die you must, but you have been honored as the wife of Vladimir,
and shall not meet an ignoble death."
Rogneda did as she was bidden, yet hope had not left her heart, and she
taught her young son Isiaslaf a part which she wished him to play. When the
frowning prince entered the apartment where lay his condemned wife, he

was met by the boy, who presented him with a drawn sword, saying, "You
are not alone, father. Your son will be witness to your deed."
Vladimir's expression changed as he looked at the appealing face of the
child.
"Who thought of seeing you here?" he cried, and, flinging the sword to
the floor, he hastily left the room.
Calling his nobles together, he told them what had happened and asked
their advice.
"Prince," they said, "you should spare the culprit for the sake of the
child. Our advice is that you make the boy lord of Rogvolod's principality."
Vladimir did so, sending Rogneda with her son to rule over her father's
realm, where he built a new city which he named after the boy.
Vladimir had been born a pagan, and a pagan he was still, worshipping
the Varangian deities, in particular the god Perune, of whom he had a statue
erected on a hill near his palace, adorned with a silver head. On the same
sacred hill were planted the statues of other idols, and Vladimir proposed to
restore the old human sacrifices by offering one of his own people as a
victim to the gods.
For this purpose there was selected a young Varangian who, with his
father, had adopted the Christian faith. The father refused to give up his son,
and the enraged people, who looked on the refusal as an insult to their
prince and their gods, broke into the house and murdered both father and
son. These two have since been canonized by the Russian Church as the
only martyrs to its faith.
Vladimir by this time had become great in dominion, his warlike
prowess extending the borders of Russia on all sides. The nations to the
south saw that a great kingdom had arisen on their northern border, ruled by
a warlike and conquering prince, and it was deemed wise to seek to win him
from the worship of idols to a more elevated faith. Askhold and Dir had
been baptized as Christians. Olga, after her bloody revenge, had gone to
Constantinople and been baptized by the patriarch. But the nation continued

pagan, Vladimir was an idolater in grain, and a great field lay open for
missionary zeal.
No less than four of the peoples of the south sought to make a convert of
this powerful prince. The Bulgarians endeavored to win him to the religion
of Mohammed, picturing to him in alluring language the charms of their
paradise, with its lovely houris. But he must give up wine. This was more
than he was ready to do.
"Wine is the delight of the Russians," he said: "we cannot do without it."
The envoys of the Christian churches and the Jewish faith also sought to
win him over. The appeal of the Jews, however, failed to impress him, and
he dismissed them with the remark that they had no country, and that he had
no inclination to join hands with wanderers under the ban of Heaven. There
remained the Christians, comprising the Roman and Greek Churches, at that
time in unison. Of these the Greek Church, the claims of which were
presented to him by an advocate from Constantinople, appealed to him most
strongly, since its doctrines had been accepted by Queen Olga.
As may be seen, religion with Vladimir was far more a matter of policy
than of piety. The gods of his fathers, to whom he had done such honor, had
no abiding place in his heart; and that belief which would be most to his
advantage was for him the best.
To settle the question he sent ten of his chief boyars, or nobles, to the
south, that they might examine and report on the religions of the different
countries. They were not long in coming to a decision. Mohammedanism
and Catholicism, they said, they had found only in poor and barbarous
provinces. Judaism had no land to call its own. But the Greek faith dwelt in
a magnificent metropolis, and its ceremonies were full of pomp and
solemnity.
"If the Greek religion were not the best," they said, in conclusion, "Olga,
your ancestress, and the wisest of mortals, would never have thought of
embracing it."
Pomp and solemnity won the day, and Vladimir determined to follow
Olga's example. As to what religion meant in itself he seems to have

thought little and cared less. His method of becoming a Christian was so
original that it is well worth the telling.
Since the days of Olga Kief had possessed Christian churches and
priests, and Vladimir might easily have been baptized without leaving
home. But this was far too simple a process for a prince of his dignity. He
must be baptized by a bishop of the parent Church, and the missionaries
who were to convert his people must come from the central home of the
faith.
Should he ask the emperor for the rite of baptism? Not he; it would be
too much like rendering homage to a prince no greater than himself. The
haughty barbarian found himself in a quandary; but soon he discovered a
promising way out of it. He would make war on Greece, conquer priests
and churches, and by force of arms obtain instruction and baptism in the
new faith. Surely never before or since was a war waged with the object of
winning a new religion.
Gathering a large army, Vladimir marched to the Crimea, where stood
the rich and powerful Greek city of Kherson. The ruins of this city may still
be seen near the modern Sevastopol. To it he laid siege, warning the
inhabitants that it would be wise in them to yield, for he was prepared to
remain three years before their walls.
The Khersonites proved obstinate, and for six months he besieged them
closely. But no progress was made, and it began to look as if Vladimir
would never become a Christian in his chosen mode. A traitor within the
walls, however, solved the difficulty. He shot from the ramparts an arrow to
which a letter was attached, in which the Russians were told that the city
obtained all its fresh water from a spring near their camp, to which ran
underground pipes. Vladimir cut the pipes, and the city, in peril of the
horrors of thirst, was forced to yield.
Baptism was now to be had from the parent source, but Vladimir was
still not content. He demanded to be united by ties of blood to the emperors
of the southern realm, asking for the hand of Anna, the emperor's sister, and
threatening to take Constantinople if his proposal were rejected.

Never before had a convert come with such conditions. The princess
Anna had no desire for marriage with this haughty barbarian, but reasons of
state were stronger than questions of taste, and the emperors (there were
two of them at that time) yielded. Vladimir, having been baptized under the
name of Basil, married the princess Anna, and the city he had taken as a
token of his pious zeal was restored to his new kinsmen. All that he took
back to Russia with him were a Christian wife, some bishops and priests,
sacred vessels and books, images of saints, and a number of consecrated
relics.
Vladimir displayed a zeal in his new faith in accordance with the trouble
he had taken to win it. The old idols he had worshipped were now the most
despised inmates of his realm. Perune, as the greatest of them all, was
treated with the greatest indignity. The wooden image of the god was tied to
the tail of a horse and dragged to the Borysthenes, twelve stout soldiers
belaboring it with cudgels as it went. The banks reached, it was flung with
disdain into the river.
At Novgorod the god was treated with like indignity, but did not bear it
with equal patience. The story goes that, being flung from a bridge into the
Volkhof, the image of Perune rose to the surface of the water, threw a staff
upon the bridge, and cried out in a terrifying voice, "Citizens, that is what I
leave you in remembrance of me."
In consequence of this legend it was long the custom in that city, on the
day which was kept as the anniversary of the god, for the young people to
run about with sticks in their hands, striking one another unawares.
As for the Russians in general, they discarded their old worship as easily
as the prince had thrown overboard their idols. One day a proclamation was
issued at Kief, commanding all the people to repair to the river-bank the
next day, there to be baptized. They assented without a murmur, saying, "If
it were not good to be baptized, the prince and the boyars would never
submit to it."
These were not the only signs of Vladimir's zeal. He built churches, he
gave alms freely, he set out public repasts in imitation of the love-feasts of
the early Christians. His piety went so far that he even forbore to shed the
blood of criminals or of the enemies of his country.

But horror of bloodshed did not lie long on Vladimir's conscience. In his
later life he had wars in plenty, and the blood of his enemies was shed as
freely as water. These wars were largely against the Petchenegans, the most
powerful of his foes. And in connection with them there is a story extant
which has its parallel in the history of many another country.
It seems that in one of their campaigns the two armies came face to face
on the opposite sides of a small stream. The prince of the Petchenegans now
proposed to Vladimir to settle their quarrel by single combat and thus spare
the lives of their people. The side whose champion was vanquished should
bind itself to a peace lasting for three years.
Vladimir was loath to consent, as he felt sure that his opponents had
ready a champion of mighty power. He felt forced in honor to accept the
challenge, but asked for delay that he might select a worthy champion.
Whom to select he knew not. No soldier of superior strength and skill
presented himself. Uneasiness and agitation filled his mind. But at this
critical interval an old man, who served in the army with four of his sons,
came to him, saying that he had at home a fifth son of extraordinary
strength, whom he would offer as champion.
The young man was sent for in great haste. On his arrival, to test his
powers, a bull was sent against him which had been goaded into fury with
hot irons. The young giant stopped the raging brute, knocked him down,
and tore off great handfuls of his skin and flesh. Hope came to Vladimir's
soul on witnessing this wonderful feat.
The day arrived. The champions advanced between the camps. The
Petchenegan warrior laughed in scorn on seeing his beardless antagonist.
But when they came to blows he found himself seized and crushed as in a
vice in the arms of his boyish foe, and was flung, a lifeless body, to the
earth. On seeing this the Petchenegans fled in dismay, while the Russians,
forgetting their pledge, pursued and slaughtered them without mercy.
Vladimir at length (1015 a.d.) came to his end. His son Yaroslaf, whom
he had made ruler of Novgorod, had refused to pay tribute, and the old
prince, forced to march against his rebel son, died of grief on the way.

With all his faults, Vladimir deserved the title of Great which his country
has given him. He put down the turbulent tribes, planted colonies in the
desert, built towns, and embellished his cities with churches, palaces, and
other buildings, for which workmen were brought from Greece. Russia
grew rapidly under his rule. He established schools which the sons of the
nobles were made to attend. And though he was but a poor pattern for a
saint, he had the merit of finding Russia pagan and leaving it Christian.

CATHEDRAL AT OSTANKINO, NEAR
MOSCOW.

THE LAWGIVER OF RUSSIA.

The Russia of the year 1000 lay deep in the age of barbarism. Vladimir
had made it Christian in name, but it was far from Christian in thought or
deed. It was a land without fixed laws, without settled government, without
schools, without civilized customs, but with abundance of ignorance,
cruelty, and superstition.
It was strangely made up. In the north lay the great commercial city of
Novgorod, which, though governed by princes of the house of Rurik, was a
republic in form and in fact. It possessed its popular assembly, of which
every citizen was a member with full right to vote, and at whose meetings
the prince was not permitted to appear. The sound of a famous bell, the
Vetchevoy, called the people together, to decide on questions of peace and
war, or to elect magistrates, and sometimes the bishop, or even the prince.
The prince had to swear to carry out the ancient laws of the republic and not
attempt to lay taxes on the citizens or to interfere with their trade. They
made him gifts, but paid him no taxes. They decided how many hours he
should give to pleasure and how many to business; and they expelled some
of their princes who thought themselves beyond the power of the laws.
It seems strange that the absolute Russia of to-day should then have
possessed one of the freest of the cities of Europe. Novgorod was not only a
city, it was a state. The provinces far and wide around were subject to it,
and governed by its prince, who had in them an authority much greater than
he possessed over the proud civic merchants and money lords.
In the south, on the contrary, lay the great imperial city of Kief, the
capital of the realm, and the seat of a government as arbitrary as that of
Novgorod was free. Here dwelt the grand prince as an irresponsible

autocrat, making his will the law, and forcing all the provinces, even
haughty Novgorod, to pay a tax which bore the slavish title of tribute. Here
none could vote, no assembly of citizens ever met, and the only restraint on
the prince was that of his warlike and turbulent nobles, who often forced
him to yield to their wishes. The government was a drifting rather than a
settled one. It had no anchors out, but was moved about at the whim of the
prince and his unruly lords.
Under these two forms of government lay still a third. Rural Russia was
organized on a democratic principle which still prevails throughout that
broad land. This is the principle of the Mir, or village community, which
most of the people of the earth once possessed, but which has everywhere
passed away except in Russia and India. It is the principle of the commune,
of public instead of private property. The land of a Russian village belongs
to the people as a whole, not to individuals. It is divided up among them for
tillage, but no man can claim the fields he tills as his own, and for
thousands of years what is known as communism has prevailed on Russian
soil.
The government of the village is purely democratic. All the people meet
and vote for their village magistrate, who decides, with the aid of a council
of the elders, all the questions which arise within its confines, one of them
being the division of the land. Thus at bottom Russia is a field sown thick
with little communistic republics, though at top it is a despotism. The
government of Novgorod doubtless grew out of that of the village. The
republican city has long since passed away, but the seed of democracy
remains planted deeply in the village community.
All this is preliminary to the story of the Russian lawgiver and his laws,
which we have set out to tell. This famous person was no other than that
Yaroslaf, prince of Novgorod, and son of Vladimir the Great, whose refusal
to pay tribute had caused his father to die of grief.
Yaroslaf was the fifth able ruler of the dynasty of Rurik. The story of his
young life resembles that of his father. He found his brother strong and
threatening, and designed to fly from Novgorod and join the Varangians as
a viking lord, as his father had done before him. But the Novgorodians
proved his friends, destroyed the ships that were to carry him away, and

provided him with money to raise a new army. With this he defeated his
base brother, who had already killed or driven into exile all their other
brothers. The result was that Yaroslof, like his father, became sovereign of
all Russia.
But though this new grand prince extended his dominions by the sword,
it was not as a soldier, but as a legislator, that he won fame. His genius was
not shown on the field of battle, but in the legislative council, and Russia
reveres Yaroslaf the Wise as its first maker of laws.
The free institutions of Novgorod, of which we have spoken, were by
him sustained and strengthened. Many new cities were founded under his
beneficent rule. Schools were widely established, in one of which three
hundred of the youth of Novgorod were educated. A throng of Greek priests
were invited into the land, since there were none of Russian birth to whom
he could confide the duty of teaching the young. He gave toleration to the
idolaters who still existed, and when the people of Suzdal were about to
massacre some hapless women whom they accused of having brought on a
famine by sorcery, he stayed their hands and saved the poor victims from
death. The Russian Church owed its first national foundation to him, for he
declared that the bishops of the land should no longer depend for
appointment on the Patriarch of Constantinople.
There are no startling or dramatic stories to be told about Yaroslaf. The
heroes of peace are not the men who make the world's dramas. But it is
pleasant, after a season spent with princes who lived for war and revenge,
and who even made war to obtain baptism, to rest awhile under the green
boughs and beside the pleasant waters of a reign that became famous for the
triumphs of peace.
Under Yaroslaf Russia united itself by ties of blood to Western Europe.
His sons married Greek, German, and English princesses; his sister became
queen of Poland; his three daughters were queens of Norway, Hungary, and
France. Scandinavian in origin, the dynasty of Rurik was reaching out
hands of brotherhood towards its kinsmen in the West.
But it is as a law-maker that Yaroslaf is chiefly known. Before his time
the empire had no fixed code of laws. To say that it was without law would
not be correct. Every people, however ignorant, has its laws of custom,

unwritten edicts, the birth of the ages, which have grown up stage by stage,
and which are only slowly outgrown as the tribe develops into the nation.
Russia had, besides Novgorod, other commercial cities, with republican
institutions. Kief was certainly not without law. And the many tribes of
hunters, shepherds, and farmers must have had their legal customs. But with
all this there was no code for the empire, no body of written laws. The first
of these was prepared about 1018 by Yaroslaf, for Novgorod alone, but in
time became the law of all the land. This early code of Russian law is a
remarkable one, and goes farther than history at large in teaching us the
degree of civilization of Russia at that date.
In connection with it the chronicles tell a curious story. In 1018, we are
told, Novgorod, having grown weary of the insults and oppression of its
Varangian lords and warriors, killed them all. Angry at this, Yaroslaf enticed
the leading Novgorodians into his palace and slaughtered them in reprisal.
But at this critical interval, when his guards were slain and his subjects in
rebellion, he found himself threatened by his ambitious brother. In despair
he turned to the Novgorodians and begged with tears for pardon and
assistance. They forgave and aided him, and by their help made him
sovereign of the empire.
How far this is true it is impossible to say, but the code of Yaroslaf was
promulgated at that date, and the rights given to Novgorod showed that its
people held the reins of power. It confirmed the city in the ancient liberties
of which we have already spoken, giving it a freedom which no other city
of its time surpassed. And it laid down a series of laws for the people at
large which seem very curious in this enlightened age. It must suffice to
give the leading features of this ancient code.
It began by sustaining the right of private vengeance. The law was for
the weak alone, the strong being left to avenge their own wrongs. The
punishment of crime was provided for by judicial combats, which the law
did not even regulate. Every strong man was a law unto himself.
Where no avengers of crime appeared, murder was to be settled by fines.
For the murder of a boyar eighty grivnas were to be paid, and forty for the
murder of a free Russian, but only half as much if the victim was a woman.
Here we have a standard of value for the women of that age.

Nothing was paid into the treasury for the murder of a slave, but his
master had to be paid his value, unless he had been slain for insulting a
freeman. His value was reckoned according to his occupation, and ranged
from twelve to five grivnas.
If it be asked what was the value of a grivna, it may be said that at that
time there was little coined money, perhaps none at all, in Russia. Gold and
silver were circulated by weight, and the common currency was composed
of pieces of skin, called kuni. A grivna was a certain number of kunis equal
in value to half a pound of silver, but the kuni often varied in value.
All prisoners of war and all persons bought from foreigners were
condemned to perpetual slavery. Others became slaves for limited periods,
—freemen who married slaves, insolvent debtors, servants out of
employment, and various other classes. As the legal interest of money was
forty per cent., the enslavement of debtors must have been very common,
and Russia was even then largely a land of slaves.
The loss of a limb was fined almost as severely as that of a life. To pluck
out part of the beard cost four times as much as to cut off a finger, and
insults in general were fined four times as heavily as wounds. Horse-
stealing was punished by slavery. In discovering the guilty the ordeals of
red-hot iron and boiling water were in use, as in the countries of the West.
There were three classes in the nation,—slaves, freemen, and boyars, or
nobles, the last being probably the descendants of Rurik's warriors. The
prince was the heir of all citizens who died without male children, except of
boyars and the officers of his guard.
These laws, which were little more primitive than those of Western
Europe at the same period, seem never to have imposed corporal
punishment for crime. Injury was made good by cash, except in the case of
the combat. The fines went to the lord or prince, and were one of his means
of support, the other being tribute from his estates. No provision for
taxation was made. The mark of dependence on the prince was military
service, the lord, as in the feudal West, being obliged to provide his own
arms, provisions, and mounted followers.

Judges there were, who travelled on circuits, and who impanelled twelve
respectable jurors, sworn to give just verdicts. There are several laws
extending protection to property, fixed and movable, which seem specially
framed for the merchants of Novgorod.
Such are the leading features of the code of Yaroslaf. The franchises
granted the Novgorodians, which for four centuries gave them the right to
"life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," form part of it. Crude as are
many of its provisions, it forms a vital starting-point, that in which Russia
first came under definite in place of indefinite law. And the bringing about
of this important change is the glory of Yaroslaf the Wise.

THE YOKE OF THE TARTARS.

In Asia, the greatest continent of the earth, lies its most extensive plain,
the vast plateau of Mongolia, whose true boundaries are the mountains of
Siberia and the Himalayan highlands, the Pacific Ocean and the hills of
Eastern Europe, and of which the great plain of Russia is but an outlying
section. This mighty plateau, largely a desert, is the home of the nomad
shepherd and warrior, the nesting-place of the emigrant invader. From these
broad levels in the past horde after horde of savage horsemen rode over
Europe and Asia,—the frightful Huns, the devastating Turks, the desolating
Mongols. It is with the last that we are here concerned, for Russia fell
beneath their arms, and was held for two centuries as a captive realm.
The nomads are born warriors. They live on horseback; the care of their
great herds teaches them military discipline; they are always in motion,
have no cities to defend, no homes to abandon, no crops to harvest. Their
home is a camp; when they move it moves with them; their food is on the
hoof and accompanies them on the march; they can go hungry for a week
and then eat like cormorants; their tools are weapons, always in hand,
always ready to use; a dozen times they have burst like a devouring torrent
from their desert and overwhelmed the South and West.
While the Turks were still engaged in their work of conquest, the
Mongols arose, and under the formidable Genghis Khan swept over
Southern Asia like a tornado, leaving death and desolation in their track.
The conqueror died in 1227,—for death is a foe that vanquishes even the
greatest of warriors,—and was succeeded by his son Octoi, as Great Khan
of the Mongols and Tartars. In 1235, Batou, nephew of the khan, was sent
with an army of half a million men to the conquest of Europe.

This flood of barbarians fell upon Russia at an unfortunate time, one of
anarchy and civil war, when the whole nation was rent and torn and there
were almost as many sovereigns as there were cities. The system of giving a
separate dominion to every son of a grand prince had ruined Russia. These
small potentates were constantly at war, confusion reigned supreme, Kief
was taken and degraded and a new capital, Vladimir, established, and
Moscow, which was to become the fourth capital of Russia, was founded.
Such was the state of affairs when Batou, with his vast horde of savage
horsemen, fell on the distracted realm.
Defence was almost hopeless. Russia had no government, no army, no
imperial organization. Each city stood for itself, with great widths of open
country around. Over these broad spaces the invaders swept like an
avalanche, finding cultivated fields before them, leaving a desert behind.
They swam the Don, the Volga, and the other great rivers on their horses, or
crossed them on the ice. Leathern boats brought over their wagons and
artillery. They spread from Livonia to the Black Sea, poured into the
kingdoms of the West, and would have overrun all Europe but for the
vigorous resistance of the knighthood of Germany.
The cities of Russia made an obstinate defence, but one after another
they fell. Some saved themselves by surrender. Most of them were taken by
assault and destroyed. City after city was reduced to ashes, none of the
inhabitants being left to deplore their fall. The nomads had no use for cities.
Walls were their enemies: pasturage was all they cared for. The conversion
of a country into a desert was to them a gain rather than a loss, for grass
will grow in the desert, and grass to feed their horses and herds was what
they most desired.
So far as the warriors of Mongolia were concerned, their conquests left
them no better off. They still had to tend and feed their herds, and they
could have done that as well in their native land. But the leaders had the lust
of dominion, their followers the blood-fury, and inspired by these feelings
they ravaged the world.
One thing alone saved Russia from being peopled by Tartars,—its
climate. This was not to their liking, and they preferred to dwell in lands
better suited to their tastes and habits. The great Tartar empire of Kaptchak,

or the Golden Horde, was founded on the eastern frontier; other khanates
were founded in the south; but the Russian princes were left to rule in the
remainder of the land, under tribute to the khans, to whom they were forced
to do homage. In truth, these Tartar chiefs made themselves lords
paramount of the Russian realm, and no prince, great or small, could
assume the government of his state until he had journeyed to Central
Mongolia to beg permission to rule from the khan of the Great Horde.
The subjection of the princes was that of slaves. A century afterward
they were obliged to spread a carpet of sable fur under the hoofs of the
steed of the khan's envoy, to prostrate themselves at his feet and learn his
mission on their knees, and not only to present a cup of koumiss to the
barbarian, but even to lick from the neck of his horse the drops of the
beverage which he might let fall in drinking. More shameful subjection it
would be difficult to describe.
Several princes who proved insubordinate were summoned to the camp
of the Horde and there tried and executed. Rivals sought the khan, to buy
power by presents. During their journeys, which occupied a year or more,
the Tartar bashaks ruled their dominions. Tartar armies aided the princes in
their civil wars, and helped these ambitious lords to keep their country in a
state of subjection.
Fortunately for Russia, the great empire of the Mongols gradually fell to
pieces of its own weight. The Kaptchak, or Golden Horde, broke loose from
the Great Horde, and Russia had a smaller power to deal with. The Golden
Horde itself broke into two parts. And among the many princes of Russia a
grand prince was still acknowledged, with right by title to dominion over
the entire realm.
One of these grand princes, Alexander by name, son of the grand prince
of Vladimir, proved a great warrior and statesman and gained the power as
well as the title. Prince of Novgorod by inheritance, he defeated all his
enemies, drove the Germans from Russia, and recovered the Neva from the
Swedes, which feat of arms gained him the title of Alexander Nevsky. The
Tartars were too powerful to be attacked, so he managed to gain their good
will. The khan became his friend, and when trouble arose with Kief and

Vladimir their princes were dethroned and these principalities given to the
shrewd grand prince.
Russia seemed to be rehabilitated. Alexander was lord of its three
capitals, Novgorod, Kief, and Vladimir, and grand prince of the realm. But
the Russians were not content to submit either to his authority or to the
yoke of the Tartars. His whole life was spent in battle with them, or in
journeys to the tent of the khan to beg forgiveness for their insults.
The climax came when the Tartar collectors of tribute were massacred in
some cities and ignominiously driven out of others. When these acts
became known at the Horde the angry khan sent orders for the grand prince
and all other Russian princes to appear before him and to bring all their
troops. He said that he was about to make a campaign, and needed the aid
of the Russians.
This story Alexander did not believe. He plainly perceived that the wily
Tartar wished to deprive Russia of all its armed men, that he might the more
easily reduce it again to subjection. Rather than see his country ruined, the
patriotic prince determined to disobey, and to offer himself as a victim by
seeking alone the camp of Usbek, the great khan, a mission of infinite
danger.
He hoped that his submission might save Russia from ruin, though he
knew that death lay on his path. He found Usbek bitterly bent on war, and
for a whole year was kept in the camp of the Horde, seeking to appease the
wrath of the barbarian. In the end he succeeded, the khan promising to
forgive the Russians and desist from the intended war, and in the year 1262
Alexander started for home again.
He had seemingly escaped, but not in reality. He had not journeyed far
before he suddenly died. To all appearance, poison had been mingled with
his food before he left the camp of the khan. Alexander had become too
great and powerful at home for the designs of the conquerors. He died the
victim of his love of country. His people have recognized his virtue by
making him a saint. He had not labored in vain. In his hands the grand
princeship had been restored, Vladimir had become supreme, and a centre
had been established around which the Russians might rally. But for a
century and more still they were to remain subject to the Tartar yoke.

THE VICTORY OF THE DON.

The history of Russia during the century after the Mongol conquest is
one of shame and anarchy. The shame was that of slavish submission to the
Tartar khan. Each prince, in succession, fell on his knees before this high
dignitary of the barbarians and begged or bought his throne. The anarchy
was that of the Russian princes, on which the khan looked with winking
eyes, thinking that the more they weakened themselves the more they
would strengthen him. The rulers of Moscow, Tver, Vladimir, and
Novgorod fought almost incessantly for supremacy, crushing their people
beneath the feet of their ambition, now one, now another, gaining the upper
hand.

GENERAL VIEW OF MOSCOW.
In the end the princes of Moscow became supreme. They grew rich, and
were able to keep up a regular army, that chief tool of despotism. The crown
lands alone gave them dominion over three hundred thousand subjects. The
time was coming in which they would be the absolute rulers of all Russia.
But before this could be accomplished the power of the khans must be
broken, and the first step towards this was taken by the great Dmitri
Donskoi, who became grand prince of Moscow in 1362.
Dmitri came to the throne at a fortunate epoch. The Golden Horde was
breaking to pieces. There were several khans, at war with one another, and
discord ruled among the overlords of Russia. Still greater discord reigned in
Russia itself. For eighteen years Dmitri was kept busy in wars with the
princes of Tver, Kief, and Lithuania. Terrible was the war with Tver. Four
times he overcame Michael, its prince. Four times did Michael, aided by the
prince of Lithuania, gain the victory. During this obstinate conflict Moscow

was twice besieged. Only its stone walls, lately built, saved it from capture
and ruin. At length Olguerd, the fiery prince of Lithuania, died, and Tver
yielded. Moscow became paramount among the Russian principalities.
And now Dmitri, with all Russia as his realm, dared to defy the terrible
Tartars. For more than a century no Russian prince had ventured to appear
before the khan of the Golden Horde except on his knees. Dmitri had thus
humbled himself only three years before. Now, inflated with his new power,
he refused to pay tribute to the khan, and went so far as to put to death the
Tartar envoy, who insolently demanded the accustomed payment.
Dmitri had burned his bridges behind him. He had flung down the gage
of war to the Tartars, and would soon feel their hand in all its dreaded
strength. The khan, on hearing of the murder of his ambassador, burst into a
terrible rage. The civil wars which divided the Golden Horde had for the
time ceased, and Mamai, the khan, gathered all the power of the Horde and
marched on defiant Moscow, vowing to sweep that rebel city from the face
of the earth.
The Russians did not wait his coming. All dissensions ceased in the face
of the impending peril, all the princes sent aid, and Dmitri marched to the
Don at the head of an army of two hundred thousand men. Here he found
the redoubtable Mamai with three times that number of the fierce Tartar
horsemen in his train.
"Yonder lies the foe," said Dmitri to his princely associates. "Here runs
the Don. Shall we await him here, or cross and meet him with the river at
our backs?"
"Let us cross," was the unanimous verdict. "Let us be first in the
assault."
At once the order was given, and the battalions marched on board the
boats and were ferried across the stream, at a short distance from the
opposite bank of which the enemy lay. No sooner had they landed than
Dmitri ordered all the boats to be cast adrift. It was to be victory or death;
no hope of escape by flight was left; but well he knew that the men would
fight with double valor under such desperate straits.

The battle began. On the serried Russian ranks the Tartars poured in that
impetuous assault which had so often carried their hosts to victory. The
Russians defended themselves with fiery valor, assault after assault was
repulsed, and so fiercely was the field contested that multitudes of the fallen
were trampled to death beneath the horses' feet. At length, however,
numbers began to tell. The Russians grew weary from the closeness of the
conflict. The vast host of the Tartars enabled them to replace with fresh
troops all that were worn in the fight. Victory seemed about to perch upon
their banners.
Dismay crept into the Russian ranks. They would have broken in flight,
but no avenue of escape was left. The river ran behind them, unruffled by a
boat. Flight meant death by drowning; fight meant death by the sword. Of
the two the latter seemed best, for the Russians firmly believed that death at
the hands of the infidels meant an immediate transport to the heavenly
mansions of bliss.
At this critical moment, when the host of Dmitri was wavering between
panic and courage, the men ready to drop their swords through sheer
fatigue, an unlooked-for diversion inspired their shrinking souls. The grand
prince had stationed a detachment of his army as a reserve, and these, as
yet, had taken no part in the battle. Now, fresh and furious, they were
brought up, and fell vigorously upon the rear of the Tartars, who, filled with
sudden terror, thought that a new army had come to the aid of the old. A
moment later they broke and fled, pursued by their triumphant foes, and
falling fast as they hurried in panic fear from the encrimsoned field.
Something like amazement filled the souls of the Russians as they saw
their dreaded enemies in flight. Such a consummation they had scarcely
dared hope for, accustomed as they had been for a century to crouch before
this dreadful foe. They had bought their victory dearly. Their dead strewed
the ground by thousands. Yet to be victorious over the Tartar host seemed to
them an ample recompense for an even greater loss than that sustained.
Eight days were occupied by the survivors in burying the slain. As for the
Tartar dead, they were left to fester on the field. Such was the great victory
of the Don, from which Dmitri gained his honorable surname of Donskoi.
He died nine years afterwards (1389), having won the high honor of being
the first to vanquish the terrible horsemen of the Steppes, firmly founded

the authority of the grand princes, and made Moscow the paramount power
in Russia.

IVAN, THE FIRST OF THE CZARS.

The victory of the Don did not free Russia from the Tartar yoke. Two
years afterwards the principality of Moscow was overrun and ravaged by a
lieutenant of the mighty Tamerlane, the all-conquering successor of
Genghis Khan. Several times Moscow was taken and burned. Full seventy
years later, at the court of the Golden Horde, two Russian princes might
have been seen disputing before the great khan the possession of the grand
principality and tremblingly awaiting his decision. Nevertheless, the battle
of the Don had sounded the knell of the Tartar power. Anarchy continued to
prevail in the Golden Horde. The power of the grand princes of Moscow
steadily grew. The khans themselves played into the hands of their foes.
Russia was slowly but surely casting off her fetters, and deliverance was at
hand.
Ivan III., great-grandson of Dmitri Donskoi, ascended the throne in
1462, nearly two centuries and a half after the Tartar invasion. During all
that period Russia had been the vassal of the khans. Only now was its
freedom to come. It was by craft, more than by war, that Ivan won. In the
field he was a dastard, but in subtlety and perfidy he surpassed all other
men of his time, and his insidious but persistent policy ended by making
him the autocrat of all the Russias.
He found powerful enemies outside his dominions,—the Tartars, the
Lithuanians, and the Poles. He succeeded in defeating them all. He had
powerful rivals within the domain of Russia. These also he overcame. He
made Moscow all-powerful, imitated the tyranny of the Tartars, and
founded the autocratic rule of the czars which has ever since prevailed.

The story of the fall of the Golden Horde may be briefly told. It was the
work of the Russian army, but not of the Russian prince. In 1469, after
collecting a large army, Ivan halted and began negotiating. But the army
was not to be restrained. Disregarding the orders of their general, they
chose another leader, and assailed and captured Kasan, the chief Tartar city.
As for the army of the Golden Horde, it was twice defeated by the Russian
force. In 1480 a third invasion of the Tartars took place, which resulted in
the annihilation of their force.
The tale, as handed down to us, is a curious one. The army, full of
martial ardor, had advanced as far as the Oka to meet the Tartars; but on the
approach of the enemy Ivan, stricken with terror, deserted his troops and
took refuge in far-off Moscow. He even recalled his son, but the brave boy
refused to obey, saying that "he would rather die at his post than follow the
example of his father."
The murmurs of the people, the supplication of the priests, the
indignation of the boyars, forced him to return to the army, but he returned
only to cover it with shame and himself with disgrace. For when the chill of
the coming winter suddenly froze the river between the two forces, offering
the foe a firm pathway to battle, Ivan, in consternation, ordered a retreat,
which his haste converted into a disorderly flight. Yet the army was two
hundred thousand strong and had not struck a blow.
Fortune and his allies saved the dastard monarch. For at this perilous
interval the khan of the Crimea, an ally of Russia, attacked the capital of the
Golden Horde and forced a hasty recall of its army; and during its
disorderly homeward march a host of Cossacks fell upon it with such fury
that it was totally destroyed. Russia, threatened with a new subjection to the
Tartars by the cowardice of its monarch, was finally freed from these
dreaded foes through the aid of her allies.
But the fruits of this harvest, sown by others, were reaped by the czar.
His people, who had been disgusted with his cowardice, now gave him
credit for the deepest craft and wisdom. All this had been prepared by him,
they said. His flight was a ruse, his pusillanimity was prudence; he had
made the Tartars their own destroyers, without risking the fate of Russia in

a battle; and what had just been condemned as dastard baseness was now
praised as undiluted wisdom.
Ivan would never have gained the title of Great from his deeds in war.
He won it, and with some justice, from his deeds in peace. He was great in
diplomacy, great in duplicity, great in that persistent pursuit of a single
object through which men rise to power and fame. This object, in his case,
was autocracy. It was his purpose to crush out the last shreds of freedom
from Russia, establish an empire on the pernicious pattern of a Tartar
khanate, which had so long been held up as an example before Russian
eyes, and make the Prince of Moscow as absolute as the Emperor of China.
He succeeded. During his reign freedom fled from Russia. It has never
since returned.
The story of how this great aim was accomplished is too long to be told
here, and the most important part of it must be left for our next tale. It will
suffice, at this point, to say that by astute policy and good fortune Ivan
added to his dominions nineteen thousand square miles of territory and four
millions of subjects, made himself supreme autocrat and his voice the sole
arbiter of fate, reduced the boyars and subordinate princes to dependence on
his throne, established a new and improved system of administration in all
the details of government, and by his marriage with Sophia, the last
princess of the Greek imperial family,—driven by the Turks from
Constantinople to Rome,—gained for his standard the two-headed eagle,
the symbol of autocracy, and for himself the supreme title of czar.

THE FALL OF NOVGOROD THE GREAT.

The Czar of Russia is the one political deity in Europe, the sole absolute
autocrat. More than a hundred millions of people have delivered themselves
over, fettered hand and foot, almost body and soul, to the ownership of one
man, without a voice in their own government, without daring to speak,
hardly daring to think, otherwise than he approves. Thousands of them,
millions of them, perhaps, are saying to-day, in the words of Hamlet, "It is
not and it cannot come to good; but break my heart, for I must hold my
tongue."
Who is this man, this god of a nation, that he should loom so high? Is he
a marvel of wisdom, virtue, and nobility, made by nature to wear the purple,
fashioned of porcelain clay, greater and better than all the host to whom his
word is the voice of fate? By no means; thousands of his subjects tower far
above him in virtue and ability, but, puppet-like, the noblest and best of
them must dance as he pulls the strings, and hardly a man in Russia dares to
say that his soul is his own if the czar says otherwise.
Such a state of affairs is an anachronism in the nineteenth century, a
hideous relic of the barbarism and anarchy of mediæval times. In America,
where every man is a czar, so far as the disposal of himself is concerned, the
enslavement of the Russians seems a frightful disregard of the rights of
man, the nation a giant Gulliver bound down to the earth by chains of creed
and custom, of bureaucracy and perverted public opinion. Like Gulliver, it
was bound when asleep, and it must continue fettered while its intellect
remains torpid. Some day it will awake, stretch its mighty limbs, burst its
feeble bonds, and hurl in disarray to the earth the whole host of liliputian
officials and dignitaries who are strutting in the pride of ownership on its
great body, the czar tumbling first from his great estate.

This does not seem a proper beginning to a story from Russian history,
but, to quote from Shakespeare again, "Thereby hangs a tale." The history
of Russia has, in fact, been a strange one; it began as a republic, it has
ended as a despotism; and we cannot go on with our work without
attempting to show how this came about.
It was the Mongol invasion that enslaved Russia. Helped by the khans,
Moscow gradually rose to supremacy over all the other principalities, trod
them one by one under her feet, gained power by the aid of Tartar swords
and spears or through sheer dread of the Tartar name, and when the Golden
Horde was at length overthrown the Grand Prince took the place of the
Great Khan and ruled with the same absolute sway. It was the absolutism of
Asia imported into Europe. Step by step the princes of Moscow had copied
the system of the khan. This work was finished by Ivan the Great, at once
the deliverer and the enslaver of Russia, who freed that country from the
yoke of the khan, but laid upon it a heavier burden of servility and shame.
Under the khan there had been insurrection. Under the czar there was
subjection. The latter state was worse than the former. The subjection
continues still, but the spirit of insurrection is again rising. The time is
coming in which the rule of that successor of the Tartar khan, miscalled the
czar, will end, and the people take into their own hands the control of their
bodies and souls.
There were republics in Russia even in Ivan's day, free cities which,
though governed by princes, maintained the republican institutions of the
past. Chief among these was Novgorod, that Novgorod the Great which
invited Rurik into Russia and under him became the germ of the vast
Russian empire. A free city then, a free city it continued. Rurik and his
descendants ruled by sufferance. Yaroslaf confirmed the free institutions
which Rurik had respected. For centuries this great commercial city
continued prosperous and free, becoming in time a member of the powerful
Hanseatic League. Only for the invasion of the Mongols, Novgorod instead
of Moscow might have become the prototype of modern Russia, and a
republic instead of a despotism have been established in that mighty land.
The sword of the Tartar cast into the scales overweighted the balance. It
gave Moscow the supremacy, and liberty fell.

Ivan the Great, in his determined effort to subject all Russia to his
autocratic sway, saw before him three republican communities, the free
cities of Novgorod, Viatka, and Pskof, and took steps to sweep these last
remnants of ancient freedom from his path. Novgorod, as much the most
important of these, especially demands our attention. With its fall Russian
liberty fell to the earth.
At that time Novgorod was one of the richest and most powerful cities of
the earth. It was an ally rather than a subject of Moscow, and all the north of
Russia was under its sway and contributed to its wealth. But luxury had
sapped its strength, and it held its liberties more by purchase than by
courage. Some of these liberties had already been lost, seized by the grand
prince. The proud burghers chafed under this invasion of their time-honored
privileges, and in 1471, inspired by the seeming timidity of Ivan, they
determined to regain them.
It was a woman that brought about the revolt. Marfa, a rich and
influential widow of the city, had fallen in love with a Lithuanian, and,
inspired at once by the passions of love and ambition, sought to attach her
country to that of her lover. She opened her palace to the citizens and
lavished on them her treasures, seeking to inspire them with her own views.
Her efforts were successful: the officers of the grand prince were driven out,
and his domains seized; and when he threatened reprisal they broke into
open revolt, and bound themselves by treaty to Casimir, prince of Lithuania.
But events were to prove that the turbulent citizens were no match for
the crafty Ivan, who moved slowly but ever steadily to his goal, and made
secure each footstep before taking a step in advance. His insidious policy
roused three separate hostilities against Novgorod. The pride of the nobles
was stirred up against its democracy; the greed of the princes made them
eager to seize its wealth; the fanatical people were taught that this great city
was an apostate to the faith.
These hostile forces proved too much for the city against which they
were directed. Novgorod was taken and plundered, though Ivan did not yet
deprive it of its liberties. He had powerful princes to deal with, and did not
dare to seize so rich a prey without letting them share the spoil. But he
ruined the city by devastation and plunder, deprived it of its tributaries, the

city and territory of Perm, and turned from Novgorod to Moscow the rich
commerce of this section. Taking advantage of some doubtful words in the
treaty of submission, he held himself to be legislator and supreme judge of
the captive city. Such was the first result of the advice of an ambitious
woman.
The next step of the autocrat added to his influence. Novgorod being
threatened with an attack from Livonia, he sent thither troops and envoys to
fight and negotiate in his name, thus taking from the city, whose resources
he had already drained, its old right of making peace and war.
The ill feeling between the rich and the poor of Novgorod was fomented
by his agents; all complaints were required to be made to him; he still
further impoverished the rich by the presents and magnificent receptions
which his presence among them demanded, and dazzled the eyes of the
people by the Oriental state and splendor which had been adopted by the
court of Moscow, and which he displayed in their midst.
The nobles who had formerly been his enemies now became his victims.
He had induced the people to denounce them, and at once seized them and
sent them in chains to Moscow. The people, blinded by this seeming
attention to their complaints, remained heedless of the violation of the
ancient law of their republic, "that none of its citizens should ever be tried
or punished out of the limits of its own territory."
Thus tyranny made its slow way. The citizens, once governed and judged
by their own peers, now made their appeals to the grand prince and were
summoned to appear before his tribunal. "Never since Rurik," say the
annals, "had such an event happened; never had the grand princes of Kief
and Vladimir seen the Novgorodians come and submit to them as their
judges. Ivan alone could reduce Novgorod to that degree of humiliation."
This work was done with the deliberation of a settled policy. Ivan did not
molest Marfa, who had instigated the revolt; his sentences were just and
equitable; men were blinded by his seeming moderation; and for full seven
years he pursued his insidious way, gradually weaning the people from their
ancient customs, and taking advantage of every imprudence and thoughtless
concession on their part to ground on it a claim to increased authority.

It was the glove of silk he had thus far extended to them. Within it lay
concealed the hand of iron. The grasp of the iron hand was made when,
during an audience, the envoy of the republic, through treason or
thoughtlessness, addressed him by the name of sovereign (Gosudar, "liege
lord," instead of Gospodin, "master," the usual title).
Ivan, taking advantage of this, at once claimed all the absolute rights
which custom had attached to that title. He demanded that the republic
should take an oath to him as its judge and legislator, receive his boyars as
their rulers, and yield to them the ancient palace of Yaroslaf, the sacred
temple of their liberties, in which for more than five centuries their
assemblies had been held.
This demand roused the Novgorodians to their danger. They saw how
blindly they had yielded to tyranny. A transport of indignation inspired
them. For the last time the great bell of liberty sent forth its peal of alarm.
Gathering tumultuously at the palace from which they were threatened with
expulsion, they vigorously resolved,—
"Ivan is in fact our lord, but he shall never be our sovereign; the tribunal
of his deputies may sit at Goroditch, but never at Novgorod: Novgorod is,
and always shall be, its own judge."
In their rage they murdered several of the nobles whom they suspected
of being friends of the tyrant. The envoy who had uttered the imprudent
word was torn to pieces by their furious hands. They ended by again
invoking the aid of Lithuania.
On hearing of this outbreak the despot feigned surprise. Groans broke
from his lips, as if he felt that he had been basely used. His complaints were
loud, and the calling in of a foreign power was brought against Novgorod as
a frightful aggravation of its crime. Under cover of these groans and
complaints an army was gathered to which all the provinces of the empire
were forced to send contingents.
These warlike preparations alarmed the citizens. All Russia seemed
arrayed against them, and they tremblingly asked for conditions of peace in
accordance with their ancient honor. "I will reign at Novgorod as I do at
Moscow," replied the imperious despot. "I must have domains on your

territory. You must give up your Posadnick, and the bell which summons
you to the national council." Yet this threat of enslavement was craftily
coupled with a promise to respect their liberty.
This declaration, the most terrible that free citizens could have heard,
threw them into a state of violent agitation. Now in defiant fury they seized
their arms, now in helpless despondency let them fall. For a whole month
their crafty adversary permitted them to exhibit their rage, not caring to use
the great army with which he had encircled the city when assured that the
terror of his presence would soon bring him victory.
They yielded: they could do nothing but yield. No blood was shed. Ivan
had gained his end, and was not given to useless cruelty. Marfa and seven
of the principal citizens were sent prisoners to Moscow and their property
was confiscated. No others were molested. But on the 15th of January,
1478, the national assemblies ceased, and the citizens took the oath of
subjection. The great republic, which had existed from prehistoric times,
was at an end, and despotism ruled supreme.
On the 18th the boyars of Novgorod entered the service of Ivan, and the
possessions of the clergy were added to the domain of the prince, giving
him as vassals three hundred thousand boyar-followers, on whom he
depended to hold Novgorod in a state of submission. A great part of the
territories belonging to the city became the victor's prize, and it is said that,
as a share of his spoil, he sent to Moscow three hundred cart-loads of gold,
silver, and precious stones, besides vast quantities of furs, cloths, and other
goods of value.
Pskov, another of the Russian republics, had been already subdued. In
1479, Viatka, a colony of Novgorod, was reduced to like slavery. The end
had come. Republicanism in Russia was extinguished, and gradually the
republican population was removed to the soil of Moscow and replaced by
Muscovites, born to the yoke.
The liberties of Novgorod were gone. It had been robbed of its wealth.
Its commerce remained, which in time would have restored its prosperity.
But this too Ivan destroyed, not intentionally, but effectually. A burst of
despotic anger completed the work of ruin. The tyrant, having been insulted
by a Hanseatic city, ordered all the merchants of the Hansa then in

Novgorod to be put in chains and their property confiscated. As a result,
that confidence under which alone commerce can flourish vanished, the
North sought new channels for its trade, and Novgorod the Great, once
peopled by four hundred thousand souls, declined until only an insignificant
borough marks the spot where once it stood.
It is an interesting fact that this final blow to Russian republicanism was
dealt in 1492, the very year in which Columbus discovered a new world
beyond the seas, within which the greatest republic the world has ever
known was destined to arise.

IVAN THE TERRIBLE.

In seeking examples of the excesses to which absolute power may lead,
we usually name the wicked emperors of Rome, among whom Nero stands
most notorious as a monster of cruelty. Modern history has but one Nero in
its long lines of kings and emperors, and him we find in Ivan IV. of Russia,
surnamed the Terrible.
This cruel czar succeeded to the throne when but three years of age. In
his early years he lived in a state of terror, being insulted and despised by
the powerful nobles who controlled the power of the throne. At fourteen
years of age his enemies were driven out and his kinsmen came into power.
They, caring only for blood and plunder, prompted the boy to cruelty,
teaching him to rob, to torture, to massacre. They applauded him when he
amused himself by tormenting animals; and when, riding furiously through
the streets of Moscow, he dashed all before him to the ground and trampled
women and children under his horses' feet, they praised him for spirit and
energy.
This was an education fitted to make a Nero. But, happily for Russia, for
thirteen years the tiger was chained. Ivan was seventeen years of age when
a frightful conflagration which broke out in Moscow gave rise to a revolt
against the Glinski, his wicked kinsmen. They were torn to pieces by the
furious multitude, while terror rent his youthful soul. Amid the horror of
flames, cries of vengeance, and groans of the dying, a monk appeared
before the trembling boy, and with menacing looks and upraised hand bade
him shrink from the wrath of Heaven, which his cruelty had aroused.
Certain appearances which appeared supernatural aided the effect of
these words, the nature of Ivan seemed changed as by a miracle, dread of

Heaven's vengeance controlled his nature, and he yielded himself to the
influence of the wise and good. Pious priests and prudent boyars became his
advisers, Anastasia, his young and virtuous bride, gained an influence over
him, and Russia enjoyed justice and felicity.
During the succeeding thirteen years the country was ably and wisely
governed, order was everywhere established, the army was strengthened,
fortresses were built, enemies were defeated, the morals of the clergy were
improved, a new code of laws was formed, arts were introduced from
Europe, a printing-office was opened, the city of Archangel was built, and
the north of the empire was thrown open to commerce.
All this was the work of Adashef, Ivan's wise prime minister, aided by
the influence of the noble-hearted Anastasia. In 1560, at the end of this
period of mild and able administration, a sudden change took place and the
tiger was set free. Anastasia died. A disease seized Ivan which seemed to
affect his brain. The remainder of his life was marked by paroxysms of
frightful barbarity.
A new terror seized him, that of a vast conspiracy of the nobles against
his power, and for safety he retired to Alexandrovsky, a fortress in the midst
of a gloomy forest. Here he assumed the monkish dress with three hundred
of his minions, abandoning to the boyars the government of the empire, but
keeping the military power in his own hands.
On all sides Russia now suffered from its enemies. Moscow, with several
hundred thousand Muscovites, was burned by the Tartars in 1571. Disaster
followed disaster, which Ivan was too cowardly and weak to avert. Trusting
to incompetent generals abroad, he surrounded himself at home with a
guard of six thousand chosen men, who were hired to play the part of spies
and assassins. They carried as emblems of office a dog's head and a broom,
the first to indicate that they worried the enemies of the czar, the second that
they swept them from the face of the earth. They were chosen from the
lowest class of the people, and to them was given the property of their
victims, that they might murder without mercy.
The excesses of Ivan are almost too horrible to tell. He began by putting
to death several great boyars of the family of Rurik, while their wives and
children were driven naked into the forests, where they died under the

scourge. Novgorod had been ruined by his grandfather. He marched against
it, in a freak of madness, gathered a throng of the helpless people within a
great enclosure, and butchered them with his own hand. When worn out
with these labors of death, he turned on them his guard, his slaves, and his
dogs, while for a month afterwards hundreds of them were flung daily into
the waters of the river, through the broken ice. What little vitality Ivan III.
had left in the republican city was stamped out under the feet of this
insensate brute.
Tver and Pskov, two others of the free cities of the empire, suffered from
his frightful presence. Then returning to Moscow, he filled the public square
with red-hot brasiers, great brass caldrons, and eighty gibbets, and here five
hundred of the leading nobles were slain by his orders, after being subjected
to terrible tortures.
Women were treated as barbarously as men. Ivan, with a cruelty never
before matched, ordered many of them to be hanged at their own doors, and
forced the husbands to go in and out under the swinging and festering
corpses of those they had loved and cherished. In other cases husbands or
children were fastened, dead, in their seats at table, and the family forced to
sit at meals, for days, opposite these terrifying objects.
Seeking daily for new conceits of cruelty, he forced one lord to kill his
father and another his brother, while it was his delight to let loose his dogs
and bears upon the people in the public square, the animals being left to
devour the mutilated bodies of those they killed. Eight hundred women
were drowned in one frightful mass, and their relatives were forced under
torture to point out where their wealth lay hidden.
It is said that sixty thousand people were slain by Ivan's orders in
Novgorod alone; how many perished in the whole realm history does not
relate. His only warlike campaign was against the Livonians. These he
failed to conquer, but held their resistance as a rebellion, and ordered his
prisoners to be thrown into boiling caldrons, spitted on lances, or roasted at
fires which he stirred up with his own hands.
This monster of iniquity married in all seven wives. He sought for an
eighth from the court of Queen Elizabeth of England, and the daughter of
the Earl of Huntington was offered him as a victim,—a willing one, it

seems, influenced by the glamour which power exerts over the mind; but
before the match was concluded the intended bride took fright, and begged
to be spared the terrible honor of wedding the Russian czar.
Yet all the excesses of Ivan did not turn the people against him. He
assumed the manner of one inspired, claiming divine powers, and all the
injuries and degradation which he inflicted upon the people were accepted
not only with resignation but with adoration. The Russians of that age of
ignorance seem to have looked upon God and the czar as one, and
submitted to blows, wounds, and insults with a blind servility to which only
abject superstition could have led.

CHURCH AND TOWER OF IVAN THE
GREAT.
The end came at last, in a final freak of madness. An humble
supplication, coming from the most faithful of his subjects, was made to
him; but in his distorted brain it indicated a new conspiracy of the boyars,
of which his eldest and ablest son was to be the leader. In a transport of
insane rage the frenzied emperor raised his iron-bound staff and struck to
the earth with a mortal blow this hope of his race.

This was his last excess. Regret for his hasty act, though not remorse for
his murders, assailed him, and he soon after died, after twenty-six years of
insane cruelties, ordering new executions almost with his latest breath.

THE CONQUEST OF SIBERIA.

In the year 1558 a family of wealthy merchants, Stroganof by name,
began to barter with the Tartar tribes dwelling east of the Ural Mountains.
Ivan IV. had granted to this family the desert districts of the Kama, with
great privileges in trade, and the power to levy troops and build forts—at
their own expense—as a security against the robbers who crossed the Urals
to prey upon their settled neighbors to the west. In return the Stroganofs
were privileged to follow their example in a more legal manner, by the
brigandage of trade between civilization and barbarism.
These robbers came from the region now known as Siberia, which
extends to-day through thousands of miles of width, from the Urals to the
Pacific. Before this time we know little about this great expanse of land. It
seems to have been peopled by a succession of races, immigrants from the
south, each new wave of people driving the older tribes deeper into the
frozen regions of the north. Early in the Christian era there came hither a
people destitute of iron, but expert in the working of bronze, silver, and
gold. They had wide regions of irrigated fields, and a higher civilization
than that of those who in time took their place.
People of Turkish origin succeeded these tribes about the eleventh
century. They brought with them weapons of iron and made fine pottery. In
the thirteenth century, when the great Mongol outbreak took place under
Genghis Khan, the Turkish kingdom in Siberia was destroyed and Tartars
took their place. Civilization went decidedly down hill. Such was the state
of affairs when Russia began to turn eyes of longing towards Siberia.
The busy traders of Novgorod had made their way into Siberia as early
as the eleventh century. But this republic fell, and the trade came to an end.

In 1555, Khan Ediger, who had made himself a kingdom in Siberia, and
whose people had crossed swords with the Russians beyond the Urals, sent
envoys to Moscow, who consented to pay to Russia a yearly tribute of a
thousand sables, thus acknowledging Russian supremacy.
This tribute showed that there were riches beyond the mountains. The
Stroganofs made their way to the barrier of the hills, and it was not long
before the trader was followed by the soldier. The invasion of Siberia was
due to an event which for the time threatened the total overthrow of the
Russian government. A Cossack brigand, Stepan Rozni by name, had long
defied the forces of the czar, and gradually gained in strength until he had
an army of three hundred thousand men under his command. If he had been
a soldier of ability he might have made himself lord of the empire. Being a
brigand in grain, he was soon overturned and his forces dispersed.
Among his followers was one Yermak, a chief of the Cossacks of the
Don, whom the czar sentenced to death for his love of plunder, but
afterwards pardoned. Yermak and his followers soon found the rule of
Moscow too stringent for their ideas of personal liberty, and he led a
Cossack band to the Stroganof settlements in Perm.
Tradition tells us that the Stroganof of that date did not relish the
presence of his unruly guests, with their free ideas of property rights, and
suggested to Yermak that Siberia offered a promising field for a ready
sword. He would supply him with food and arms if he saw fit to lead an
expedition thither.
The suggestion accorded well with Yermak's humor. He at once began to
enlist volunteers for the enterprise, adding to his own Cossack band a
reinforcement of Russians and Tartars and of German and Polish prisoners
of war, until he had sixteen hundred and thirty-six men under his command.
With these he crossed the mountains in 1580, and terrified the natives to
submission with his fire-arms, a form of weapon new to them. Making their
way down the Tura and Taghil Rivers, the adventurers crossed the immense
untrodden forests of Tobol, and Kutchum, the Tartar khan, was assailed in
his capital town of Ister, near where Tobolsk now stands.
Many battles with the Tartars were fought, Ister was taken, the khan fled
to the steppes, and his cousin was made prisoner by the adventurers.

Yermak now, having added by his valor a great domain to the Russian
empire, purchased the favor of Ivan IV. by the present of this new kingdom.
He made his way to the Irtish and Obi, opened trade with the rich khanate
of Bokhara, south of the desert, and in various ways sought to consolidate
the conquest he had made. But misfortune came to the conqueror. One day,
being surprised by the Tartars when unprepared, he leaped into the Irtish in
full armor and tried to swim its rapid current. The armor he wore had been
sent him by the czar, and had served him well in war. It proved too heavy
for his powers of swimming, bore him beneath the hungry waters, and
brought the career of the victorious brigand to an end. After his death his
dismayed followers fled from Siberia, yielding it to Tartar hands again.
Yermak—in his way a rival of Cortez and Pizarro—gained by his
conquest the highest fame among the Russian people. They exalted him to
the level of a hero, and their church has raised him to the rank of a saint, at
whose tomb miracles are performed. As regards the Russian saints, it may
here be remarked that they have been constructed, as a rule, from very
unsanctified timber, as may be seen from the examples we have heretofore
given. Not only the people and the priests but the poets have paid their
tribute to Yermak's fame, epic poems having been written about his exploits
and his deeds made familiar in popular song.
Though the Cossacks withdrew after Yermak's death, others soon
succeeded them. The furs of Siberia formed a rich prize whose allurement
could not be ignored, and new bands of hunters and adventurers poured into
the country, sustained by regular troops from Moscow. The advance was
made through the northern districts to avoid the denser populations of the
south. New detachments of troops were sent, who built forts and settled
laborers around them, with the duty of supplying the garrisons with food,
powder, and arms. By 1650 the Amur was reached and followed to the
Pacific Ocean.
It was a brief period in which to conquer a country of such vast extent.
But no organized resistance was met, and the land lay almost at the mercy
of the invaders. There was vigorous opposition by the tribes, but they were
soon subdued. The only effective resistance they met was that of the
Chinese, who obliged the Cossacks to quit the Amur, which river they
claimed. In 1855 the advance here began again, and the whole course of the

river was occupied, with much territory to its south. Siberia, thus conquered
by arms, is being made secure for Russia by a trans-continental railroad and
hosts of new settlers, and promises in the future to become a land of the
greatest prosperity and wealth.

KIAKHTA, SIBERIA.

THE MACBETH OF RUSSIA.

On the 15th of May, 1591, five boys were playing in the court-yard of
the Russian palace at Uglitch. With them were the governess and nurse of
the principal child—a boy ten years of age—and a servant-woman. The
child had a knife in his hand, with which he was amusing himself by
thrusting it into the ground or cutting a piece of wood.
Unluckily, the attention of the women for a brief interval was drawn
aside. When the nurse looked at her charge again, to her horror she found
him writhing on the ground, bathed in blood which poured from a large
wound in his throat.
The shrieks of the nurse quickly drew others to the spot, and in a
moment there was a terrible uproar, for the dying boy was no less a person
than Dmitri, son of Ivan the Terrible, brother of Feodor, the reigning czar,
and heir to the crown of Russia. The tocsin was sounded, and the populace
thronged into the court-yard, thinking that the palace was on fire. On
learning what had actually happened they burst into uncontrollable fury.
The child had not killed himself, but had been murdered, they said, and a
victim for their rage was sought.
In a moment the governess was hurled bleeding and half alive to the
ground, and one of her slaves, who came to her aid, was killed. The keeper
of the palace was accused of the crime, and, though he fled and barred
himself within a house, the infuriated mob broke through the doors and
killed him and his son. The body of the child was carried into a neighboring
church, and here the son of the governess, against whom suspicion had been
directed, was murdered before it under his mother's eyes. Fresh victims to

the wrath of the populace were sought, and the lives of the governess and
some others were with difficulty saved.
As for the child who had killed himself or had been killed, alarming
stories had recently been set afloat. He was said to be the image of his
terrible father, and to manifest an unnatural delight in blood and the sight of
pain, his favorite amusement being to torture and kill animals. But it is
doubtful if any of this was true, for there was then one in power who had a
reason for arousing popular prejudice against the boy.
That this may be better understood we must go back. Ivan had killed his
ablest son, as told in a previous story, and Feodor, the present czar, was a
feeble, timid, sickly incapable, who was a mere tool in the hands of his
ambitious minister, Boris Godunof. Boris craved the throne. Between him
and this lofty goal lay only the feeble Feodor and the child Dmitri, the sole
direct survivors of the dynasty of Rurik. With their death without children
that great line would be extinguished.
The story of Boris reminds us in several particulars of that of the Scotch
usurper Macbeth. His future career had been predicted, in the dead of night,
by astrologers, who said, "You shall yet wear the crown." Then they became
silent, as if seeing horrors which they dared not reveal. Boris insisted on
knowing more, and was told that he should reign, but only for seven years.
In joy he exclaimed, "No matter, though it be for only seven days, so that I
reign!"
This ambitious lord, who ruled already if he did not reign, had therefore
a purpose in exciting prejudice against and distrust of Dmitri, the only heir
to the crown, and in taking steps for his removal. Feodor dead, the throne
would fall like ripe fruit into his own hands.
Yet, whether guilty of the murder or not, he took active steps to clear
himself of the dark suspicion of guilt. An inquest was held, and the verdict
rendered that the boy had killed himself by accident. At once the regent
proceeded to punish those who had taken part in the outbreak at Uglitch.
The czaritza, mother of Dmitri, who had first incited the mob, was forced to
take the veil. Her brothers, who had declared the act one of murder, were
sent to remote prisons. Uglitch was treated with frightful severity. More
than two hundred of its inhabitants were put to death. Others were maimed

and thrown into dungeons. All the rest, except those who had fled, were
exiled to Siberia, and with them was banished the very church-bell which
had called them out by its tocsin peal. A town of thirty thousand inhabitants
was depopulated that, as people said, every evidence of the guilt of Boris
Godunof might be destroyed.
This dreadful violence did Boris more harm than good. Macbeth stabbed
the sleeping grooms to hide his guilt. Boris destroyed a city. But he only
caused the people to look on him as an assassin and to doubt the motives of
even his noblest acts.
A fierce fire broke out that left much of Moscow in ruin. Boris rebuilt
whole streets and distributed money freely among the people. But even
those who received this aid said that he had set fire to the city himself that
he might win applause with his money. A Tartar army invaded the empire
and appeared at the gates of Moscow. All were in terror but Boris, who
hastily built redoubts, recruited soldiers, and inspired all with his own
courage. The Tartars were defeated, and hardly a third of them reached
home again. Yet all the return the able regent received was the popular
saying that he had called in the Tartars in order to make the people forget
the death of Dmitri.
A child was born to Feodor,—a girl. The enemies of the regent instantly
declared that a boy had been born and that he had substituted for it a girl. It
died in a few days, and then it was said that he had poisoned it.
Yet Boris went on, disdaining his enemies, winning power as he went.
He gained the favor of the clergy by giving Russia a patriarch of its own.
The nobles who opposed him were banished or crushed. He made the
peasants slaves of the land, and thus won over the petty lords. Cities were
built, fortresses erected, the enemies of Russia defeated; Siberia was
brought under firm control, and the whole nation made to see that it had
never been ruled by abler hands.
Boris in all this was strongly paving his way to the throne. In 1598 the
weak Feodor died. He left no sons, and with him, its fifty-second sovereign,
the dynasty of Rurik the Varangian came to an end. It had existed for more
than seven centuries. Branches of the house of Rurik remained, yet no

member of it dared aspire to that throne which the tyrant Ivan had made
odious.
A new ruler had to be chosen by the voice of those in power, and Boris
stood supreme among the aspirants. The chronicles tell us, with striking
brevity, "The election begins; the people look up to the nobles, the nobles to
the grandees, the grandees to the patriarch; he speaks, he names Boris; and
instantaneously, and as one man, all re-echo that formidable name."
And now Godunof played an amusing game. He held the reins of power
so firmly that he could safely enact a transparent farce. He refused the
sceptre. The grandees and the people begged him to accept it, and he took
refuge from their solicitations in a monastery. This comedy, which even
Cæsar had not long played, Boris kept up for over a month. Yet from his
cell he moved Russia at his will.
In truth, the more he seemed to withdraw the more eager became all to
make him accept. Priests, nobles, people, besieged him with their
supplications. He refused, and again refused, and for six weeks kept all
Russia in suspense. Not until he saw before him the highest grandees and
clergy of the realm on their knees, tears in their eyes, in their hands the
relics of the saints and the image of the Redeemer, did he yield what
seemed a reluctant assent, and come forth from his cell to accept that throne
which was the chief object of his desires.
But Boris on the throne still resembled Macbeth. The memory of his
crimes pursued him, and he sought to rule by fear instead of love. He
endeavored, indeed, to win the people by shows and prodigality, but the
powerful he ruled with a heavy hand, destroying all whom he had reason to
fear, threatening the extinction of many great families by forbidding their
members to marry, seizing the wealth of those he had ruined. The family of
the Romanofs, allied to the line of Rurik, and soon to become pre-eminent
in Russia, he pursued with rancor, its chief being obliged to turn monk to
escape the axe. As monk he in time rose to the headship of the church.
The peasantry, who had before possessed liberty of movement, were by
him bound as serfs to the soil. Thousands of them fled, and an insupportable
inquisition was established, as hateful to the landowners as to the serfs. All
this was made worse by famine and pestilence, which ravaged Russia for

three years. And in the midst of this disaster the ghost of the slain Dmitri
rose to plague his murderer. In other words, one who claimed to be the slain
prince appeared, and avenged the murdered child, his story forming one of
the most interesting tales in the history of Russia. It is this which we have
now to tell.
About midsummer of the year 1603 Adam Wiszniowiecki, a Polish
prince, angry at some act of negligence in a young man whom he had lately
employed, gave him a box on the ear and called him by an insulting name.
"If you knew who I am, prince," said the indignant youth, "you would
not strike me nor call me by such a name."
"Knew who you are! Why, who are you?"
"I am Dmitri, son of Ivan IV., and the rightful czar of Russia."
Surprised by this extraordinary statement, the prince questioned him,
and was told a plausible story by the young man. He had escaped the
murderer, he said, the boy who died being the son of a serf, who resembled
and had been substituted for him by his physician Simon, who knew what
Boris designed. The physician had fled with him from Uglitch and put him
in the hands of a loyal gentleman, who for safety had consigned him to a
monastery.
The physician and gentleman were both dead, but the young man
showed the prince a Russian seal which bore Dmitri's arms and name, and a
gold cross adorned with jewels of great value, given him, he said, by his
princely godfather. He was about the age which Dmitri would have reached,
and, as a Russian servant who had seen the child said, had warts and other
marks like those of the true Dmitri. He possessed also a persuasiveness of
manner which soon won over the Polish prince.
The pretender was accepted as an illustrious guest by Prince
Wiszniowiecki, given clothes, horses, carriages, and suitable retinue, and
presented to other Polish dignitaries. Dmitri, as he was thenceforth known,
bore well the honors now showered upon him. He was at ease among the
noblest; gracious, affable, but always dignified; and all said that he had the
deportment of a prince.

He spoke Polish as well as Russian, was thoroughly versed in Russian
history and genealogy, and was, moreover, an accomplished horseman,
versed in field sports, and of striking vigor and agility, qualities highly
esteemed by the Polish nobles.
The story of this event quickly reached Russia, and made its way with
surprising rapidity through all the provinces. The czarevitch Dmitri had not
been murdered, after all! He was alive in Poland, and was about to call the
usurper to a terrible reckoning. The whole nation was astir with the story,
and various accounts of his having been seen in Russia and of having
played a brave part in the military expeditions of the Cossacks were set
afloat.
Boris soon heard of this claimant of the throne. He also received the
disturbing news that a monk was among the Cossacks of the Don urging
them to take up arms for the czarevitch who would soon be among them.
His first movement was the injudicious one of trying to bribe
Wiszniowiecki to give up the impostor to him,—the result being to confirm
the belief that he was in truth the prince he claimed to be.
The events that followed are too numerous to be given in detail, and it
must suffice here to say that on October 31, 1604, Dmitri entered Russian
territory at the head of a small Polish army, of less than five thousand in all.
This was a trifling force with which to invade an empire, but it grew rapidly
as he advanced. Town after town submitted on his appearance, bringing to
him, bound and gagged, the governors set over them by Boris. Dmitri at
once set them free and treated them with politic humanity.
The first town to offer resistance was Novgorod-Swerski, which Peter
Basmanof, a general of Boris, had garrisoned with five hundred men.
Basmanof was brave and obstinate, and for several weeks he held the force
of Dmitri before this petty place, while Boris was making vigorous efforts
to collect an army among his discontented people. On the last day of 1604
the two armies met, fifteen thousand against fifty thousand, and on a broad
open plain that gave the weaker force no advantage of position.
But Dmitri made up for weakness by soldierly spirit. At the head of
some six hundred mail-clad Polish knights he vigorously charged the
Russian right wing, hurled it back upon the centre, and soon had the whole

army in disorder. The soldiers flung down their arms and fled, shouting,
"The czarevitch! the czarevitch!"
Yet in less than a month this important victory was followed by a defeat.
Dmitri had been weakened by his Poles being called home. Boris gathered
new forces, and on January 20, 1605, the armies met again, now seventy
thousand Muscovites against less than quarter their number. Yet victory
would have come to Dmitri again but for treachery in his army. He charged
the enemy with the same fierceness as before, bore down all before him,
routed the cavalry, tore a great gap in the line of the infantry, and would
have swept the field had the main body of his army, consisting of eight
thousand Zaporogues, come to his aid.
At this vital moment this great body of cavalry, half the entire army,
wheeled and quit the field,—bribed, it is said, by Boris. Such a defection, at
such a moment, was fatal. The Russians rallied; the day was lost; nothing
but flight remained. Dmitri fled, hotly pursued, and his horse suffering from
a wound. He was saved by his devoted Cossack infantry, four thousand in
number, who stood to their guns and faced the whole Muscovite army. They
were killed to a man, but Dmitri escaped,—favored, as we are told, by some
of the opposing leaders, who did not want to make Boris too powerful.
All was not lost while Dmitri remained at liberty. Lost armies could be
restored. He took refuge in Putivle, one of the towns which had pronounced
in his favor, and while his enemies, who proved half-hearted in the cause of
Boris, wasted their time in besieging a small fortress, new adherents flocked
to his banner. Boris was furious against his generals, but his fury caused
them to hate instead of to serve him. He tried to get rid of Dmitri by poison,
but his agents were discovered and punished, and the attempt helped his
rival more than a victory would have done.
Dmitri wrote to Boris, declaring that Heaven had protected him against
this base attempt, and ironically promising to extend mercy towards him.
"Descend from the throne you have usurped, and seek in the solitude of the
cloister to reconcile yourself with Heaven. In that case I will forget your
crimes, and even assure you of my sovereign protection."
All this was bitter to the Russian Macbeth. The princely blood which he
had shed to gain the throne seemed to redden the air about him. The ghost

of his slain victim haunted him. His power, indeed, seemed as great as ever.
He was an autocrat still, the master of a splendid court, the ruler over a vast
empire. Yet he knew that they who came with reverence and adulation into
his presence hated him in their hearts, and anguish must have smitten the
usurper to the soul.
His sudden death seemed to indicate this. On the 13th of April, 1605,
after dining in state with some distinguished foreigners, illness suddenly
seized him, blood burst from his mouth, nose, and ears, and within two
hours he was dead. He had reigned six years,—nearly the full term
predicted by the soothsayers.
The story of Dmitri is a long one still, but must be dealt with here with
the greatest brevity. Feodor, the son of Boris, was proclaimed czar by the
boyars of the court. The oath of allegiance was taken by the whole city; all
seemed to favor him; yet within six weeks this boyish czar was deposed and
executed without a sword being drawn in his defence.
Basmanof, the leading general of Boris, had turned to the cause of
Dmitri, and the army seconded him. The people of Moscow declared in
favor of the pretender, there were a few executions and banishments, and on
the 20th of June the new czar entered Moscow in great pomp, amid the
acclamations of an immense multitude, who thronged the streets, the
windows, and the house-tops; and the young man who, less than two years
before, had had his ears boxed by a Polish prince, was now proclaimed
emperor and autocrat of the mighty Russian realm.
It was a short reign to which the false Dmitri—for there seems to be no
doubt of the death of the true Dmitri—had come. Within less than a year
Moscow was in rebellion, he was slain, and the throne was vacant. And this
result was largely due to his generous and kindly spirit, largely to his
trusting nature and disregard of Russian opinion.
No man could have been more unlike the tyrant Ivan, his reputed father.
Dmitri proved kind and generous to all, even bestowing honors upon
members of the family of Godunof. He remitted heavy taxes, punished
unjust judges, paid the debts contracted by Ivan, passed laws in the interest
of the serfs, and held himself ready to receive the petitions and redress the
grievances of the humblest of his subjects. His knowledge of state affairs

was remarkable for one of his age, and Russia had never had an abler,
nobler-minded, and more kindly-hearted czar.
But Dmitri in discretion was still a boy, and made trouble where an older
head would have mended it. He offended the boyars of his council by
laughing at their ignorance.
"Go and travel," he said; "observe the ways of civilized nations, for you
are no better than savages."
The advice was good, but not wise. He offended the Russian demand for
decorum in a czar by riding through the streets on a furious stallion, like a
Cossack of the Don. In religion he was lax, favoring secretly the Latin
Church. He chose Poles instead of Russians for his secretaries. And he
excited general disgust by the announcement that he was about to marry a
Polish woman, heretical to the Russian faith. The people were still more
incensed by the conduct of Marina, this foreign bride, both before and after
the wedding, she giving continual offence by her insistence on Polish
customs.
While thus offending the prejudices and superstitions of his people,
Dmitri prepared for his downfall by his trustfulness and clemency. He
dismissed the spies with whom former czars had surrounded themselves,
and laid himself freely open to treachery. The result of his acts and his
openness was a conspiracy, which was fortunately discovered. Shuiski, its
leader, was condemned to be executed. Yet as he knelt with the axe lifted
above him, he was respited and banished to Siberia; and on his way thither
a courier overtook him, bearing a pardon for him and his banished brothers.
His rank was restored, and he was again made a councillor of the empire.
Clemency like this was praiseworthy, but it proved fatal. Like Cæsar
before him, Dmitri was over-clement and over-confident, and with the same
result. Yet his answer to those who urged him to punish the conspirator was
a noble one, and his trustfulness worth far more than a security due to
cruelty and suspicion.
"No," he said, "I have sworn not to shed Christian blood, and I will keep
my oath. There are two ways of governing an empire,—tyranny and

generosity. I choose the latter. I will not be a tyrant. I will not spare money;
I will scatter it on all hands."
Only for the offence which he gave his people by disregarding their
prejudices, Dmitri might have long and ably reigned. His confidence
opened the way to a new conspiracy, of which Shuiski was again at the
head. Reports were spread through the city that Dmitri was a heretic and an
impostor, and that he had formed a plot to massacre the Muscovites by the
aid of the Poles whom he had introduced into the city.
As a result of the insidious methods of the conspirators, the whole city
broke out in rebellion, and at daybreak on the 29th of May, 1606, a body of
boyars gathered in the great square in full armor, and, followed by a
multitude of townsmen, advanced on the Kremlin, whose gates were thrown
open by traitors within.
Dmitri, who had only fifty guards in the palace, was aroused by the din
of bells and the uproar in the streets. An armed multitude filled the outer
court, shouting, "Death to the impostor!"
Soon conspirators appeared in the palace, where the czar, snatching a
sword from one of the guards, and attended by Basmanof, attacked them,
crying out, "I am not a Boris for you!"
He killed several with his own hands, but Basmanof was slain before
him, and he and the guards were driven back from chamber to chamber,
until the guards, finding that the czar had disappeared, laid down their arms.
Dmitri, seeing that resistance was hopeless, had sought a distant room,
and here had leaped or been thrown from a window to the ground. The
height was thirty feet, his leg was broken by the fall, and he fainted with the
pain.
His last hope of life was gone. Some faithful soldiers who found him
sought to defend him against the mob who soon appeared, but their
resistance was of no avail. Dmitri was seized, his royal garments were torn
off, and the caftan of a pastry-cook was placed upon him. Thus dressed, he
was carried into a room of the palace for the mockery of a trial.

"Bastard dog," cried one of the Russians, "tell us who you are and
whence you came."
"You all know I am your czar," replied Dmitri, bravely, "the legitimate
son of Ivan Vassilievitch. If you desire my death, give me time at least to
collect my senses."
At this a Russian gentleman named Valnief shouted out,—
"What is the use of so much talk with the heretic dog? This is the way I
confess this Polish fifer." And he put an end to the agony of Dmitri by
shooting him through the breast.
In an instant the mob rushed on the lifeless body, slashing it with axes
and swords. It was carried out, placed on a table, and a set of bagpipes set
on the breast with the pipe in the mouth.
"You played on us long enough; now play for us," cried the ribald
insulter.
Others lashed the corpse with their whips, crying, "Look at the czar, the
hero of the Germans."
For three days Dmitri's body lay exposed to the view of the populace,
but it was so hacked and mangled that none could recognize in it the gallant
young man who a few days before had worn the imperial robes and crown.
On the third night a blue flame was seen playing over the table, and the
guards, frightened by this natural result of putrefaction, hastened to bury the
body outside the walls. But superstitious terrors followed the prodigy: it
was whispered that Dmitri was a wizard who, by magic arts, had the power
to come to life from the grave. To prevent this the body was dug up again
and burned, and the ashes were collected, mixed with gunpowder, and
rammed into a cannon, which was then dragged to the gate by which Dmitri
had entered Moscow. Here the match was applied, and the ashes of the late
czar were hurled down the road leading to Poland, whence he had come.
Thus died a man who, impostor though he seems to have been, was
perhaps the noblest and best of all the Russian czars, while the story of his

rise and fall forms the most dramatic tale in all the annals of the empire
over which for one short year he ruled.

THE ERA OF THE IMPOSTORS.

We have told how the ashes of Dmitri were loaded into a cannon and
fired from the gate of Moscow. They fell like seeds of war on the soil of
Russia, and for years that unhappy land was torn by faction and harried by
invasion. From those ashes new Dmitris seemed to spring, other impostors
rose to claim the crown, and until all these shades were laid peace fled from
the land.
Vassili Shuiski, the leader in the insurrection against Dmitri, had himself
proclaimed czar. He was destined to learn the truth of the saying, "Uneasy
lies the head that wears a crown." For hardly had the mob that murdered
Dmitri dispersed before rumors arose that their victim was not dead. His
body had been so mangled that none could recognize it, and the story was
set afloat that it was one of his officers who had been killed, and that he had
escaped. Four swift horses were missing from the stables of the palace, and
these were at once connected with the assumed flight of the czar. Rumor
was in the air, and even in Moscow doubts of Dmitri's death grew rife.
Fuel soon fell on the flame. Three strangers in Russian dress, but
speaking the language of Poland, crossed the Oka River, and gave the
ferryman the high fee of six ducats, saying, "You have ferried the czar;
when he comes back to Moscow with a Polish army he will not forget your
service."
At a German inn, a little farther on, the same party used similar
language. This story spread like wildfire through Russia, and deeply
alarmed the new czar. To put it down he sought to play on the religious
feelings of the Russians, by making a saint of the original Dmitri. A body
was produced, said to have been taken from the grave of the slain boy at

Uglitch, but in a remarkable state of preservation, since it still displayed the
fresh hue of life and held in its hand some strangely preserved nuts. Tales of
miracles performed by the relics of the new saint were also spread, but with
little avail, for the people were not very ready to believe the man who had
stolen the throne.
War broke out despite these manufactured miracles. Prince Shakhofskoi
—the supposed leader of the party who had told the story at the Oka—was
soon in the field with an army of Cossacks and peasants, and defeated the
royal army. But the new Dmitri, in whose name he fought, did not appear. It
seemed as if Shakhofskoi had not yet been able to find a suitable person to
play the part.
Russia, however, was not long without a pretender. During Dmitri's reign
a young man had appeared among the Cossacks of the Volga, calling
himself Peter Feodorovitch, and claiming to be the son of the former czar
Feodor. This man now reappeared and presented himself to the rebel army
as the representative of his uncle Dmitri. He was eagerly welcomed by
Shakhofskoi, who badly needed some one whom he might offer to his men
as a prince.
And now we have to describe one of the strangest sieges in the annals of
history. Shakhofskoi, finding himself threatened by a powerful army, took
refuge in the fortified town of Toula. Here he was soon joined by
Bolotnikof, a Polish general who had come to Russia with a commission
bearing the imperial seal of Dmitri. In this stronghold they were besieged
by an army of one hundred thousand men, led by the czar himself.
Toula was strong. It was vigorously defended, the garrison fighting
bravely for their lives. No progress was made with the siege, and Shuiski
grew disconsolate, for he knew that to fail now would be ruin.
From this state of anxiety he was relieved by a remarkable proposal, that
of an obscure individual who promised to drown all the people of Toula and
deliver the town into his hands. This extraordinary offer, made by a monk
named Kravkof, was at first received with incredulous laughter, and it was
some time before the czar and his council could be brought to listen to the
words of an idle braggart, as they deemed the stranger. In the end the czar
asked him to explain his plan.

It proved to be the following. Toula lay in a narrow valley, down whose
centre flowed the little river Oupa, passing through the town. Kravkof
suggested that they should dam this stream below the town. "Do as I say,"
he remarked, "and if the whole town is not under water in a few hours, I
will answer for the failure with my head."
The project thus presented seemed feasible. Immediately all the millers
in the army, men used to the kind of work required, were put under his
orders, and the other soldiers were set to carrying sacks of earth to the place
chosen for the dam. As this rose in height, the water backed up in the town.
Soon many of the streets became canals, hundreds of houses, undermined
by the water, were destroyed, and the promise of Kravkof seemed likely to
be fulfilled.
Yet the garrison, confined in what had become a walled-in lake, fought
with desperate obstinacy. Water surrounded them, yet they waded to the
walls and fought. Famine decimated them, yet they starved and fought. A
terrible epidemic broke out in the water-soaked city, but the garrison fought
on. Dreadful as were their surroundings, they held out with unflinching
courage and intrepidity.
The dam was the centre of the struggle. The besiegers sought to raise it
still higher and deepen the water in the streets; the besieged did their best to
break it down and relieve the city. It had grown to a great height with such
rapidity that the superstitious people of Toula felt sure that magic had aided
in its building and fancied that it might be destroyed by magic means. A
monk declared that Shuiski had brought devils to his aid, but professed to
be a proficient in the black art, and offered, for a hundred roubles, to fight
the demons in their own element.
Bolotnikof accepted his terms, and he stripped, plunged into the river,
and disappeared. For a full hour nothing was seen of him, and every one
gave him up for lost. But at the end of that time he rose to the surface of the
water, his body covered with scratches. The story he had to tell was, to say
the least, remarkable.
"I have had a frightful conflict," he said, "with the twelve thousand
devils Shuiski has at work upon his dam. I have settled six thousand of
them, but the other six thousand are the worst of all, and will not give in."

Thus against men and devils alike, against water, famine, and pestilence,
fought the brave men of Toula, holding out with extraordinary courage.
Letters came to them in Dmitri's name, promising help, but it never came.
At length, after months of this brave defence had elapsed, Shakhofskoi
proposed that they should capitulate. The Cossacks of the garrison, furious
at the suggestion, seized and thrust him into a dungeon. Not until every
scrap of food had been eaten, horses and dogs devoured, even leather
gnawed as food, did Bolotnikof and Peter the pretender offer to yield, and
then only on condition that the soldiers should receive honorable treatment.
If not, they would die with arms in their hands, and devour one another as
food, rather than surrender. As for themselves, they asked for no pledges of
safety.
Shuiski accepted the terms, and the gates were opened. Bolotnikof
advanced boldly to the czar and offered himself as a victim, presenting his
sword with the edge laid against his neck.
"I have kept the oath I swore to him who, rightly or wrongly, calls
himself Dmitri," he said. "Deserted by him, I am in your power. Cut off my
head if you will; or, if you will spare my life, I will serve you as I have
served him."
This appeal was wasted on Shuiski. He forgot the clemency which the
czar Dmitri had formerly shown to him, sent Bolotnikof to Kargopol, and
soon after ordered him to be drowned. Peter the pretender was hanged on
the spot. Shakhofskoi alone was spared. They found him in chains, which
he said had been placed on him because he counselled the obstinate rebels
to submit. Shuiski set him free, and the first use he made of his liberty was
to kindle the rebellion again.
Thus ended this remarkable siege, one in some respects without parallel
in the history of war. What followed must be briefly told. Though the siege
of Toula ended with the hanging of one pretender to the throne, another was
already in the field. The new Dmitri, in whose name the war was waged,
had made his appearance during the siege. Some of the officers of the first
Dmitri pretended to recognize him, but in reality he was a coarse, vulgar,
ignorant knave, who had badly learned his lesson, and lacked all the native
princeliness of his predecessor.

Yet he had soon a large army at his back, and with it, on April 24, 1608,
he defeated the army of the czar with great slaughter. He might easily have
taken Moscow, but instead of advancing on it he halted at the village of
Tushino, twelve versts away, where he held his court for seventeen months.
Meanwhile still another pretender appeared, who called himself Feodor,
son of the czar Feodor. He presented himself to the Don Cossacks, who
brought him in chains to Dmitri, by whom he was promptly put to death.
Soon afterwards Marina, wife of the first Dmitri, who had been released,
with her father, by Shuiski, was brought into the camp of the pretender. And
here an interesting bit of comedy was played. Marina, rather than go back to
meet ridicule in Poland, was ready to become the wife of this vulgar
impostor, though she saw at once that he was not the man he claimed to be.
She met him coldly at first, but at a second meeting she greeted him with
a great show of tenderness before the whole army, being glad, it would
appear, to regain her old position on any terms. The news that Marina had
recognized the pretender brought over numbers to his side, and soon nearly
all Russia had declared for him, the only cities holding out being Moscow,
Novgorod, and Smolensk.
The false Dmitri had now reached the summit of his fortunes. A rapid
decline followed. One of his generals, who laid siege to the monastery of
the Trinity, near Moscow, was repulsed. His partisans were defeated in other
quarters. Soon the whole aspect of the war changed. A new enemy to Russia
came into the field, Sigismund, King of Poland, who laid siege to the strong
city of Smolensk, while the army of the czar, which marched to its relief,
suffered an annihilating defeat.
This result closed the reign of Shuiski. An insurrection broke out in
Moscow, he was forced to become a monk, and in the end was delivered to
Sigismund and died in prison. Thus was Dmitri avenged. The new condition
of affairs proved as disastrous to the false Dmitri. His Poles deserted him,
his power vanished, and he descended to the level of a mere Cossack
robber. In December, 1610, murder ended his career.
Smolensk fell after a siege of eighteen months, but at the last moment a
powder magazine exploded and set fire to the city, and Sigismund became
master only of a heap of ruins. The Poles in Moscow, attacked by the

Russians, took possession of the Kremlin, burned down most of the city,
and massacred a hundred thousand of the people. Anarchy was rampant
everywhere. New chiefs appeared in all quarters. Each town declared for
itself. The Swedes took possession of Novgorod. A third Dmitri appeared,
and dwelt in state for a while, but was soon taken and hanged. The whole
great empire was in a state of frightful confusion, and seemed as if it was
about to fall to pieces.
From this fate it was saved by one of the common people, a butcher of
Nijni Novgorod, Kozma Minin by name. Brave, honest, patriotic, and
sensible, this man aroused his fellow-citizens, who took up arms for the
deliverance of their country. Other towns followed this example, an army
was raised with Prince Pojarski at its head, and Minin, the patriotic butcher,
seconded him in an administrative capacity, being hailed by the people as
"the elect of the whole Russian empire."
Driving the Poles before him, Pojarski entered Moscow, and in October,
1612, became master of the Kremlin. The impostors all disappeared; Marina
and her three-year-old son Ivan were captured, the child to be hanged and
she to end her eventful life in prison; anarchy vanished, and peace returned
to the realm.
The end came in 1613, when a national council was convened to choose
a new czar. Pojarski refused the crown, and Michael Romanof, a boy of
sixteen, scion of one of the noblest families of Russia, and allied to the
Ruriks by the female line, was elected czar. His descendants still hold the
throne.

CHURCH OF THE ASSUMPTION, MOSCOW, IN WHICH
THE CZAR IS CROWNED.

THE BOOKS OF ANCESTRY.

The noble families of Russia, for the most part descendants of the
Scandinavian adventurers who had come in with Rurik, were as proud in
their way as the descendants of the vikings who came to England under
William of Normandy. Their books of pedigree were kept with the most
scrupulous care, and in these were set down not only the genealogies of the
families, but every office that had been held by any ancestor, at court, in the
army, or in the administration.
With this there is no special fault to be found. It is as well, doubtless, to
keep the pedigrees of men as it is to keep those of horses and dogs; though
the animals, being ignorant of their records, are less likely to make them a
matter of pride and presumption. In Russia the fact that certain men knew
the names and standing of their ancestors led to the most absurd
consequences. The books of ancestry were constantly appealed to for the
support of foolish pretensions, and the nobles of Russia strutted like so
many peacocks in their insensate pride of family.
In no other country has the question of precedence been carried to such
ridiculous lengths as it was in Russia in the days of the early Romanofs. If a
nobleman were appointed to a post at court or a position in the army, he at
once examined the books of ancestry to learn if the officials under whom he
would serve had fewer ancestors on record than he. If such proved to be the
case the office was refused, or accepted under protest, the government
being, metaphorically, forced to fall on its knees to the haughtiness of its
offended lordling.
The folly of the nobles went even farther than this. The height of their
genealogy counted for as much as its length. They would refuse to accept

positions under persons whose ancestors were shown by the books to have
been subordinate to theirs in the same positions. If it appeared that the John
of five centuries before had been under the Peter of that period, the modern
Peter was too proud to accept a similar position under the modern John.
And so it went, until court life became a constant scene of bickering and
discontent, and of murmurs at the most trifling slights and neglects. In
short, it became necessary that an office of genealogy should be established
at court, in which exact copies of the family trees and service registers of
the noble families were kept, and the officers here employed found enough
to keep them busy in settling the endless disputes of their lordly clients.
In the reign of Theodore, the third czar of the Romanof dynasty, this
ridiculous sentiment reached its climax, and it became almost impossible to
appoint a wise man to office over a fool, if the fool's ancestors had
happened to hold the same office over those of the man of wisdom. The
fancy seemed to be held that folly and wisdom are handed down from father
to son, a conceit which is often the very reverse of the truth.
Theodore was a feeble youth, who reigned little more than five years, yet
in that time he managed to bury this folly out of sight. Annoyed by the
constant bickerings of courtiers and officials, he consulted with his able
minister, Prince Vassili Galitzin, and hit on a means of ridding himself of
the difficulty.
Proclamation was made that all the noble families of the kingdom should
deliver their service rolls into court by a fixed date, that they might be
cleared of certain errors which had unavoidably crept into them. The order
was obeyed, and a multitude of these precious documents were brought into
the palace halls of the czar. The heads of the noble families and the higher
clergy were now sent for, composing a proud assembly, before whom the
patriarch, who had received his instructions, made an eloquent address. He
ended by speaking of the claims to precedence in the following words:
"They are a bitter source of every kind of evil; they render abortive the
most useful enterprises, in like manner as the tares stifle the good grain;
they have introduced, even into the hearts of families, dissension,
confusion, and hatred. But the pontiff comprehends the grand design of his
czar; God alone could have inspired it!"

Though utterly ignorant of what that design was, the grandees felt
compelled to express a warm approval of these words. At this Theodore,
who pretended to be enraptured by their unanimous applause, suddenly
rose, and, simulating a burst of patriotic enthusiasm, proclaimed the
abolition of all their hereditary claims.
"That the very recollection of them may be forever extinguished," he
exclaimed, "let all the papers relative to these titles be instantly consumed."
The fire was already prepared, and by his orders the precious papers
were hurled into the flames before the anguished eyes of the nobles, who
did not dare in that despotic court to express their true feelings, and strove
to hide their dismay under hollow acclamations of assent.
As what they deemed their most valuable possessions were thus
converted to ashes before their eyes, the patriarch again rose, and declared
an anathema against any one who should dare to oppose this order of the
czar. An "Amen" that was like a groan came from the lips of the horrified
nobles, and precedence went up in flames.
The czar had no thought of effacing the noble families. New books were
prepared, in which their ancestry was described. But the absurd claims
which had caused such discord were forever abolished, and court life
thereafter proved smoother and easier in consequence of the iconoclastic act
of the czar Theodore.

BOYHOOD OF PETER THE GREAT.

Peter the Great, grandson of the first emperor of the Romanof line, was
a man of such extraordinary power of body and mind, such a remarkable
combination of common sense, mental activity, advanced ideas, and
determination to lift Russia to a high place among the nations, with cruelty,
grossness, and infirmities of vice and passion, that his reign of forty-three
years fills as large a place in Russian history as do the annals of all the
preceding centuries, and the progress of Russia during this short period was
greater than in any other epoch of three or four times its length.
The character of the man showed in the boy, and while a mere child he
began those steps of progress which were continued throughout his life. He
had two brothers, both older than he, and sons of a different mother, so that
the throne seemed far from his grasp. But Theodore, the oldest of the three,
died after a brief reign, leaving no heirs to the throne. Ivan, the second son,
was an imbecile, nearly blind, and subject to epileptic fits. The clergy and
grandees, in consequence, looked upon Peter as the most promising
successor to the throne. But he was still only a child, not yet ten years of
age.
The czar Alexis had left also several daughters; but in those days the fate
of princesses of the blood was a harsh one. They were not permitted to
marry, and were consigned to convents, where they knew nothing of what
was passing in the busy world without. One of the daughters, Sophia by
name, had escaped from this fate. At her earnest request she was taken from
the convent and permitted to nurse her sickly brother Theodore.
She was a woman of high intelligence, bold and ambitious by nature,
and during her residence in court learned much of the politics of the empire

and took some part in its government. After the death of Theodore she
contrived to have herself named regent for her two brothers, Ivan being
plainly unfit to rule, and Peter too young.
There are many stories told about her, of which probably the half are not
true. It is said that she kept her young brother at a distance from Moscow,
where she surrounded him with ministers of evil, whose business it was to
encourage him in riot and dissipation, to the end that he might become a
moral monster, odious and insupportable to the nation at large. Such a
course had been pursued with Ivan the Terrible, and to it was largely due his
incredible iniquity.
If Sophia had really any such purpose in view, she was playing with
edge-tools. She quite mistook the character of her young brother, and forgot
that the same rule may work differently in different cases. The steps taken
to make the boy base, if really so intended, aided to make him great. His
morals were corrupted, his health was impaired, and his heart hardened by
the excesses of his youth, but his removal from the palace atmosphere of
flattery and effeminacy tended to make him self-reliant, while his free life
in the country and the activity which it encouraged helped to develop the
native energy of his character.
It is probable that Sophia had no such intention to corrupt the nature of
the child, for she showed no ill will against him. It was apparently to his
mother, rather than to his sister, that his residence in the country was due,
and he was obliged to go frequently to Moscow, to take part in ceremonial
affairs, while his name was used in all public documents, many of which he
was required to sign.
From early life the boy had shown himself active, intelligent, quick to
learn, and full of curiosity. He was particularly interested in military affairs,
and playing at soldiers was one of the leading diversions of his youth. Only
a day or two after a great riot in Moscow, in which numbers of nobles were
slaughtered, and in which the child had looked unmoved into the savage
faces of the rioters, he sent to the arsenal for drums, banners, and arms.
Uniforms and wooden cannon were supplied him, and on his eleventh
birthday—in 1683—he was allowed to have some real guns, with which he
fired salutes.

From his country home at Preobrajensk messengers came almost daily to
Moscow for powder, lead, and shot; small brass and iron cannon were
supplied the boy, and drummer-boys, selected from the different regiments,
were sent to him. Thus he was allowed to play at soldier to his heart's
content.
A company was formed from the younger domestics of the place, fifty in
number, the officers being sons of the boyars or lords. But these were
required by the alert boy to pass through all the grades of the service, which
he also did himself, serving successively as private, sergeant, lieutenant,
and captain, and finally as colonel of the regiment which grew from this
youthful company. Peter called his company "the guards," but it was known
in Moscow as the "pleasure company," or "troops for sport." In time,
however, it grew into the Preobrajensky Guards, a celebrated regiment
which is still kept up as the first regiment of the Russian Imperial Guard,
and of which the emperor is always the colonel. Another company, formed
on the same plan in an adjoining village, became the Semenofsky
Regiment. From these rudiments grew the present Russian army.
These military exercises soon ceased to be child's play to the active lad.
He gave himself no rest from his prescribed duties, stood his watch in turn,
shared in the labors of the camp, slept in the tents of his comrades, and
partook of their fare. He used to lead his company on long marches, during
which the strictest discipline was maintained, and the camps at night were
guarded as in an enemy's country.
On reaching his thirteenth year the boy took further steps in his military
education, building a small fortress, whose remains are still preserved. This
was constructed with great care, and took nearly a year to build. At the
suggestion of a German officer it was named Pressburg, the name being
given with much ceremony, Peter leading from Moscow a procession of
most of the court officials and nobles to take part in the performance.
These military sports were not enough for the active mind of the boy,
who kept himself busy at a dozen labors. He used to hammer and forge in
the blacksmith's shop, became an expert with the lathe, and learned the art
of printing and binding books. He built himself a wheelbarrow and other

articles which he needed, and at a later date it was said that he "knew
excellently well fourteen trades."
When in Moscow, Peter spent much of his time in the foreign quarter,
joining his associates there in the beer, wine, and tobacco of which they
were specially fond, and questioning them about a thousand subjects
unknown to the Russians, thus acquiring a wide knowledge of men and
affairs. He troubled himself little about rank or position, making a
companion of any one, high or low, from whom anything could be learned,
while any mechanical curiosity particularly attracted him.
A sextant and astrolabe were brought him from France, of whose use no
one could inform him, though he asked all whom he met. At length a Dutch
merchant, Franz Timmermann by name, was brought him, who measured
with the instrument the distance to a neighboring house.
Peter was delighted, and eagerly asked to be taught how to use the
instrument himself.
"It is not so easy," replied Timmermann; "you must first learn arithmetic
and geometry."
Here was a new incentive. The boy at once set to work, spending all his
leisure time, day and night, over these studies, to which he afterwards added
geography and fortification. It was in this desultory way that his education
was gained, no regular course of training being prescribed, and his strong
self-will breaking through all family discipline.
We may end here what we have to say about the boy's military activity.
His army gradually grew until it numbered five thousand men, mainly
foreigners, who were commanded by General Gordon, a Scotch officer.
Lefort, a Swiss, who had become one of Peter's favorite companions, now
undertook to raise an army of twelve thousand men. He succeeded in this,
and unexpectedly found himself made general of this force.
It is, however, of the boy's activity in naval affairs that we must now
speak. Timmermann had become one of his constant companions, and was
always teaching him something new. One day in 1688, when Peter was
sixteen years old, he was wandering about one of the country estates of the

throne, near the village of Ismailovo. An old building in the flax-yard
attracted his attention, and he asked one of the servants what it was.
"It is a storehouse," the man said, "in which was put all the rubbish that
was left after the death of Nikita Romanof, who used to live here."
Peter at once, curious to see this "rubbish," had the doors opened, went
in, and looked about. In one corner, bottom upward, lay a boat, very
different in build from the flat-bottomed, square-sterned boats which were
in use on the Russian rivers.
"What is that?" he asked.
"It is an English boat," said Timmermann.
"But what is it good for? Is it better than our boats?" demanded Peter.
"Yes. If you had sails for it, you would find that it would not only go
with the wind, but against the wind."
"Against the wind! Is that possible? How can it be possible?"
With his usual impatience, the boy wanted to try it at once. But the boat
proved to be too rotten for use. It would need to be repaired and tarred, and
a mast and sails would have to be made.
Where could these be had? Who could make them? Timmermann was
able to tell him. Some thirty years before, a number of Dutch ship-
carpenters had been brought from Holland and had built some vessels on
the Volga River for the czar Alexis. These had been burned by a brigand,
and Brandt, the builder, had returned to Moscow, where he still worked as a
joiner. In those days it was easier to get into Russia than to get out again,
foreigners who entered the land being held there as virtual prisoners. Even
General Gordon tried in vain to get back to his native land.
Old Brandt was found, looked over the boat, put it in order, and
launched it on a neighboring stream. To Peter's surprise and delight, he saw
the boat moving under sail up and down the river, turning to right and left in
obedience to the helm. Greatly excited, he called on Brandt to stop, jumped
in, and, under the old man's directions, began to manage the boat himself.

But the river was too narrow and the water too shallow for easy sailing,
and the energetic boy had the boat dragged overland to a large pond, where
it went better, but still not to his satisfaction. Where was a better body of
water? He was told that there was a large lake about fifty miles away, but
that it would be easier to build a new boat than to drag the English boat that
distance.
"Can you do that?" asked the eager boy.
"Yes, sire," said Brandt, "but I will need many things."
"Oh, that does not matter at all," said Peter. "We can have anything."
No time was lost. Brandt, with one of his old comrades and
Timmermann, went to work at once in the woods bordering the lake, Peter
working with them when he could get away from Moscow, where he was
frequently needed. It took time. Timber had to be prepared, a hut built to
live in, and a dock to launch the boats, which were built on a larger scale
than the small English craft. Thus it was not until the following spring that
the new boats were ready to launch.
Peter meanwhile had been married. But the charms of his wife could not
keep him from his beloved boats. Back he went, aided in completing and
launching the new craft, and took such delight in sailing them about the
lake that he could hardly be induced to return to Moscow for important
duties.
In this humble way began the Russian navy, which had grown to large
proportions before Peter died. The little English boat, which some think was
one sent by Queen Elizabeth to Ivan the Terrible, has ever since Peter's time
been known as the "Grand-sire of the Russian navy." It is kept with the
greatest care in a small brick building within the fortress at St. Petersburg,
and was one of the principal objects of interest in the great parade in that
city in 1870 on the two hundredth anniversary of Peter's birth.
It will suffice to say, in conclusion, that shortly after these events Peter
became the reigning czar, and turned from sport to earnest. Sophia had
enjoyed so long the pleasure of ruling that her ambition grew with its
exercise, and she sought to retain her position as long as possible. It is even
said that she laid a plot to assassinate Peter, so that only the feeble Ivan

should be left. The boy, told that assassins were seeking him, fled for his
life. His fright seems to have been groundless, but it made him an undying
enemy of his sister. The affair ended in the bulk of the nobility and soldiery
turning to his side and in Sophia being obliged to leave the throne for a
convent, where she spent the remainder of her life in the misery of strict
seclusion.

ALEXANDER III., CZAR OF RUSSIA.

CARPENTER PETER OF ZAANDAM.

On the banks of the river Zaan, about five miles from Amsterdam, lies
the picturesque little town of Zaandam, with its cottages of blue, green, and
pink, half hidden among the trees, while a multitude of windmills surround
the town like so many monuments to thrift and enterprise. Here, two
centuries ago, ship-building was conducted on a great scale, the timber
being sawed by windmill power, while the workmen were so numerous that
a vessel was often on the sea in five weeks after the keel had been laid.
To this place, in August, 1697, came a workman of foreign birth, who
found humble quarters in a small frame hut and entered himself as a ship-
carpenter at the wharf of Lynst Rogge. There was nothing specially
noticeable about the stranger, who wore a workman's dress and a tarpaulin
hat. But with him were some comrades dressed in the strange garb of
Russia, who attracted the attention of the people.
As for the new workman, he did not long escape curious looks. The
rumor had got about that no less a personage than the Czar of Russia was in
the town, and it began to be suspected that this unobtrusive stranger might
be the man, so that it was not long before inquisitive eyes began to follow
him wherever he went. The rumor soon brought large crowds from
Amsterdam, whose presence made the streets of the small Dutch town
anything but comfortable.
It was well known that Peter I., Czar of Russia, was travelling through
the nations of the West. A large embassy, composed of several hundred
people, some of them the highest officials of the court, had left the
Muscovite kingdom, and visited the several courts and large cities on their
route, being everywhere received with the greatest distinction. But the czar

did not appear openly among them. He was there in disguise, but had given
strict orders that his presence should not be revealed. He hated crowds,
hated adulation, and wished only to be let alone to see and learn all he
could. So while the ambassadors were receiving the highest honors of
kingdoms and courts and bowing and parading to their hearts' content, the
czar kept himself in the background as an amused spectator, thought by
most observers to be one of the servants of the gorgeous train.
And thus he reached Zaandam, which he had been told was the best
place to learn how ships were built. Here he saw fishing in the river one of
his old acquaintances of the foreign quarter of Moscow, a smith named
Gerrit Kist. Calling him from his rod, and binding him to secrecy, he told
him why he had come to Holland, and insisted on taking up quarters in his
house. This house, a small frame hut, is now preserved as a sacred object,
enclosed within a brick building, and has long been a place of pilgrimage
even for royal travellers. Emperors and kings have bent their lofty heads to
enter its low door.
Yet Peter lived in Zaandam only a week, and during that week did little
work at ship-building, spending much of his time in rowing about among
the shipping, and visiting most of the factories and mills, at one of which he
made a sheet of paper with his own royal hands.
One day the disguised emperor met with an adventure. He had bought a
hatful of plums, and was eating them in the most plebeian fashion as he
walked along the street, when he met a crowd of boys. He shared his fruit
with some of these, but those to whom he refused to give plums began to
follow him with boyish reviling, and when he laughed at them they took to
pelting him with mud and stones. Here was a situation for an emperor away
from home. The Czar of all the Russias had to take to his heels and run for
refuge to the Three Swans Inn, where he sent for the burgomaster of the
town, told who he was, and demanded aid and relief. At least we may
suppose so, for an edict was soon issued threatening punishment to all who
should insult "distinguished persons who wished to remain unknown."
The end of Peter's stay soon came. A man in Zaandam had received a
letter from his son in Moscow, saying that the czar was with the great
Russian embassy, and describing him so closely that he could no longer

remain unknown. This letter was seen by Pomp, the barber of Zaandam, and
when Peter came into his place with his Russian comrades he at once knew
him from the description and spread the news.
From that time the czar had no rest. Wherever he went he was followed
by crowds of curious people. They grew so annoying that at length he
leaped in anger from his boat and gave one of the most forward of his
persecutors a sharp cuff on the cheek.
"Bravo, Marsje!" cried the crowd in delight: "you are made a knight."
The czar rushed angrily to an inn, where he shut himself up out of sight.
The next day a large ship was to be moved across the dike by means of
capstans and rollers, a difficult operation, in which Peter took deep interest.
A place was reserved for him to see it, but the crowd became so great as to
drive back the guards, break down the railings, and half fill the reserved
space. Peter, seeing this, refused to leave his house. The burgomaster and
other high officials begged him to come, but the most he could be got to do
was to thrust his head out of the door and observe the situation.
"Te veel volks, te veel volks" ("too many people"), he bluntly cried, and
refused to budge.
The next day was Sunday, and all Amsterdam seemed to have come to
Zaandam to see its distinguished guest. He escaped them by fleeing to
Amsterdam. Getting to a yacht he had bought, and to which he had fitted a
bowsprit with his own hands, he put to sea, giving no heed to warnings of
danger from the furious wind that was blowing. Three hours after he
reached Amsterdam, where his ambassadors then were, and where they
were to have a formal reception the next day.
Receptions were well enough for ambassadors, but they were idle
flummery to the czar, who had come to see, not to be seen, and who did his
best to keep out of sight. He visited the fine town hall, inspected the docks,
saw a comedy and a ballet, consented to sit through a great dinner,
witnessed a splendid display of fireworks, and, most interesting to him of
all, was entertained with a great naval sham fight, which lasted a whole day.
Zaandam has the credit of having been the scene of Peter the Great's
labor as a shipwright, but it was really at Amsterdam that his life as a

workman was passed. At his request he was given the privilege of working
at the docks of the East India Company, a house being assigned him within
the enclosure where he could dwell undisturbed, free from the curiosity of
crowds. As a mark of respect it was determined to begin the construction of
a new frigate, one hundred feet long, so that the distinguished workman
might see the whole process of the building of a ship. With his usual
impetuosity Peter wished to begin work immediately, and could hardly be
induced to wait for the fireworks to burn themselves out. Then he set out for
Zaandam on his yacht to fetch his tools, and the next day, August 30,
presented himself as a workman at the East India Company's wharf.
For more than four months, with occasional breaks, Peter worked
diligently as a ship-carpenter, ten of his Russian companions—probably
much against their will—working at the wharf with him. He was known
simply as Baas Peter (Carpenter Peter), and, while sitting on a log at rest,
with his hatchet between his knees, was willing to talk with any one who
addressed him by this name, but had no answer for those who called him
Sire or Your Majesty. Others of the Russians were put to work elsewhere, to
study the construction of masts, blocks, sails, etc., some of them were
entered as sailors before the mast, and Prince Alexander of Imeritia went to
the Hague to study artillery. None of them was allowed "to take his ease at
his inn."
Peter insisted on being treated as a common workman, and would not
permit any difference to be made between him and his fellow-laborers. He
also demanded the usual wages for his work. On one occasion, when the
Earl of Portland and another nobleman came to the yard to have a sight of
him, the overseer, to indicate him, called out, "Carpenter Peter of Zaandam,
why don't you help your comrades?" Without a word, Peter put his
shoulders under a log which several men were carrying, and helped to lift it
to its place.
His evenings were spent in studying the theory of ship-building, and his
spare hours were fully occupied in observation. He visited everything worth
seeing, factories, museums, cabinets of coins, theatres, hospitals, etc.,
constantly making shrewd remarks and inquiries, and soon becoming
known from his quick questions, "What is that for? How does that work?
That will I see."

He went to Zaandam to see the Greenland whaling fleet, visited the
celebrated botanical garden with the great Boerhaave, studied the
microscope at Delft under Leuwenhoek, became intimate with the military
engineer Coehorn, talked with Schynvoet of architecture, and learned to
etch from Schonebeck. An impression of a plate made by him, of
Christianity victorious over Islam, is still extant.
He made himself familiar with Dutch home life, mingled with the
merchants engaged in the Russian trade, went to the Botermarkt every
market-day, and took lessons from a travelling dentist, experimenting on his
own servants and suite, probably not much to their enjoyment. He mended
his own clothes, learned enough of cobbling to make himself a pair of
slippers, and, in short, was insatiable in his search for information of every
available kind.
His work on the frigate whose keel he had helped to lay was continued
until it was launched. It was well built, and for many years proved a good
and useful ship, braving the perils of the seas in the East India trade. But
with all this the imperial carpenter was not satisfied. The Dutch methods
did not please him. The ship-masters seemed to work without rules other
than the "rule of thumb," having no theory of ship-building from which the
best proportions of a vessel could be deduced.
Learning that things were ordered differently in English ship-yards, that
there work was done by rule and precept, Peter sent an order to the Russian
docks not to allow the Dutch shipwrights to work as they pleased, but to put
them under Danish or English overseers. For himself, he resolved to go to
England and follow up his studies there. King William had sent him a warm
invitation and presented him a splendid yacht, light, beautifully
proportioned, and armed with twenty brass cannon. Delighted with the
present, he sailed in it to England, escorted by an English fleet, and in
London found an abiding-place in a house which a few years before had
been the refuge of William Penn when charged with treason. Here he slept
in a small room with four or five companions, and when the King of
England came to visit him, received his fellow-monarch in his shirt-sleeves.
The air of the room was so bad that, though the weather was very cold,
William insisted on a window being raised.

In England the czar, though managing to see much outside the ship-
yards, worked steadily at Deptford for several months, leaving only when
he had gained all the special knowledge which he could obtain. His
admiration for the English ship-builders was high, he afterwards saying that
but for his journey to England he would have always remained a bungler.
While here he engaged many men to take service in Russia, shipwrights,
engineers, and others; he also engaged numerous officers for his navy from
Holland, several French surgeons, and various persons of other nationality,
the whole numbering from six to eight hundred skilled artisans and
professional experts. To raise money for their advance payment he sold the
monopoly of the Russian tobacco trade for twenty thousand pounds. Sixty
years before, his grandfather Michael had forbidden the use of tobacco in
Russia under pain of death, and the prejudice against it was still strong. But
in spite of this the use of tobacco was rapidly spreading, and Peter thus
threw down the bars.
Great numbers of anecdotes are afloat about Peter's doings in Holland
and England,—many of them, doubtless, invented. The sight of a great
monarch going about in workman's clothes and laboring like a common
ship-carpenter was apt to aid the imagination of story-tellers and give rise to
numerous tales with little fact to sustain them.
In May, 1698, Peter left England and proceeded to Amsterdam, where
his embassy had remained, often in great distress about him, for the winter
was cold and stormy and at one time no news was received from him for a
month. From Amsterdam he made his way to Vienna, whence he proposed
to go to Venice and Rome, but was prevented by disturbing news from
Moscow, which turned his steps homeward. Here he was to show a new
phase of his varied character, as will be seen in the following tale.

THE FALL OF THE STRELITZ.

History presents us with four instances of an imperial soldiery who took
the power into their own hands and for a time ruled as the tyrants of a
nation. These were the Pretorian Guards of Rome, the Mamelukes of Egypt,
the Janissaries of Turkey, and the Strelitz of Russia. Of these, the Pretorian
Guards remained pre-eminent, and made emperors at their will. The other
three came to a terrible end. History elsewhere records the tragic fate of the
Mamelukes and the Janissaries: we are here concerned only with that of the
Strelitz corps of Russia.
The Strelitz were the first regular military force of Russia, a permanent
militia of fusileers, formed during the early reign of Ivan the Terrible, and
themselves in time becoming a terror to the nation. The first serious
outbreak of this dangerous civic guard was on the nomination of Peter I. to
the throne of the czar. They did not dream then of the terrible revenge
which this despised boy would take upon them.
Two days after the funeral of the czar Theodore the insurrection began,
the Strelitz marching in an armed body to the Kremlin, where they accused
nine of their colonels of defrauding them of their pay. The frightened
ministers hastened to dismiss these officers, but this did not satisfy the
savage soldiery, who insisted on their being delivered into their hands. This
done, the unfortunate officers were sentenced to be scourged, some of them
by that fearful Russian whip called the knout.
Their success in this outbreak led the Strelitz to greater outrages. The
tiger in their savage natures was let loose, and only blood could appease its
rage. Marching to the Kremlin, they declared that the late czar had been
poisoned by his doctor, and demanded the death of all those in the plot.

Breaking into the palace, they seized two of the suspected princes and flung
them from the windows, to be received upon the pikes of the soldiers in the
street below. The next victim was one of the Narishkins, the uncles of Peter
the Great. He was massacred in the same brutal manner and his bleeding
body dragged through the streets. Three of the proscribed nobles had fled
for sanctuary to a church, but were torn from the altar, stripped of their
clothing, and cut to pieces with knives.
The next victim was a friend and favorite of the Strelitz, who was killed
under the belief that he was one of the Narishkins. Discovering their error,
the assassins carried the mangled body of the young nobleman to the house
of his father for interment. The old man, timid by nature, did not dare to
complain of the savage act, and even rewarded them for bringing him the
body of his son. For this weakness he was bitterly reproached by his wife
and daughters and the weeping wife of the victim.
"What could I do?" pleaded the helpless father; "let us wait for an
opportunity to be revenged."
A revengeful servant overheard these words and repeated them to the
soldiers. In a sudden fury the savages returned, dragged the old man from
the room by the hair of his head, and cut his throat at his own door.
Meanwhile some of the Strelitz, seeking the Dutch physician Vongad,
who had attended the dying czar and was accused of poisoning him, met his
son and asked where his father was. "I do not know," replied the trembling
youth. His ignorance was instantly punished with death.
In a few minutes a German physician fell in their way. "You are a
doctor," they cried. "If you have not poisoned our master Theodore, you
have poisoned others. You deserve death." And in a moment the unlucky
doctor fell a victim to their blind rage.
The Dutch physician was at length discovered and dragged to the palace.
Here the princesses begged hard for his life, declaring that he was a skilful
doctor and a good man and had worked hard to save their brother's life.
They answered that he deserved to die as a sorcerer as well as a physician,
for they had found the skeleton of a toad and the skin of a snake in his
cabinet.

The next victim demanded was Ivan Narishkin, who they were sure was
somewhere concealed in the palace. Not finding him, they threatened to
burn down the building unless he were delivered into their hands. At this
terrifying threat the young man was taken from his place of concealment
and brought to them by the patriarch, who held in his hands an image of the
Virgin Mary which was said to have performed miracles. The princesses
surrounded the victim, and, kneeling to the soldiers, prayed with tears for
his life.
All their supplications and the demands of the venerable patriarch were
without effect on the savage soldiery, who dragged their captives to the
bottom of the stairway, went through the forms of a mock trial, and
condemned them to the torture. They were sentenced to be cut to pieces, a
form of punishment to which parricides are condemned in China and
Tartary. This tragedy went on until all the proscribed on whom they could
lay their hands had perished and Sophia felt secure in her power.
In the end, Ivan and Peter were declared joint sovereigns (1682), and
their sister Sophia was made regent. The acts of the Strelitz were approved
and they rewarded, the estates of their victims were confiscated in their
favor, and a monument was erected on which the names of the victims were
inscribed as traitors to their country.
The Strelitz had learned their power, and took frequent occasion to
exercise it. Twice again they broke out in revolt during the regency of
Sophia. After the accession of Peter their hostility continued. He had sent
them to fight on the frontiers. He had supplanted them with regiments
drilled in the European manner. He had organized a corps of twelve
thousand foreigners and heretics. He had ordered the construction of a fleet
of a hundred vessels, which would add to the weight of taxes and bring
more foreigners into the country. And he proposed to leave Russia, to
journey in the lands of the heretics, and to bring back to their sacred land
the customs of profane Europe.
All this was too much for the leaders of the Strelitz, who represented old
Russia, as Peter represented new. They resolved to sacrifice the czar to their
rage. Tradition tells the following story, which, though probably not true, is
at least interesting. Two leaders of the Strelitz laid a plot to start a fire at

night, feeling sure that Peter, with his usual activity, would hasten to the
scene. In the confusion attending the fire they meant to murder him, and
then to massacre all the foreigners whom he had introduced into Moscow.

DINING-ROOM IN THE PALACE OF PETER THE GREAT.
MOSCOW.
The time fixed for the consummation of this plot was at hand. A banquet
was held, at which the principal conspirators assembled, and where they
sought in deep potations the courage necessary for their murderous work.
Unfortunately for them, liquor does not act on all alike. While usually
giving boldness, it sometimes produces timidity. Two of the villains lost
their courage through their potations, left the room on some pretext,
promising to return in time, and hastened to the czar with the story of the
plot.
Peter knew not the meaning of the words timidity and procrastination.
His plans were instantly laid. The time fixed for the conflagration was
midnight. He gave orders that the hall in which the conspirators were
assembled should be surrounded exactly at eleven. Soon after, thinking that

the hour had come, he sought the place alone and boldly entered the room,
fully expecting to find the conspirators in the hands of his guards.
To his consternation, not a guard was present, and he found himself
alone and unarmed in the midst of a furious band who were just swearing to
compass his destruction.
The situation was a critical one. The conspirators, dismayed at this
unlooked-for visit, rose in confusion. Peter was furious at his guards for
having exposed him to this peril, but instantly perceived that there was only
one course for him to pursue. He advanced among the throng of traitors
with a countenance that showed no trace of his emotions, and pleasantly
remarked,—
"I saw the light in your house while passing, and, thinking that you must
be having a gay time together, I have come in to share your pleasure and
drain a cup with you."
Then, seating himself at the table, he filled a cup and drank to his would-
be assassins, who, on their feet about him, could not avoid responding to
the toast and drinking his health.
But this state of affairs did not long continue. The courage of the
conspirators returned, and they began to exchange looks and signs. The
opportunity had fallen into their hands; now was the time to avail
themselves of it. One of them leaned over to Sukanim, one of their leaders,
and said, in a low tone,—
"Brother, it is time."
"Not yet," said Sukanim, hesitating at the critical moment.
At that instant Peter heard the footsteps of his guards outside, and,
starting to his feet, knocked the leader of the assassins down by a violent
blow in his face, exclaiming,—
"If it is not yet time for you, scoundrel, it is for me."
At the same moment the guards entered the room, and the conspirators,
panic-stricken by the sight, fell on their knees and begged for pardon.

"Chain them!" said the czar, in a terrible voice.
Turning then to the commander of the guards, he struck him and accused
him of having disobeyed orders. But the officer proving to him that the hour
fixed had just arrived, the czar, in sudden remorse at his haste, clasped him
in his arms, kissed him on the forehead, proclaimed his fidelity, and gave
the traitors into his charge.
And now Peter showed the savage which lay within him under the thin
veneer of civilization. The conspirators were put to death with the cruellest
of tortures, and, to complete the act of barbarity, their heads were exposed
on the summit of a column with their limbs arranged around them as
ornaments.
Satisfied that this fearful example would keep Russia tranquil during his
absence, Peter set out on his journey, visiting most of the countries of
Western Europe. He had reached Vienna, and was on the point of setting out
for Venice, when word was brought him from Russia that the Strelitz had
broken out in open insurrection and were marching from their posts on the
frontier upon Moscow.
The czar at once left Vienna and journeyed with all possible speed to
Russia, reaching Moscow in September, 1698. His appearance took all by
surprise, for none knew that he had yet left Austria.
He came too late to suppress the insurrection. That had been already
done by General Gordon, who, marching in all haste, had met the rebels
about thirty miles from Moscow and called on them to surrender. As they
refused and attacked the troops, he opened on them with cannon, put them
to flight, and of the survivors took captive about two thousand. These were
decimated on the spot, and the remainder imprisoned.
This was punishment enough for a soldier, but not enough for an
autocrat, whose mind was haunted by dark suspicions, and who looked
upon the outbreak as a plot to dethrone him and to call his sister Sophia to
the throne. In his treatment of the prisoners the spirit of the monster Ivan IV.
seems to have entered into his soul, and the cruelty shown, while common
enough in old-time Russia, is revolting to the modern mind.

The trial was dragged out through six weeks, with daily torture of some
of the accused, under the eyes of the czar himself, who sought to force from
them a confession that Sophia had been concerned in the outbreak. The
wives of the prisoners, all the women servants of the princesses, even poor
beggars who lived on their charity, were examined under torture. The
princesses themselves, Peter's sisters, were questioned by the czar, though
he did not go so far as to torture them. Yet with all this nothing was
discovered. There was not a word to connect Sophia with the revolt.
The trial over, the executions began. Of the prisoners, some were
hanged, some beheaded, others broken on the wheel. It is said that those
beheaded were made to kneel in rows of fifty before trunks of trees laid on
the ground, and that Peter compelled his courtiers and nobles to act as
executioners, Mentchikof specially distinguishing himself in this work of
slaughter. It is even asserted that the czar wielded the axe himself, though of
this there is some doubt. The opinion grew among the people that neither
Peter nor Prince Ramodanofsky, his cruel viceroy, could sleep until they
had tasted blood, and a letter from the prince contains the following lurid
sentence: "I am always washing myself in blood."
The headless bodies of the dead were left where they had fallen. The
long Russian winter was just beginning, and for five months they lay
unburied, a frightful spectacle for the eyes of the citizens of Moscow.
Of those hanged, nearly two hundred were left depending from a large
square gallows in front of the cell of Sophia at the convent in which she was
confined, and with a horrible refinement of cruelty three of these bodies
were so placed as to hang all winter under her very window, one of them
holding in his hand a folded paper to represent a petition for her aid.
The six regiments of Strelitz still on the frontier showed signs of a
similar outbreak, but the news of the executions taught them that it was
safest to keep quiet. But many of them were brought in chains to Moscow
and punished for their intentions. Various stories are told of Peter's cruelty
in connection with these executions. One is that he beheaded eighty with his
own hand, Plestchef, one of his boyars, holding them by the hair. Another
story, told by M. Printz, the Prussian ambassador, says that at an
entertainment given him by the czar, Peter, when drunk, had twenty rebels

brought in from the prisons, whom he beheaded in quick succession,
drinking a bumper after each blow, the whole concluding within the hour.
He even asked the ambassador to try his skill in the same way. It may be
said here, however, that these stories rest upon very poor evidence, and that
anecdote-makers have painted Peter in blacker colors than he deserves.
In the end the corps of the Strelitz was abolished, their houses and lands
in Moscow were taken from the survivors, and all were exiled into the
country, where they became simple villagers.

THE CRUSADE AGAINST BEARDS AND
CLOAKS.

The return of Peter the Great from his European journey was marked by
other events than his cruel revenge upon the rebellious Strelitz. That had
affected only a few thousand people; the reforms he sought to introduce
affected the nation at large. The Russians were then more Oriental than
European in style, wearing the long caftan or robe of Persia and Turkey,
which descended to their heels, while their beards were like those of the
patriarchs, the man deeming himself most in honor who had the longest and
fullest crop of hair upon his face.

PETER THE GREAT.
To Peter, fresh from the West, and strongly imbued with European
views, all this was ridiculous, if not abominable. He determined to reform it
all, and at once set to work in his impetuous way, which could not brook a
day's delay, to deprive the Russians of their beards and the tails of their
coats. He had scarcely arrived before the boyars and leading citizens of

Moscow, who flocked to congratulate him on his return, were taken aback
by the edict that whiskers were condemned, and that the razor must be set at
work without delay upon their honorable chins.
This edict was like a thunder-clap from a clear sky. The Russians
admired and revered their beards. They were time-honored and sacred in
their eyes. To lose them was like losing their family trees and patents of
nobility. But Peter was without reverence for the past, and his word was
law. He had ordered a mowing and reaping of hair, and the harvest must be
made, or worse might come. General Shein, commander-in-chief of the
army, was the first to yield to the imperative edict and submit his venerable
beard to the indignity of the razor's edge. The old age seemed past and the
new age come when Shein walked shamefacedly into court with a clean
chin.
The example thus set was quickly followed. Beards were tabooed within
the precincts of the court. All shared the same fate, none being left to laugh
at the rest. The patriarch, it is true, was exempted, through awe for his high
office in the Church, while reverence for advanced years reprieved Prince
Tcherkasy, and Tikhon Streshnef was excused out of honor for his services
as guardian of the czaritza. Every one else within the court had to submit to
the razor's fatal edge or feel the czar's more fatal displeasure, and beards fell
like "autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa."
An observer speaks as follows concerning a feast given by General
Shein: "A crowd of boyars, scribes, and military officers almost incredible
was assembled there, and among them were several common sailors, with
whom the czar repeatedly mixed, divided apples, and even honored one of
them by calling him his brother. A salvo of twenty-five guns marked each
toast. Nor could the irksome offices of the barber check the festivities of the
day, though it was well known he was enacting the part of jester by
appointment at the czar's court. It was of evil omen to make show of
reluctance as the razor approached the chin, and hesitation was to be
forthwith punished with a box on the ears. In this way, between mirth and
the wine-cup, many were admonished by this insane ridicule to abandon the
olden guise."

For Peter to shave was easy, as he had little beard and a very thin
moustache. But by the old-fashioned Russian of his day the beard was
cherished as the Turk now cherishes his hirsute symbol of dignity or the
Chinaman his long-drawn-out queue. Shortly after Peter came to the throne
the patriarch Adrian had delivered himself in words of thunder against all
who were so unholy and heretical as to cut or shave their beards, a God-
given ornament, which had been worn by prophets and apostles and by
Christ himself. Only heretics, apostates, idol-worshippers, and image-
breakers among monarchs had forced their subjects to shave, he declared,
while all the great and good emperors had indicated their piety in the length
of their beards.
To Peter, on the contrary, the beard was the symbol of barbarity. He was
not content to say that his subjects might shave, he decreed that they must
shave. It began half in jest, it was continued in solid earnest. He could not
well execute the non-shavers, or cut off the heads of those who declined to
cut off their beards, but he could fine them, and he did. The order was sent
forth that all Russians, with the exception of the clergy, should shave. Those
who preferred to keep their beards could do so by paying a yearly tax into
the public treasury. This was fixed at a kopeck (one penny) for peasants, but
for the higher classes varied from thirty to a hundred rubles (from sixty
dollars to two hundred dollars). The merchants, being at once the richest
and most conservative class, paid the highest tax. Every one who paid the
tax was given a bronze token, which had to be worn about the neck and
renewed every year.
The czar would allow no one to be about him who did not shave, and
many submitted through "terror of having their beards (in a merry humor)
pulled out by the roots, or taken so rough off that some of the skin went
with them." Many of those who shaved continued to do reverence to their
beards by carrying them within their bosoms as sacred objects, to be buried
in their graves, in order that a just account might be rendered to St.
Nicholas when they should come to the next world.
The ukase against the beard was soon followed by one against the
caftan, or long cloak, the old Russian dress. The czar and the leading
officers of his embassy set the example of wearing the German dress, and
he cut off, with his own hands, the long sleeves of some of his officers.

"Those things are in your way," he would say. "You are safe nowhere with
them. At one moment you upset a glass, then you forgetfully dip them in the
sauce. Get gaiters made of them."
On January 14, 1700, a decree was issued commanding all courtiers and
officials throughout the empire to wear the foreign dress. This decree had to
be frequently repeated, and models of the clothing exposed. It is said that
patterns of the garments and copies of the decrees were hung up together at
the gates of the towns, while all who disobeyed the order were compelled to
pay a fine. Those who yielded were obliged "to kneel down at the gates of
the city and have their coats cut off just even with the ground," the part that
lay on the ground as they kneeled being condemned to suffer by the shears.
"Being done with a good humor, it occasioned mirth among the people, and
soon broke the custom of their wearing long coats, especially in places near
Moscow and those towns wherever the czar came."
This demand did not apply to the peasantry, and was therefore more
easily executed. Even the women were required to change their Russian
robes for foreign fashions. Peter's sisters set the example, which was
quickly followed, the women showing themselves much less conservative
than the men in the adoption of new styles of dress.
The reform did not end here. Decrees were issued against the high
Russian boots, against the use of the Russian saddle, and even against the
long Russian knife. Peter seemed to be infected with a passion for reform,
and almost everything Russian was ordered to give way before the influx of
Western modes. Western ideas did not come with them. To change the dress
does not change the thoughts, and it does not civilize a man to shave his
chin. Though outwardly conforming to the advanced fashions of the West,
inwardly the Russians continued to conform to the unprogressive
conceptions of the East.
It may be said that these changes did not come to stay. They were too
revolutionary to take deep root. There is no disputing the fact that a coat
down to the heels is more comfortable in a cold climate than one ending at
the knees, and is likely to be worn in preference. Students in Russia to-day
wear the red shirt, the loose trousers tucked into the high boots, and the
sleeveless caftan of the peasant, to show that they are Slavs in feeling, while

the old Russian costume is the regulation court dress for ladies on occasions
of state.
We cannot here name the host of other reforms which Peter introduced.
The army was dressed and organized in the fashion of the West. A navy was
rapidly built, and before many years Russia was winning victories at sea.
Peter had not worked at Amsterdam and Deptford in vain. The money of the
country was reorganized, and new coins were issued. The year, which had
always begun in Russia on September 1, was now ordered to begin on
January 1, the first new year on the new system, January 1, 1700, being
introduced with impressive ceremonies. Up to this time the Russians had
counted their year from the supposed date of creation. They were now
ordered to date their chronology from the birth of Christ, the first year of
the new era being dated 1700 instead of 7208. Unluckily, the Gregorian
calendar was not at the same time introduced, and Russia still clings to the
old style, so that each date in that country is twelve days behind the same
date in the rest of the Christian world.
Another reform of an important character was introduced. Peter had
observed the system of local self-government in other countries, and
resolved to have something like it in his realm. In Little Russia the people
already had the right of electing their local officials. A similar system was
extended to the whole empire, the merchants in the towns being permitted
to choose good and honest men, who formed a council which had general
charge of municipal affairs. Where bribery and corruption were discovered
among these officials the knout and exile were applied as inducements to
honesty in office. Even death was threatened; yet bribery went on. Honesty
in office cannot be made to order, even by a czar.

MAZEPPA, THE COSSACK CHIEF.

Among the romantic characters of history none have attained higher
celebrity than the hero of our present tale, whose remarkable adventure,
often told in story, has been made immortal in Lord Byron's famous poem
of "Mazeppa." Those who wish to read it in all its dramatic intensity must
apply to the poem. Here it can only be given in plain prose.
Mazeppa was a scion of a poor but noble Polish family, and became,
while quite young, a page at the court of John Casimir, King of Poland.
There he remained until he reached manhood, when he returned to the
vicinity of his birth. And now occurred the striking event on which the fame
of our hero rests. The court-reared young man is said to have engaged in an
intrigue with a Polish lady of high rank, or at least was suspected by her
jealous husband of having injured him in his honor.
Bent upon a revenge suitable to the barbarous ideas of that age, the
furious nobleman had the young man seized, cruelly scourged, and in the
end stripped naked and firmly bound upon the back of an untamed horse of
the steppes. The wild animal, terrified by the strange burden upon its back,
was then set free on the borders of its native wilds of the Ukraine, and,
uncontrolled by bit or rein, galloped madly for miles upon miles through
forest and over plain, until, exhausted by the violence of its flight, it halted
in its wild career. For a dramatic rendering of this frightful ride our readers
must be referred to Byron's glowing verse.
The savage Polish lord had not dreamed that his victim would escape
alive, but fortune favored the poor youth. He was found, still fettered to the
animal's back, insensible and half dead, by some Cossack peasants, who

rescued him from his fearful situation, took him to their hut, and eventually
restored him to animation.
Mazeppa was well educated and fully versed in the art of war of that day.
He made his home with his new friends, to whom his courage, agility, and
sagacity proved such warm recommendations that he soon became highly
popular among the Cossack clans. He was appointed secretary and adjutant
to Samilovitch, the hetman or chief of the Cossacks, and on the disgrace
and exile of this chief in 1687 Mazeppa succeeded him as leader of the
tribe. He distinguished himself particularly in the war waged by the army of
the Princess Sophia against the Turks and Tartars of the Crimea, in which
Mazeppa led his Cossack followers with the greatest courage and skill.
On the return of the army to Moscow, Prince Galitzin, its leader, brought
into the capital a strong force of Cossacks, with Mazeppa at their head. It
was the first time the Cossacks had been allowed to enter Moscow, and
their presence gave great offence. It was supposed to be a part of the plot of
Sophia to dethrone her young brother and seize the throne for herself. It was
known that they would execute to the full any orders given them by their
chief; but their motions were so restricted by the indignant people that the
ambitious woman, if she entertained such a design, found herself unable to
employ them in it.
The daring hetman of the Cossacks became afterwards a cherished friend
of Peter the Great, who conferred on him the title of prince, and severely
punished those who accused him of conspiring with the enemies of Russia.
Having the fullest confidence in his good faith, Peter banished or executed
his foes as liars and traitors. Yet they seem to have been the true men and
Mazeppa the traitor, for at length, when sixty-four years of age, he threw off
allegiance to Russia and became an ally of the Swedish enemies of the
realm.
The fiery and ungovernable temper of Peter is said to have been the
cause of this. The story goes that one day, when Mazeppa was visiting the
Russian court, and was at table with the czar, Peter complained to him of
the lawless character of the Cossacks, and proposed that Mazeppa should
seek to bring them under better control by a system of organization and
discipline.

The chief replied that such measures would never succeed. The Cossacks
were so fierce and uncontrollable by nature, he said, and so fixed in their
irregular habits of warfare, that it would be impossible to get them to
submit to military discipline, and they must continue to fight in their old,
wild way.
These words were like fire to flax. Peter, who never could bear the least
opposition to any of his plans or projects, and was accustomed to have
everybody timidly agree with him, broke into a furious rage at this
contradiction, and visited his sudden wrath on Mazeppa, as usual, in the
most violent language. He was an enemy and a traitor, who deserved to be
and should be impaled alive, roared the furious czar, not meaning a tithe of
what he said, but saying enough to turn the high-spirited chief from a friend
to a foe.
Mazeppa left the czar's presence in deep offence, muttering the
displeasure which it would have been death to speak openly, and bent on
revenge. Soon after he entered into communication with Charles XII. of
Sweden, the bitter enemy of Russia, which he was then invading. He
suggested that the Swedish army should advance into Southern Russia,
where the Cossacks would be sure to be sent to meet it. He would then go
over with all his forces to the Swedish side, so strengthening it that the
army of the czar could not stand against it. The King of Sweden might
retain the territory won by his arms, while the Cossacks would retire to their
own land, and become again, as of old, an independent tribe.
The plot was well laid, but it failed through the loyalty of the Cossacks.
They broke into wild indignation when Mazeppa unfolded to them his plan,
most of them refusing to join in the revolt, and threatening to seize him and
deliver him, bound hand and foot, to the czar. Some two thousand in all
adhered to Mazeppa, and for a time it seemed as if a bloody battle would
take place between the two sections of the tribe, but in the end the chief and
his followers made their way to the Swedish camp, while the others
marched back and put themselves under the command of the nearest
Russian general.
Mazeppa was now sentenced to death, and executed,—luckily for him,
in effigy only. In person he was out of the reach of his foes. A wooden

image was made to represent the culprit, and on this dumb block the
penalties prescribed for him were inflicted. A pretty play—for a savage
horde—they made of it. The image was dressed to imitate Mazeppa, while
representations of the medals, ribbons, and other decorations he usually
wore were placed upon it. It was then brought out before the general and
leading officers, the soldiers being drawn up in a square around it. A herald
now read the sentence of condemnation, and the mock execution began.
First Mazeppa's patent of knighthood was torn to pieces and the fragments
flung into the air. Then the medals and decorations were rent from the
image and trampled underfoot. Finally the image itself was struck a blow
that toppled it over into the dust. The hangman now took it in hand, tied a
rope round its neck, and dragged it to a gibbet, on which it was hung. The
affair ended in the Cossacks choosing a new chief.
The remainder of Mazeppa's story may soon be told. The battle of
Pultowa, fought, it is said, by his advice, ended the military career of the
great Swedish general. The Cossack chief made his escape, with the King of
Sweden, into Turkish territory, and the reward which the czar offered for his
body, dead or alive, was never claimed. Mentchikof took what revenge he
could by capturing and sacking his capital city, Baturin, while throughout
Russia his name was anathematized from the pulpit. Traitor in his old days,
and a fugitive in a foreign land, the disgrace of his action seemed to weigh
heavily upon the mind of the old chief of the Ukraine, and in the following
year he put an end to the wretchedness of his life by poison.

A WINDOW OPEN TO EUROPE.

Peter the Great hated Moscow. It was to him the embodiment of that
old Russia which he was seeking to reform out of existence. Had he been
able to work his own will in all things, he would never have set foot within
its walls; but circumstances are stronger than men, even though the latter be
Russian czars. In one respect Peter set himself against circumstance, and
built Russia a capital in a locality seemingly lacking in all natural
adaptation for a city.
In the early days of the eighteenth century his armies captured a small
Swedish fort on Lake Ladoga near the river Neva. The locality pleased him,
and he determined to build on the Neva a city which should serve Russia as
a naval station and commercial port in the north. Why he selected this spot
it is not easy to say. Better localities for his purpose might have been easily
chosen. There was old Novgorod, a centre of commerce during many
centuries of the past, which it would have been a noble tribute to ancient
Russian history to revive. There was Riga, a city better situated for the
Baltic commerce. But Peter would have none of these; he wanted a city of
his own, one that should carry his name down through the ages, that should
rival the Alexandria of Alexander the Great, and he chose for it a most
inauspicious and inhospitable site.
The Neva, a short but deep and wide stream, which carries to the sea the
waters of the great lakes Ladoga, Onega, and Ilmen, breaks up near its
mouth and makes its way into the Gulf of Finland through numerous
channels, between which lie a series of islands. These then bore Finnish
names equivalent to Island of Hares, Island of Buffaloes, and the like.
Overgrown with thickets, their surfaces marshy, liable to annual overflow,
inhabited only by a few Finnish fishermen, who fled from their huts to the

mainland when the waters rose, they were far from promising; yet these
islands took Peter's fancy as a suitable site for a commercial port, and with
his usual impetuosity he plunged into the business of making a city to order.

ST. PETERSBURG HARBOR, NEVA RIVER.
In truth, he fell in love with the spot, though what he saw in it to admire
is not so clear. In summer mud ruled there supreme: the very name Neva is
Finnish for "mud." During four months of the year ice took the place of
mud, and the islands and stream were fettered fast. The country surrounding
was largely a desert, its barren plains alternating with forests whose only
inhabitants were wolves. Years after the city was built, wolves prowled into
its streets and devoured two sentries in front of one of the government
buildings. Moscow lay four hundred miles away, and the country between
was bleak and almost uninhabited. Even to-day the traveller on leaving St.
Petersburg finds himself in a desert. The great plain over which he passes
spreads away in every direction, not a steeple, not a tree, not a man or beast,
visible upon its bare expanse. There is no pasturage nor farming land. Fruits
and vegetables can scarcely be grown; corn must be brought from a
distance. Rye is an article of garden culture in St. Petersburg, cabbages and
turnips are its only vegetables, and a beehive there is a curiosity.

Yet, as has been said, Peter was attracted to the place, which in one of
his letters he called his "paradise." It may have reminded him of Holland,
the scene of his nautical education. The locality had a certain sacredness in
Russian tradition, being looked upon as the most ancient Russian ground.
By the mouth of the Neva had passed Rurik and his fellows in their
journeys across the Varangian sea,—their own sea. The czar was willing to
restore to Sweden all his conquests in Livonia and Esthonia, but the Neva
he would not yield. From boyhood he had dreamed of giving Russia a navy
and opening it up to the world's commerce, and here was a ready opening to
the waters of the Baltic and the distant Atlantic.
St. Petersburg owed its origin to a whim; but it was the whim of a man
whose will swayed the movements of millions. He was not even willing to
begin his work on the high ground of the mainland, but chose the Island of
Hares, the nearest of the islands to the gulf. It was a seaport, not a capital,
that he at first had in view. Legend tells us that he snatched a halberd from
one of his soldiers, cut with it two strips of turf, and laid them crosswise,
saying, "Here there shall be a town." Then, dropping the halberd, he seized
a spade and began the first embankment. As he dug, an eagle appeared and
hovered above his head. Shot by one of the men, it fluttered to his feet.
Picking up the wounded bird, he set out in a boat to explore the waters
around. To this event is given the date of May 16, 1703.
The city began in a fortress, for the building of which carpenters and
masons were brought from distant towns. The soldiers served as laborers. In
this labor tools were notable chiefly for their absence. Wheelbarrows were
unknown; they are still but little used in Russia. Spades and baskets were
equally lacking, and the czar's impatience could not wait for them to be
procured. The men scraped up the earth with their hands or with sticks and
carried it in the skirts of their caftans to the ramparts. The czar sent orders
to Moscow that two thousand of the thieves and outlaws destined for
Siberia should be despatched the next summer to the Neva.
The fort was at first built of wood, which was replaced by stone some
years afterwards. Logs served for all other structures, for no stone was to be
had. Afterwards every boat coming to the town was required to bring a
certain number of stones, and, to attract masons to the new city, the building
of stone houses in Moscow or elsewhere was forbidden. As for the fortress,

which was erected at no small cost in life and money, it soon became
useless, and to-day it only protects the mint and cathedral of St. Petersburg.
The new city, named Petersburg from its founder, has long been known
as St. Petersburg. While the fort was in process of erection a church was
also built, dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul. The site of this wooden
edifice is now occupied by the cathedral, begun in 1714, ten years later. As
regarded a home for himself, Peter was easily satisfied. A hut of logs—his
palace he called it—was built near the fortress, fifty-five feet long by
twenty-five wide, and containing but three rooms. At a later date, to
preserve this his first place of residence in his new city, he enclosed it
within another building. Thus it still remains, a place of pilgrimage for
devout Russians. It contains many relics of the great czar. His bedroom is
now a chapel.
Such a city, in such a situation, should have taken years to build. Peter
wished to have it done in months, and he pushed the labor with little regard
for its cost in life and treasure. Men were brought from all sections of
Russia and put to work. Disease broke out among them, engendered by the
dampness of the soil; but the work went on. Floods came and covered the
island, drowning some of the sick in their beds; but there was no alleviation.
History tells us that Swedish prisoners were employed, and that they died
by thousands. Death, in Peter's eyes, was only an unpleasant incident, and
new workmen were brought in multitudes, many of them to perish in their
turn. It has been said that the building of the city cost two hundred thousand
lives. This is, no doubt, an exaggeration, but it indicates a frightful
mortality. But the feverish impatience of the czar told in results, and by
1714 the city possessed over thirty-four thousand buildings, with
inhabitants in proportion.
The floods came and played their part in the work of death. In that of
1706, Peter measured water twenty-one inches deep on the floor of his hut.
He thought it "extremely amusing" as men, women, and children were
swept past his windows on floating wreckage down the stream. What the
people themselves thought of it history does not say.

SLEIGHING IN RUSSIA.
As yet Peter had no design of making St. Petersburg the capital of his
empire. That conception seems not to have come to him until after the
crushing defeat of the Swedish monarch Charles XII. at the battle of
Pultowa. And indeed it was not until 1817 that it was made the capital. It
was the fifth Russian capital, its predecessors in that honor having been
Novgorod, Kief, Vladimir, and Moscow.
To add a commercial quarter to the new city, Peter chose the island of
Vasily Ostrof,—the Finnish "Island of Buffaloes,"—where a town was laid

out in the Dutch fashion, with canals for streets. This island is still the
business centre of the city, though the canals have long since disappeared.
The streets of St. Petersburg for many years continued unpaved,
notwithstanding the marshy character of the soil, and in the early days boats
replaced carriages for travel and traffic.
The work of building the new capital was not confined to the czar. The
nobles were obliged to build palaces in it,—very much to their chagrin.
They hated St. Petersburg as cordially as Peter hated Moscow. They already
had large and elegant mansions in the latter city, and had little relish for
building new ones in this desert capital, four hundred miles to the north. But
the word of the czar was law, and none dared say him nay. Every proprietor
whose estate held five hundred serfs was ordered to build a stone house of
two stories in the new city. Those of greater wealth had to build more
pretentious edifices. Peter's own taste in architecture was not good. He
loved low and small rooms. None of his palaces were fine buildings. In
building the Winter Palace, whose stories were made high enough to
conform to others on the street, he had double ceilings put in his special
rooms, so as to reduce their height.
The city under way, the question of its defence became prominent. The
Swedes, the mortal enemies of the czar, looked with little favor on this new
project, and their prowling vessels in the gulf seemed to threaten it with
attack. Peter made vigorous efforts to prepare for defence. Ship-building
went on briskly on the Svir River, between Lakes Ladoga and Onega, and
the vessels were got down as quickly as possible into the Neva. Peter
himself explored and measured the depth of water in the Gulf of Finland.
Here, some twenty miles from the city, lay the island of Cronslot, seven
miles long, and in the narrowest part of the gulf. The northern channel past
this island proved too shallow to be a source of danger. The southern
channel was navigable, and this the czar determined to fortify.
A fort was begun in the water near the island's shores, stone being sunk
for its foundation. Work on it was pressed with the greatest energy, for fear
of an attack by the Swedish fleet, and it was completed before the winter's
end. With the idea of making this his commercial port, Peter had many
stone warehouses built on the island, most of which soon fell into decay for
want of use. But to-day Cronstadt, as the new town and fortress were called,

is the greatest naval station and one of the most flourishing commercial
cities in Russia, while its fortifications protect the capital from dangers of
assault.
In those early days, however, St. Petersburg was designed to be the
centre of commerce, and Peter took what means he could to entice merchant
vessels to his new city. The first to appear—coming almost by accident—
was of Dutch build. It arrived in November, 1703, and Peter himself served
as pilot to bring it up to the town. Great was the astonishment of the
skipper, on being afterwards presented to the czar, to recognize in him his
late pilot. And Peter's delight was equally great on learning that the ship had
been freighted by Cornelis Calf, one of his old Zaandam friends. The
skipper was feasted to his heart's content and presented with five hundred
ducats, while each sailor received thirty thalers, and the ship was renamed
the St. Petersburg. Two other ships appeared the same year, one Dutch and
one English, and their skippers and crews received the same reward. These
pioneer vessels were exempted forever from all tolls and dues at that port.
St. Petersburg, as it exists to-day, bears very little resemblance to the city
of Peter's plan. To his successors are due the splendid granite quays, which
aid in keeping out the overflowing stream, the rows of palaces, the noble
churches and public buildings, the statues, columns, and other triumphs of
architecture which abundantly adorn the great modern capital. The marshy
island soil has been lifted by two centuries of accretions, while the main
city has crept up from its old location to the mainland, where the
fashionable quarters and the government offices now stand.
St. Petersburg is still exposed to yearly peril by overflow. The violent
autumnal storms, driving the waters of the gulf into the channel of the
stream, back up terrible floods. The spring-time rise in the lakes which feed
the Neva threatens similar disaster. In 1721 Peter himself narrowly escaped
drowning in the Nevski Prospect, now the finest street in Europe.
Of the floods that have desolated the city, the greatest was that of
November, 1824. Driven into the river's mouth by a furious southwest
storm, the waters of the gulf were heaped up to the first stories of the
houses even in the highest streets. Horses and carriages were swept away;
bridges were torn loose and floated off; numbers of houses were moved

from their foundations; a full regiment of carbineers, who had taken refuge
on the roof of their barracks, perished in the furious torrent. At Cronstadt
the waters rose so high that a hundred-gun ship was left stranded in the
market-place. The czar, who had just returned from a long journey to the
east, found himself made captive in his own palace. Standing on the
balcony which looks up the Neva, surrounded by his weeping family, he
saw with deep dismay wrecks of every kind, bridges and merchandise,
horses and cattle, and houses peopled with helpless inmates, swept before
his eyes by the raging flood. Boats were overturned and emptied their crews
into the stream. Some who escaped death by drowning died from the bitter
cold as they floated downward on vessels or rafts. It seemed almost as if the
whole city would be carried bodily into the gulf.
The official reports of this disaster state that forty-five hundred of the
people perished,—probably not half the true figure. Of the houses that
remained, many were ruined, and thousands of poor wretches wandered
homeless through the drenched streets. Such was one example of the
inheritance left by Peter the Great to the dwellers in his favorite city, his
"window to Europe," as it has been called.

FROM THE HOVEL TO THE THRONE.

The reign of Peter the Great was signalized by two notable instances of
the rise of persons from the lowest to the highest estate, ability being placed
above birth and talent preferred to noble descent. A poor boy, Mentchikof
by name, son of a monastery laborer, had made his way to Moscow and
there found employment with a pastry-cook, who sent him out daily with a
basket of mince pies, which he was to sell in the streets. The boy was
destitute of education, but he had inherited a musical voice and a lively
manner, which stood him in good stead in proclaiming the merits of his
wares. He could sing a ballad in taking style, and became so widely known
for his songs and stories that he was often invited into gentlemen's houses
to entertain company. His voice and his wit ended in making him a prince
of the empire, a favorite of the czar, and in the end virtually the emperor of
Russia.
Being one day in the kitchen of a boyar's house, where dinner was being
prepared for the czar, who had promised to dine there that day, young
Mentchikof overheard the master of the house give special directions to his
cook about a dish of meat of which he said the czar was especially fond,
and noticed that he furtively dropped a powder of some kind into it, as if by
way of spice.
This act seemed suspicious to the acute lad. Noting particularly the
composition of the dish, he betook himself to the street, where he began
again to exalt the merits of his pies and to entertain the passers-by with
ballads. He kept in the vicinity of the boyar's house until the czar arrived,
when he raised his voice to its highest pitch and began to sing vociferously.
The czar, attracted by the boy's voice and amused by his manner, called him
up, and asked him if he would sell his stock in trade, basket and all.

"I have orders only to sell the pies," replied the shrewd vender: "I cannot
sell the basket without asking my master's leave. But, as everything in
Russia belongs to your majesty, you have only to lay on me your
commands."
This answer so greatly pleased the czar that he bade the boy come with
him into the house and wait on him at table, much to the young pie-vender's
joy, as it was just the result for which he had hoped. The dinner went on,
Mentchikof waiting on the czar with such skill as he could command, and
watching eagerly for the approach of the suspected dish. At length it was
brought in and placed on the table before the czar. The boy thereupon
leaned forward and whispered in the monarch's ear, begging him not to eat
of that dish.
Surprised at this request, and quick to suspect something wrong, the czar
rose and walked into an adjoining room, bidding the boy accompany him.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Why should I not eat of that particular
dish?"
"Because I am afraid it is not all right," answered the boy. "I was in the
kitchen while it was being prepared, and saw the boyar, when the cook's
back was turned, drop a powder into the dish. I do not know what all this
meant, but thought it my duty to put your majesty on your guard."
"Thanks for your shrewdness, my lad," said the czar; "I will bear it in
mind."
Peter returned to the table with his wonted cheerfulness of countenance,
giving no indication that he had heard anything unusual.
"I should like your majesty to try that dish," said the boyar: "I fancy that
you will find it very good."
"Come sit here beside me," suggested Peter. It was the custom at that
time in Moscow for the master of a house to wait on the table when he
entertained guests.
Peter put some of the questionable dish on a plate and placed it before
his host.

"No doubt it is good," he said. "Try some of it yourself and set me an
example."
This request threw the host into a state of the utmost confusion, and with
trembling utterance he replied that it was not becoming for a servant to eat
with his master.
"It is becoming to a dog, if I wish it," answered Peter, and he set the
plate on the floor before a dog which was in the room.
In a moment the brute had emptied the dish. But in a short time the poor
animal was seen to be in convulsions, and it soon fell dead before the
assembled company.
"Is this the dish you recommended so highly?" said Peter, fixing a
terrible look on the shrinking boyar. "So I was to take the place of that dead
dog?"
Orders were given to have the animal opened and examined, and the
result of the investigation proved beyond doubt that its death was due to
poison. The culprit, however, escaped the terrible punishment which he
would have suffered at Peter's hands by taking his own life. He was found
dead in bed the next morning.
We do not vouch for the truth of this interesting story. Though told by a
writer of Peter's time, it is doubted by late historians. But such is the fate of
the best stories afloat, and the voice of doubt threatens to rob history of
much of its romance. The story of Mentchikof, in its most usual shape,
states that Le Fort, general and admiral, was the first to be attracted to the
sprightly boy, and that Peter saw him at Le Fort's house, was delighted with
him, and made him his page.
The pastry-cook's boy soon became the indispensable companion of the
czar, assisted him in his workshop, attended him in his wars, and at the
siege of Azov displayed the greatest bravery. He accompanied Peter in his
travels, worked with him in Holland, and distinguished himself in the wars
with the Swedes, receiving the order of St. Andrew for gallantry at the
battle of the Neva. In 1704 he was given the rank of general, and was the
first to defeat the Swedes in a pitched battle. At the czar's request he was
made a prince of the Holy Roman Empire.

As Prince Mentchikof the new grandee loomed high. His house in
Moscow was magnificent, his banquets were gorgeous with gold and silver
plate, and the ambassadors of the powers of Europe figured among his
guests. Such was the bright side of the picture. The dark side was one of
extortion and robbery, in which the favorite of the czar out-did in peculation
all the other officials of the realm.
Peculation in Russia, indeed, assumed enormous proportions, but this
was a crime towards which Peter did not manifest his usual severity. Two of
the robbers in high places were executed, but the others were let off with
fines and a castigation with Peter's walking-stick, which he was in the habit
of using freely on high and low alike. As for Mentchikof, he was
incorrigible. So high was he in favor with his master that the senators, who
had abundant proofs of his robberies and little love for him personally,
dared not openly accuse him before the czar. The most they ventured to do
was to draw up a statement of his peculations and lay the paper on the table
at the czar's seat. Peter saw it, ran his eye over its contents, but said nothing.
Day after day the paper lay in the same place, but the czar continued silent.
One day as he sat in the senate, the senator Tolstoi, who sat beside him, was
bold enough to ask him what he thought of that document.
"Nothing," Peter replied, "but that Mentchikof will always be
Mentchikof."
The death of Peter placed the favorite in a precarious position. He had a
host of enemies, who would have rejoiced in his downfall. These, who
formed what may be called the Old Russian party, wished to proclaim as
monarch the grandson of the deceased czar. But Mentchikof and the party
of reform were beforehand with them, and gave the throne to Catharine, the
widow of the late monarch. Under her the pastry-cook's boy rose to the
summit of his power and virtually governed the country. Unluckily for the
favorite, Catharine died in two years, and a new czar, Peter II., grandson of
Peter the Great, came to the throne.
Mentchikof had been left guardian of the youthful czar, to whom his
daughter was betrothed, and whom he took to his house and surrounded
with his creatures. And now for a time the favorite soared higher than ever,

was practically lord of the land, and made himself more feared than had
been Peter himself.
But he had reached the verge of a precipice. There was no love between
the young czar and Mary Mentchikof, and the youthful prince was soon
brought to dislike his guardian. Events moved fast. Peter left Mentchikof's
house and sought the summer palace, to which his guardian was refused
admittance. Soon after he was arrested, the shock of the disgrace bringing
on an apoplectic stroke. In vain he appealed to the emperor; he was ordered
to retire to his estate, and soon after was banished, with his whole family, to
Siberia. This was in 1727. The disgraced favorite survived his exile but two
years, dying of apoplexy in 1729. Four months afterwards the new czar
followed in death the man he had disgraced.
The other instance of a rise from low to high estate was that of the
empress herself, whose career was very closely related to that of
Mentchikof. There are various instances in history of a woman of low estate
being chosen to share a monarch's throne, but only one, that of Catharine of
Russia, in which a poor stranger, taken from among the ruins of a plundered
town, became eventually the absolute sovereign of that empire into which
she had been carried as captive or slave.
It was in 1702, during the sharply contested war between Russia and
Sweden, that, while Charles XII. of Sweden was making conquests in
Poland, the Russian army was having similar success in Livonia and Ingria.
Among the Russian successes was the capture of a small town named
Marienburg, which surrendered at discretion, but whose magazines were
blown up by the Swedes. This behavior so provoked the Russian general
that he gave orders for the town to be destroyed and all its inhabitants to be
carried off.
Among the prisoners was a girl, Catharine by name, a native of Livonia,
who had been left an orphan at the age of three years, and had been brought
up as a servant in the family of M. Gluck, the minister of the place. Such
was the humble origin of the woman who was to become the wife of Peter
the Great, and afterwards Catharine I., Empress of Russia.
In 1702 Catharine, then seventeen years of age, married a Swedish
dragoon, one of the garrison of Marienburg. Her married life was a short

one, her husband being obliged to leave her in two days to join his
regiment. She never saw him again. She could neither read nor write, and,
like Mentchikof, never learned those arts. She was, however, handsome and
attractive, delicate and well formed, and of a most excellent temper, being
never known to be out of humor, while she was obliging and civil to all, and
after her exaltation took good care of the family of her benefactor Gluck. As
for her first husband, she sent him sums of money until 1705, when he was
killed in battle.
It was a common fate of prisoners of war then to be sold as slaves to the
Turks, but the beauty of Catharine saved her from this. After some
vicissitudes, she fell into the hands of Mentchikof, at whose quarters she
was seen by the czar. Struck by her beauty and good sense, Peter took her to
his palace, where, finding in her a warm appreciation of his plans of reform
and an admirable disposition, he made her his own by a private marriage. In
1711 this was supplemented by a public wedding.
Catharine was soon able amply to reward the czar for the honor he had
conferred upon her. He was at war with the Turks, and, through a foolish
contempt for their generalship and military skill, allowed himself to fall into
a trap from which there seemed no escape. He found himself completely
surrounded by the enemy and cut off from all supplies, and it seemed as if
he would be forced to surrender with his whole force to the despised foe.
From this dilemma Catharine, who was in the camp, relieved him.
Collecting a large sum of money and presents of jewelry, and seeking the
camp of the enemy, she succeeded in bribing the Turkish general, or in
some way inducing him to conclude peace and suffer the Russian army to
escape. Peter repaid his able wife by conferring upon her the dignity of
empress.
The death of the czar was followed, as we have said, by the elevation of
his wife to the vacant throne, principally through the aid of Mentchikof, her
former lord and master, aided by the effect of her seemingly inconsolable
grief and the judicious distribution of money and jewels as presents.
For two years Catharine and Mentchikof, whose life had begun in the
hovel, and who were now virtually together on the throne, were the
unquestioned autocrats of Russia. Catharine had no genius for government,

and left the control of affairs to her minister, who was to all intents and
purposes sovereign of Russia. The empress, meanwhile, passed her days in
vice and dissipation, thereby hastening her end. She died in 1727, at the age
of about forty years. In the same year, as already stated, the man who had
grown great with her fell from his high estate.

BUFFOONERIES OF THE RUSSIAN COURT.

Amid the serious matters which present themselves so abundantly in the
history of Russia, buffooneries of the coarsest character at times find place.
Numerous examples of this might be drawn from the reign of Peter the
Great, whose idea of humor was broad burlesque, and who, despite the
religious prejudices of the people, did not hesitate to make the church the
subject of his jests. One of the broadest of these farces was that known as
the Conclave, the purpose of which was to burlesque or treat with
contumely the method of selecting the head of the Roman Catholic Church.
At the court of the czar was an old man named Sotof, a drunkard of
inimitable powers of imbibition, and long a butt for the jests of the court.
He had taught the czar to write, a service which he deemed worthy of being
rewarded by the highest dignities of the empire.
Peter, who dearly loved a practical joke, learning the aspirations of the
old sot, promised to confer on him the most eminent office in the world, and
accordingly appointed him Kniaz Papa that is, prince-pope, with a salary of
two thousand roubles and a palace at St. Petersburg. The exaltation of Sotof
to this dignity was solemnized by a performance more gross than ludicrous.
Buffoons were chosen to lift the new dignitary to his throne, and four
fellows who stammered with every word delivered absurd addresses upon
his exaltation. The mock pope then created a number of cardinals, at whose
head he rode through the streets in procession, his seat of state being a cask
of brandy which was carried on a sledge drawn by four oxen.
The cardinals followed, and after them came sledges laden with food and
drink, while the music of the procession consisted of a hideous turmoil of
drums, trumpets, horns, fiddles, and hautboys, all playing out of time,

mingled with the ear-splitting clatter of pots and pans vigorously beaten by
a troop of cooks and scullions. Next came a number of men dressed as
Roman Catholic monks, each carrying a bottle and a glass. In the rear of the
procession marched the czar and his courtiers, Peter dressed as a Dutch
skipper, the others wearing various comic disguises.
The place fixed for the conclave being reached, the cardinals were led
into a long gallery, along which had been built a range of closets. In each of
these a cardinal was shut up, abundantly provided with food and drink. To
each of the cardinals two conclavists were attached, whose duty it was to
ply them with brandy, carry insulting messages from one to another, and
induce them, as they grew tipsy, to bawl out all sorts of abuse of one
another. To all this ribaldry the czar listened with delight, taking note at the
same time of anything said of which he might make future use against the
participants.
This orgy lasted three days and three nights, the cardinals not being
released until they had agreed upon answers to a number of ridiculous
questions propounded to them by the Kniaz Papa. Then the doors were
flung open, and the pope and his cardinals were drawn home at mid-day
dead drunk on sledges,—that is, such of them as survived, for some had
actually drunk themselves to death, while others never recovered from the
effect of their debauch.
This offensive absurdity appealed so strongly to the czar's idea of humor
that he had it three times repeated, it growing more gross and shameless on
each successive occasion; and during the last conclave Peter indulged in
such excesses that his death was hastened by their effects.
As for the national church of Russia, Peter treated it with contemptuous
indifference. The office of patriarch becoming vacant, he left it unfilled for
twenty-one years, and finally, on being implored by a delegation from the
clergy to appoint a patriarch, he started up in a furious passion, struck his
breast with his fist and the table with his cutlass, and roared out, "Here, here
is your patriarch!" He then stamped angrily from the room, leaving the
prelates in a state of utter dismay.
Soon after he took occasion to make the church the subject of a second
coarse jest. Another buffoon of the court, Buturlin by name, was appointed

Kniaz Papa, and a marriage arranged between him and the widow of Sotof,
his predecessor. The bridegroom was eighty-four years of age, the bride
nearly as old. Some decrepit old men were chosen to play the part of
bridesmaids, four stutterers invited the wedding guests, while four of the
most corpulent fellows who could be found attended the procession as
running footmen. A sledge drawn by bears held the orchestra, their music
being accompanied with roars from the animals, which were goaded with
iron spikes. The nuptial benediction was given in the cathedral by a blind
and deaf priest, who wore huge spectacles. The marriage, the wedding feast,
and the remaining ceremonies were all conducted in the same spirit of
broad burlesque, in which one of the sacred ceremonies of the Russian
Church was grossly paraphrased.
Peter did not confine himself to coarse jests in his efforts to discredit the
clergy. He took every occasion to unmask the trickery of the priests.
Petersburg, the new city he was building, was an object of abhorrence to
these superstitious worthies, who denounced it as one of the gates of hell,
prophesying that it would be overthrown by the wrath of heaven, and fixing
the date on which this was to occur. So great was the fear inspired by their
prophecies that work was suspended in spite of the orders of the terrible
czar.
To impress the people with the imminency of the peril, the priests
displayed a sacred image from whose eyes flowed miraculous tears. It
seemed to weep over the coming fate of the dwellers within the doomed
city.
"Its hour is at hand," said the priests; "it will soon be swallowed up, with
all its inhabitants, by a tremendous inundation."
When word of this seeming miracle and of the consternation which it
had produced was brought to the czar, he hastened with his usual
impetuosity to the spot, bent on exposing the dangerous fraud which his
enemies were perpetrating. He found the weeping image surrounded by a
multitude of superstitious citizens, who gazed with open-eyed wonder and
reverence on the miraculous feat.
Their horror was intense when Peter boldly approached and examined
the image. Petrified with terror, they looked to see him stricken dead by a

bolt from heaven. But their feelings changed when the czar, breaking open
the head of the image, explained to them the ingenious trick which the
priests had devised. The head was found to contain a reservoir of congealed
oil, which, as it was melted by the heat of lighted tapers beneath, flowed out
drop by drop through artfully provided holes, and ran from the eyes like
tears. On seeing this the dismay of the people turned to anger against the
priests, and the building of the city went on.
The court fool was an institution born in barbarism, though it survived
long into the age of civilization, having its latest survival in Russia, the last
European state to emerge from barbarism. In the days of Peter the Great the
fool was a fixed institution in Russia, though this element of court life had
long vanished from Western Europe. In truth, the buffoon flourished in
Russia like a green bay-tree. Peter was never satisfied with less than a
dozen of these fun-making worthies, and a private family which could not
afford at least one hired fool was thought to be in very straitened
circumstances.
In the reign of the empress Anne the number of court buffoons was
reduced to six, but three of the six were men of the highest birth. They had
been degraded to this office for some fault, and if they refused to perform
such fooleries as the queen and her courtiers desired they were whipped
with rods.
Among those who suffered this indignity was no less a grandee than
Prince Galitzin. He had changed his religion, and for this offence he was
made court page, though he was over forty years of age, and buffoon,
though his son was a lieutenant in the army, and his family one of the first
in the realm. His name is here given in particular as he was made the
subject of a cruel jest, which could have been perpetrated nowhere but in
the Russian court at that period.
The winter of 1740, in which this event took place, was of unusual
severity. Prince Galitzin's wife having died, the empress forced him to
marry a girl of the lowest birth, agreeing to defray the cost of the wedding,
which proved to be by no means small.
As a preliminary a house was built wholly of ice, and all its furniture,
tables, seats, ornaments, and even the nuptial bedstead, were made of the

same frigid material. In front of the house were placed four cannons and
two mortars of ice, so solid in construction that they were fired several
times without bursting. To make up the wedding procession persons of all
the nations subject to Russia, and of both sexes, were brought from the
several provinces, dressed in their national costumes.
The procession was an extraordinary one. The new-married couple rode
on the back of an elephant, in a huge cage. Of those that followed some
were mounted on camels, some rode in sledges drawn by various beasts,
such as reindeer, oxen, dogs, goats, and hogs. The train, which all Moscow
turned out to witness, embraced more than three hundred persons, and made
its way past the palace of the empress and through all the principal streets
of the city.
The wedding dinner was given in Biren's riding-house, which was
appropriately decorated, and in which each group of the guests were
supplied with food cooked after the manner of their own country. A ball
followed, in which the people of each nation danced their national dances to
their national music. The pith of the joke, in the Russian appreciation of that
day, came at the end, the bride and groom being conducted to a bed of ice in
an icy palace, in which they were forced to spend the night, guards being
stationed at the door to prevent their getting out before morning.
Though not so gross as Peter's nuptial jests, this was more cruel, and, in
view of the social station of the groom, a far greater indignity.
A Russian state dinner during the reign of Peter the Great, as described
by Dr. Birch, speaking from personal observation, was one in which only
those of the strongest stomach could safely take part. On such occasions,
indeed, the experienced ate their dinners beforehand at home, knowing well
what to expect at the czar's table. Ceremony was absolutely lacking, and, as
two or three hundred persons were usually invited to a feast set for a
hundred, a most undignified scuffling for seats took place, each holder of a
chair being forced to struggle with those who sought to snatch it from him.
In this turmoil distinguished foreigners had to fight like the natives for their
seats.
Finally they took their places without regard to dignity or station.
"Carpenters and shipwrights sit next to the czar; but senators, ministers,

generals, priests, sailors, buffoons of all kinds, sit pell-mell, without any
distinction." And they were crowded so closely that it was with great
difficulty they could lift their hands to their mouths. As for foreigners, if
they happened to sit between Russians, they were little likely to have any
appetite to eat. All this Peter encouraged, on the plea that ceremony would
produce uneasiness and stiffness.
There was usually but one napkin for two or three guests, which they
fought for as they had for seats; while each person had but one plate during
dinner, "so if some Russian does not care to mix the sauces of the different
dishes together, he pours the soup that is left in his plate either into the dish
or into his neighbor's plate, or even under the table, after which he licks his
plate clean with his finger, and, last of all, wipes it with the table-cloth."
Liquids seem to have played as important a part as solids at these meals,
each guest being obliged to begin with a cup of brandy, after which great
glasses of wine were served, "and betweenwhiles a bumper of the strongest
English beer, by which mixture of liquors every one of the guests is fuddled
before the soup is served up." And this was not confined to the men, the
women being obliged to take their share in the liberal potations. As for the
music that played in the adjoining room, it was utterly drowned in the noise
around the table, the uproar being occasionally increased by a fighting-bout
between two drunken guests, which the czar, instead of stopping, witnessed
with glee.
We may close with a final quotation from Dr. Birch. "At great
entertainments it frequently happens that nobody is allowed to go out of the
room from noon till midnight; hence it is easy to imagine what pickle a
room must be in that is full of people who drink like beasts, and none of
whom escape being dead drunk.
"They often tie eight or ten young mice in a string, and hide them under
green peas, or in such soups as the Russians have the greatest appetites to,
which sets them a kicking and vomiting in a most beastly manner when
they come to the bottom and discover the trick. They often bake cats,
wolves, ravens, and the like in their pastries, and when the company have
eaten them up, they tell them what they have in their stomachs.

"The present butler is one of the czar's buffoons, to whom he has given
the name of Wiaschi, with this privilege, that if any one calls him by that
name he has leave to drub him with his wooden sword. If, therefore,
anybody, by the czar's setting them on, calls out Wiaschi, as the fellow does
not know exactly who it is, he falls to beating them all around, beginning
with prince Mentchikof and ending with the last of the company, without
excepting even the ladies, whom he strips of their head clothes, as he does
the old Russians of their wigs, which he tramples upon, on which occasion
it is pleasant enough to see the variety of their bald pates."
On reading this account of a Russian court entertainment two centuries
ago, we cannot wonder that after the visit of Peter the Great and his suite to
London it was suggested that the easiest way to cleanse the palace in which
they had been entertained might be to set it on fire and burn it to the ground.

HOW A WOMAN DETHRONED A MAN.

We have told how one Catharine, of lowly birth and the captive of a
warlike raid, rose to be Empress of Russia. We have now to tell how a
second of the same name rose to the same dignity. This one was indeed a
princess by descent, her birthplace being a little German town. But if she
began upon a higher level than the former Catharine, she reached a higher
level still, this insignificant German princess becoming known in history as
Catharine the Great, and having the high distinction of being the only
woman to whose name the title Great has ever been attached. We may here
say, however, that many women have lived to whom it might have been
more properly applied.
In 1744 this daughter of one of the innumerable German kinglings
became Grand Duchess of Russia, through marriage with Peter, the coming
heir to the throne. We may here step from the beaten track of our story to
say that Russia, at this period of its history, was ruled over by a number of
empresses, though at no other time have women occupied its throne. The
line began with Sophia, sister of Peter the Great, who reigned for some
years as virtual empress. Catharine, the wife of Peter, became actual
empress, and was followed, with insignificant intervals of male rulers, by
Anne, Elizabeth, and Catharine the Great. These male rulers were Peter II.,
whose reign was brief, Ivan, an infant, and Peter III., husband of Catharine,
who succeeded Elizabeth in 1762. It is with the last named that we are
concerned.
Peter III., though grandson of Peter the Great, was as weak a man as
ever sat on a throne; Catharine a woman of unusual energy. For years of
their married life these two had been enemies. Peter had the misfortune to
have been born a fool, and folly on the throne is apt to make a sorry show.

He had, besides, become a drunkard and profligate. The one good point
about him, in the estimation of many, was his admiration for Frederick the
Great, since he came to the throne of Russia at the crisis of Frederick's
career, and saved him from utter ruin by withdrawing the Russian army
from his opponents.
His folly soon raised up against him two powerful enemies. One of these
was the army, which did not object, after fighting with the Austrians against
the Prussians, to turn and fight with the Prussians against the Austrians, but
did object to the Prussian dress and discipline, which Peter insisted upon
introducing. It possessed a discipline of its own, which it preferred to keep,
and bitterly disliked its change of dress. The czar even spoke of suppressing
the Guards, as his grandfather had suppressed the corps of the Strelitz. This
was a fatal offence. It made this strong force his enemy, while he was
utterly lacking in the resolution with which Peter the Great had handled
rebels in arms.
The other enemy was Catharine, whom he had deserted for an unworthy
favorite. But her enmity was quiet, and might have remained so had he not
added insult to injury. Heated by drink, he called her a "fool" at a public
dinner before four hundred people, including the greatest dignitaries of the
realm and the foreign ministers. He was not satisfied with an insult, but
added to it the folly of a threat, that of an order for her arrest. This he
withdrew,—a worse fault, under the circumstances, than to have made it.
He had taught Catharine that her only safety lay in action, if she would not
be removed from the throne in favor of the worthless creature who had
supplanted her in her husband's esteem.
Events moved rapidly. It was on the 21st of June, 1762, that the insult
was given and the threat made. Within a month the czar was dead and his
wife reigned in his stead. On the 24th Peter left St. Petersburg for
Oranienbaum, his summer residence. He did not propose to remain there
long. He had it in view to join his army and defeat the Danes, his present
foes, with the less defined intention of gaining glory on some great battle-
field at the side of his victorious ally Frederick the Great. The fleet with
which Denmark was to be invaded was not ready to sail, many of the crew
being sick; but this little difficulty did not deter the czar. He issued an
imperial ukase ordering the sick sailors to get well.

On going to his summer residence Peter had imprudently left Catharine
at St. Petersburg, taking his mistress in her stead. On the 29th his wife
received orders from him to go to Peterhof. Thither he meant to proceed
before setting out on his campaign. His feast-day came on the 10th of July.
On the morning of the 9th he set out with a large train of followers for the
palace of Peterhof, where the next day Catharine was to give a grand dinner
in his honor.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Peterhof was reached. To the
utter surprise of the czar, there were none but servants to meet him, and
they in a state of mortal terror.
"Where is the empress?" he demanded.
"Gone."
"Where?"
No one could tell him. She had simply gone,—where and why he was
soon to learn. As he waited and fumed, a peasant approached and handed
him a letter, which proved to be from Bressau, his former French valet. It
contained the astounding information that the empress had arrived in St.
Petersburg that morning and had been proclaimed sole and absolute
sovereign of Russia.
The tale was beyond his powers of belief. Like a madman he rushed
through the empty rooms, making them resound with vociferous demands
for his wife; looked in every corner and cupboard; rushed wildly through
the gardens, calling for Catharine again and again; while the crowd of
frightened courtiers followed in his steps. It was in vain; no voice came in
answer to his demand, no Catharine was to be found.
The story of what had actually happened is none too well known. It has
been told in more shapes than one. What we know is that there was a
conspiracy to place Catharine on the throne, that the leaders of the troops
had been tampered with, and that one of the conspirators, Captain Passek,
had just been arrested by order of the czar. It was this arrest that precipitated
the revolution. Fearing that all was discovered, the plotters took the only
available means to save themselves.

The arrest of Passek had nothing to do with the conspiracy. It was for
quite another cause. But it proved to be an accident with great results, since
the Orlofs, who were deep in the conspiracy, thought that their lives were in
danger, and that safety lay only in prompt action. As a result, at five a.m.. on
July 9, Alexis Orlof suddenly appeared at Peterhof, and demanded to see
the empress at once.
Catharine was fast asleep when the young officer hastily entered her
room. He lost no time in waking her. She gazed on him with surprise and
alarm.
"It is time to get up," he said, in as calm a tone as if he had been
announcing that breakfast was waiting. "Everything is ready for your
proclamation."
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"Passek is arrested. You must come," he said, in the same tone.
This was enough. A long perspective of peril lay behind those words.
The empress arose, dressed in all haste, and sprang into the coach beside
which Orlof awaited her. One of her women entered with her, Orlof seated
himself in front, a groom sprang up behind, and off they set, at headlong
speed, for St. Petersburg.
The distance was nearly twenty miles, and the horses, which had already
covered that distance, were in very poor condition for doubling it without
rest. In his haste Orlof had not thought of ordering a relay. His carelessness
might have cost them dear, since it was of vital moment to reach the city
without delay. Fortunately, they met a peasant, and borrowed two horses
from his cart. Those two horses perhaps won the throne for Catharine.

A RUSSIAN DROSKY.
Five miles from the city they met two others of the conspirators,
devoured with anxiety. Changing to the new coach, the party drove in at
breakneck pace, and halted before the barracks of the Ismailofsky regiment,
with which the conspirators had been at work.
It was between six and seven o'clock in the morning. Only a dozen men
were at the barracks. Nothing had been prepared. Excitement or terror had
turned all heads. Yet now no time was lost. Drummers were roused and
drums beaten. Out came soldiers in haste, half dressed and half asleep.
"Shout 'Long live the empress!'" demanded the visitors.
Without hesitation the guardsmen obeyed, their only thought at the
moment being that of a free flow of vodka, the Russian drink. A priest was
quickly brought, who, like the soldiers, was prepared to do as he was told.
Raising the cross, he hastily offered them a form of oath, to which the
soldiers subscribed. The first step was taken; the empress was proclaimed.
The proclamation declared Catharine sole and absolute sovereign. It
made no mention of her little son Paul, as some of the leaders in the

conspiracy had proposed. The Orlofs controlled the situation, and the action
of the Ismailofsky was soon sanctioned by other regiments of the guard.
They hated the czar and were ripe for revolt.
One regiment only, the Preobrajensky, that of which the czar himself was
colonel, resisted. It was led against the other troops under the command of a
captain and a major. The hostile bodies came face to face a few paces apart;
the queen's party greatest in number, but in disorder, the czar's party drawn
up with military skill. A moment, a word, might precipitate a bloody
conflict.
Suddenly a man in the ranks cried out, "Oura! Long live the empress!"
In an instant the whole regiment echoed the cry, the ranks were broken, the
soldiers embraced their comrades in the other ranks, and, falling on their
knees, begged pardon of the empress for their delay.
And now the throng turned towards the neighboring church of Our Lady
of Kasan, in which Catharine was to receive their oaths of fidelity. A crowd
pushed in to do homage, composed not only of soldiers, but of members of
the senate and the synod. A manifesto was quickly drawn up by a clerk
named Tieplof, printed in all haste, and distributed to the people, who read
it and joined heartily in the cry of "Long live the empress!"
Catharine next reviewed the troops, who again hailed her with shouts.
And thus it was that a czar was dethroned and a new reign begun without
the loss of a drop of blood. There was some little disorder. Several wine-
shops were broken into, the house of Prince George of Holstein was
pillaged and he and his wife were roughly handled, but that was all: as yet it
had been one of the simplest of revolutions.
Catharine was empress, but how long would she remain so? Her empire
consisted of the fickle people of St. Petersburg, her army of four regiments
of the guards. If Peter had the courage to strike for his throne, he might
readily regain it. He had with him about fifteen hundred Holsteiners, an
excellent body of troops, on whose loyalty he could fully rely, for they were
foreigners in Russia, and their safety depended on him. At the head of these
troops was one of the first soldiers of the age, Field-Marshal Münich. The
main Russian army was in Pomerania, under the orders of the czar, if he
were alert in giving them. He had it in view to annihilate the Danes, to show

himself a hero under Frederick of Prussia; surely a handful of conspirators
and a few regiments of malcontents would have but a shallow chance.
Yet Catharine knew the man with whom she dealt. The grain of courage
which would have saved Peter was not to be found in his make-up, and
Münich strove in vain to induce him to act with manly resolution. A dozen
fancies passed through his mind in an hour. He drew up manifestoes for a
paper campaign. He sent to Oranienbaum for the Holstein troops, intending
to fortify Peterhof, but changed his mind before they arrived.
Münich now advised him to go to Cronstadt and secure himself in that
stronghold. After some hesitation he agreed, but night had fallen before the
whole party, male and female, set off in a yacht and galley, as if on a
pleasure-trip. It was one o'clock in the morning when they arrived in sight
of the fortress.
"Who goes there?" hailed a sentinel from the ramparts.
"The emperor."
"There is no emperor. Keep off!"
Delay had given Catharine ample time to get ahead of him.
"Do not heed the sentry," cried Münich. "They will not dare to fire on
you. Land, and all will be safe."
But Peter was below deck, in a panic of fear. The women were shrieking
in terror. Despite Münich, the vessels were put about. Then the old soldier,
half in despair at this poltroonery, proposed another plan.
"Let us go to Revel, embark on a war-ship, and proceed to Pomerania.
There you can take command of the army. Do this, sire, and within six
weeks St. Petersburg and Russia will be at your feet. I will answer for this
with my head."
But Peter was hopelessly incompetent to act. He would go back to
Oranienbaum. He would negotiate. He arrived there to learn that Catharine
was marching on him at the head of her regiments. On she came, her cap
crowned with oak leaves, her hair floating in the wind. The soldiers had

thrown off their Prussian uniforms and were dressed in their old garb. They
were eager to fight the Holstein foreigners.
No opportunity came for this. A messenger met them with a flag of
truce. Peter had sent an offer to divide the power with Catharine. Receiving
no answer, in an hour he sent an offer to abdicate. He was brought to
Peterhof, where Catharine had halted, and where he cried like a whipped
child on receiving the orders of the new empress and being forcibly
separated from the woman who had ruined him.
A day had changed the fate of an empire. Within little more than six
months from his accession the czar had been hurled from his throne and his
wife had taken his place. Peter was sent under guard to Ropcha, a lonely
spot about twenty miles away, there to stay until accommodations could be
prepared for him in the strong fortress of Schlüsselburg.
He was never to reach the latter place. He had abdicated on July 14. On
July 18 Alexis Orlof, covered with sweat and dust, burst into the dressing-
room of the empress. He had a startling story to tell. He had ridden full
speed from Ropcha with the news of the death of Peter III.
The story was that the czar had been found dead in his room. That was
doubtless the case, but that he had been murdered no one had a shadow of
doubt. Yet no one knew, and no one knows to this day, just what had taken
place. Stories of his having been poisoned and strangled have been told, not
without warrant. A detailed account is given of poison being forced upon
him by the Orlofs, who are said to have, on the poison failing to act,
strangled him in a revolting manner by their own hands. Though this story
lacks proof, the body was quite black. "Blood oozed through the pores, and
even through the gloves which covered the hands." Those who kissed the
corpse came away with swollen lips.
That Peter was murdered is almost certain; but that Catharine had
anything to do with it is not so sure. It may have been done by the
conspirators to prevent any reversal of the revolution. Prison-walls have
hidden many a dark event; and we only know that the czar was dead and
Catharine on the throne.

A STRUGGLE FOR A THRONE.

While the armies of Catharine II. were threatening with destruction the
empire of Turkey, and her diplomats were deciding what part of
dismembered Poland should fall to her share, her throne itself was put in
danger of destruction by an aspirant who arose in the east and for two years
kept Russia from end to end in a state of dire alarm. The summary manner
in which Peter III. had been removed from the throne was not relished by
the people. Numerous small revolts broke out, which were successively put
down. St. Petersburg accepted Catharine, but Moscow did not, and on her
visits to the latter city the political atmosphere proved so frigid that she was
glad to get back to the more genial climate of the city on the Neva.
Years passed before Russia settled down to full acceptance of a reign
begun in violence and sustained by force, and in this interval there were no
fewer than six impostors to be dealt with, each of whom claimed to be Peter
III. Murdered emperors sleep badly in their graves. The example of the false
Dmitris, generations before, remained in men's minds, and it seemed as if
every Russian who bore a resemblance to the vanished czar was ready to
claim his vacated seat.
Of these false Peters, the sixth and most dangerous was a Cossack of the
Don, whose actual name was Pugatchef, but whose face seemed capable of
calling up an army wherever it appeared, and who, if his ability had been
equal to his fortune, might easily have seated himself on the throne. The
impostor proved to be his own worst foe, and defeated himself by his innate
barbarity.
Pugatchef began his career as a common soldier, afterwards becoming
an officer. Deserting the army after a period of service, he made his way to

Poland, where he dwelt with the monks of that country and pretended to
equal the best of them in piety. Here he was told that he bore a striking
resemblance to Peter III. The hint was enough. He returned to Russia,
where he professed sanctity, dressed like a patriarch of the church, and
scattered benedictions freely among the Cossacks of the Don. He soon
gained adherents among the old orthodox party, who were bitter against the
religious looseness of the court. Finally he gave himself out as Peter III.,
declaring that the story of his death was false, that he had escaped from the
hands of the assassins, and that he desired to win the throne, not for himself,
but for his infant son Paul.
The first result of this announcement was that the impostor was seized
and taken to Kasan as a prisoner. But the carelessness of his guards allowed
him to escape from his prison cell, and he made his way to the Volga, near
its entrance into the Caspian Sea, where he began to collect a body of
followers among the Cossacks of that region. His first open declaration was
made on September 17, 1773, when he appeared with three hundred
Cossacks at the town of Yaitsk, and published an appeal to orthodox
believers, declaring that he was the czar Peter III. and calling upon them for
support.
His handful of Cossacks soon grew into an army, multitudes of the
tribesmen gathered around him, and in a brief time he found himself at the
head of a large body of the lowest of the people. The man was a savage at
heart, betraying his innate depravity by foolish and useless cruelties, and in
this way preventing the more educated class of the community from joining
his ranks.
Yet he contrived to gather about him an army of several thousand men,
and obtained a considerable number of cannon, with which he soon
afterwards laid siege to the city of Orenburg. Both Yaitsk and Orenburg
defied his efforts, but he had greater success in the field, defeating two
armies in succession. These victories gave him new assurance. He now
caused money to be coined in his name, as though he were the lawful
emperor, and marched northward at the head of a large force to meet the
armies of the state.

His army was destitute of order or discipline and he woefully deficient in
military skill, yet his proclamation of freedom to the people, and the
opportunities he gave them for plunder and outrage, strengthened his hands,
and recruits came in multitudes. The Tartars, Kirghis, and Bashkirs, who
had been brought against their will under the Russian yoke, flocked to his
standard, in the hope of regaining their freedom. Many of the Poles who
had been banished from their country also sought his ranks, and the people
of Moscow and its vicinity, who had from the first been opposed to
Catharine's reign, waited his approach that they might break out in open
rebellion.
The outbreak had thus become serious, and had Pugatchef been skilled
as a leader he might have won the throne. As it was, his followers showed a
fiery valor, and, undisciplined as they were, gave the armies of the empire
no small concern. Bibikof, who had been sent to subdue them, failed
through over-caution, and was slain in the field. His lieutenants, Galitzin
and Michelson, proved more active, and frequently defeated the impostor,
though only to find him rising again with new armies as often as the old
ones were crushed, like the fabulous giant who sprang up in double form
whenever cut in twain.
Prince Galitzin defeated him twice, the last time after a furious battle six
hours in length. Pugatchef, abandoned by his followers, now fled to the
Urals, but soon appeared again with a fresh body of troops. Between the
beginning of March and the end of May, 1774, the rebel chief was defeated
six or seven times by Michelson, in the end being driven as a fugitive to the
Ural Mountains. But he had only to raise his standard again for fresh armies
to spring up as if from the ground, and early June found him once more in
the field. Defeated on June 4, he fled once more to the hills, but in the
beginning of July was facing his foes again at the head of twenty-two
thousand men.
Only the cruelty shown by himself and his followers, and his
ruthlessness in permitting the plunder and burning of churches and
convents, kept back the much greater hosts who would otherwise have
flocked to his ranks. And at this critical moment in his career he committed
the signal error of failing to march on Moscow, the principal seat of the old
Russian faith which he proposed to restore, and where he would have found

an army of partisans. He marched upon Kasan instead, took the city, but
failed to capture the citadel. Here he was making havoc with fire and sword,
when Michelson came up and defeated him in a long and obstinate fight.

THE CITY OF KASAN.
He now fled to the Volga, wasting the land as he went, burning the crops
and villages, and leaving desolation in his track. Men came in numbers to
replace those he had lost, and an army of twenty thousand was soon again
under his command. With these he surprised and routed a Russian force and
took several forts on the Volga, while the German colonies of Moravians
which had been established upon that stream, and were among the most
industrious inhabitants of the empire, suffered severely at his hands. In the
town of Saratof he murdered all whom he met.
As an example of the character of this monster in human form, it is
related that hearing that an astronomer from the Imperial Academy of
Sciences of St. Petersburg was near by, engaged in laying out the route of a
canal from the Volga to the Don, he ordered him to be brought before him.
When the peaceful astronomer appeared, the brutal ruffian bade his men to

lift him on their pikes "so that he might be nearer the stars." Then he
ordered him to be cut to pieces.
The end of this carnival of murder came at the siege of Zaritzin. Here
Michelson came up on the 22d of August and forced him to raise the siege.
On the 24th the insurgents were attacked when in the intricate passes of the
mountains and encumbered with baggage-wagons, women, and camp-
followers. Though thus taken at a disadvantage, they defended themselves
vigorously, the mass of them falling in the mountain passes or being driven
over the cliffs and precipices. Pugatchef continued to fight till his army was
destroyed, then made his escape, as so often before, swimming the Volga
and vanishing in the desert. Only about sixty of his most faithful partisans
accompanied him in his flight.
Michelson, failing to reach him in his retreat, took care that he should
not emerge into the cultivated districts. But in the end the Russians were
able to capture him only by treachery. They won over some of their Cossack
prisoners, among them Antizof, the nearest friend of the fugitive. These
were then set free, and sought the desert retreat of their late leader, where
they awaited an opportunity to take him by surprise.
This they were not able to do until November. Pugatchef was gnawing
the bone of a horse for food when his false friends ran up to him, saying,
"Come, you have long enough been emperor."
Perceiving that treachery was intended, he drew his pistol and fired at
his foes, shattering the arm of the foremost. The others seized and bound
him and conveyed him to Goroduk in the Ural, the locality of Antizof's
tribe. Michelson was still seeking him in the desert when word came to him
that the fugitive had been delivered into Russian hands at Simbirsk, and was
being conveyed to Moscow in an iron cage, like the beast of prey which he
resembled in character.
On the way he sought to starve himself, but was forced to eat by the
soldiers. On reaching Moscow he counterfeited madness. His trial was
conducted without the torture which had formerly been so common a
feature of Russian tribunals. The sentence of the court was that he should be
exhibited to the people with his hands and feet cut off, and then quartered
alive. With unyielding resolution Pugatchef awaited this cruel death, but the

sentence, for some reason, was not executed, he being first beheaded and
then quartered. Four of his principal followers suffered the same fate, and
thus ended one of the most determined efforts on the part of an impostor to
seize the Russian throne that had ever been known. The undoubted courage
of the man was enough to prove that he was not Peter III. Had he combined
military capacity with his daring he could readily have won the throne.

THE FLIGHT OF THE KALMUCKS.

On the 5th of January, 1771, began one of the most remarkable events in
the history of the world, the migration of an entire nation, more than half a
million strong, with its women and children, flocks and herds, and all that it
possessed, to a new home four thousand miles away. More than once—
many times, apparently—in the history of the past such migrations have
taken place. But those were warlike movements, with conquest as their aim.
This was a peaceful migration, the only desire of those concerned being to
be let alone. This desire was not granted, and death and terror marked every
step of their frightful journey.
A century and a half earlier the fathers of these people, the Kalmuck
Tartars, had left their homes in the Chinese empire and wandered west,
finding a resting-place at last on the Volga River, in the Russian realm. Here
they would have been well content to remain but for the arts and designs of
one man, Zebek-Dorchi by name, who, ambitious to be made khan of the
tribe, and not being favored in his desires by the Russian court, determined
to remove the whole Kalmuck nation beyond the reach of Russian control.
This was no easy matter to do. Russia had spread to the east until the
whole width of Asia lay within its broad expanse and its boundary touched
the Pacific waves. To reach China, the mighty Mongolian plain had to be
crossed, largely a desert, swarming with hostile tribes; death and disaster
were likely to haunt every mile of the way; and a general tomb in the
wilderness, rather than a home in a new land, was the most probable destiny
of the migrating horde.
Zebek-Dorchi was confronted with a difficult task. He had to induce the
tribesmen to consent to the new movement, and that so quickly that a start

could be made before the Russians became aware of the scheme. Otherwise
the path would be lined with armies and the movement checked.
Oubacha, the khan of the Kalmucks, was a brave but weak man. The
conspirator controlled him, and through him the people. On a fixed day,
through a false alarm that the Kirghises and Bashkirs had made an inroad
upon the Kalmuck lands, he succeeded in gathering a great Kalmuck horde,
eighty thousand in all, at a point out of reach of Russian ears. Here, with
subtle eloquence, he told them of the oppressions of Russia, of her insults to
the Kalmucks, her contempt for their religion, and her design to reduce
them to slavery, and declared that a plan had been devised to rob them of
their eldest sons. By a skilful mixture of truth and falsehood he roused their
fears and their anger, and at length he proposed that they should leave their
fields and make a rapid march to the Temba or some other great river, from
behind which they could speak in bolder language to the Russian empress
and claim better terms. He did not venture as yet to hint at his startling plan
of a migration to far-off China.
The simple minded Tartars, made furious by his skilful oratory, accepted
his plan by acclamation, and returned home to push with the utmost haste
the preparations for their stupendous task. The idea of a migration en masse
did not frighten them. They were nomads and the descendants of nomads,
who for ages had been used to fold their tents and flit away.
The Kalmuck villages extended on both sides of the Volga. A large
section of the horde would have to cross that great stream, and this could be
done with sufficient speed only when its surface was bridged with ice. For
this reason midwinter was chosen for the flight, despite the sufferings which
must arise from the bitter Russian cold, and the 5th of January was
appointed for religious reasons by the leading Lama of the tribe. The year
had been selected by the Great Lama of Thibet, the head of the Buddhist
faith, to which the Kalmucks belonged, and to whom the conspirator had
appealed.
Despite the secrecy and rapidity of the movement, tidings of it reached
the Russian court. But the Russian envoy who dwelt among the Kalmucks
was quite deceived by their wiles, and sent word to the imperial court that
the rumors were false and nothing resembling an outbreak was in view. The

governor of Astrachan, a man of more sense and discernment, sent courier
after courier, but his warnings were ignored, and the fatal 5th of January
came without a preventive step being taken by the government. Then the
governor, learning that the migration had actually begun, sprang into his
sleigh and drove over the Russian snows at the furious speed of three
hundred miles a day, finally rushing into the imperial presence-chamber at
St. Petersburg to announce to the empress that all his warnings had been
true and that the Kalmucks were in full flight. Other couriers quickly
confirmed his words, and the envoy paid for his blindness by death in a
dungeon-cell.
Meanwhile the banks of the Volga had been the locality of a remarkable
event. At early dawn of the selected day the Kalmucks east of the stream
began to assemble in troops and squadrons, gathering in tens of thousands,
a great body of the tribe setting out every half-hour on its march. Women
and children, several hundred thousand in number, were placed on wagons
and camels, and moved off in masses of twenty thousand at once, with
escorts of mounted men. As the march proceeded, outlying bodies of the
horde kept falling in during that and the following day.
From sixty to eighty thousand of the best mounted warriors stayed
behind for work of ruin and revenge. Their first purpose was to destroy their
own dwellings, lest some of the weak-minded might be tempted to return.
Oubacha, the khan, set the example by applying the torch to his own palace.
Before the day was over the villages throughout a district of ten thousand
square miles were in a simultaneous blaze. Nothing was saved except the
portable utensils and such of the wood-work as might be used in making the
long Tartar lances.
This was but part of the destruction proposed. Zebek-Dorchi had it in
view to pillage and destroy all the Russian towns, churches, and buildings
of every kind within the surrounding district, with outrage and death to their
inhabitants,—a frightful scheme, which was providentially checked. The
day of flight had been selected, as has been said, in the worst season of the
year, in order that the tribes west of the Volga might be able to cross its
surface on a thick bridge of ice. Yet for some reason—possibly because of
the weakness of the ice—the western Kalmucks failed to join their eastern
brethren, and fully one hundred thousand of the Tartars were left behind. It

was this that saved the Russian towns, it being feared by the leaders that
such a vengeance would be repaid upon their brethren left to Russian
reprisal. These western Kalmucks little guessed what horrors they were
escaping by being prevented from joining in the flight.
The migrating horde was not less than six hundred thousand strong,
while a vast number of horses, camels, cattle, goats, and sheep added to the
multitude of living forms. The march was a forced one. Every day gained
was of prime importance, for it was well known that Russian armies would
soon be in hot pursuit, while the tribes on their line of march, hereditary
foes of the Kalmucks, would gather from all sides to oppose their passage
as the news of the flight reached their ears.
The river Jaik, three hundred miles away, must be reached before a day's
rest could be had. The weather was not severely cold, and the journey might
have been accomplished with little distress but for the forced pace. As it
was, the cattle suffered greatly, the sheep died in multitudes, milk began to
fail, and only the great number of camels saved the children and the infirm.
The first of the subjects of Russia with whom the Kalmucks came into
collision were the Cossacks of the Jaik. At this season most of these were
absent at the fisheries on the Caspian, and the others fled in crowds to the
fortress of Koulagina, which was quickly summoned to surrender by the
Kalmuck khan. The Russian commandant, numerous as were his foes,
refused, knowing that they must soon resume their flight. He had not long
to wait. On the fifth day of the siege, from the walls of the fort a number of
Tartar couriers, mounted on the swift Bactrian camels, were seen to cross
the plains and ride into the Kalmuck camp at their highest speed.
Immediately a great agitation was visible in the camp, the siege was
raised, and the signal for flight resounded through the host. The news
brought was that an entire Kalmuck division, numbering nine thousand
fighting-men, stationed on a distant flank of the line of march, and between
whom and the Cossacks there was an ancient feud, had been attacked and
virtually exterminated. The exhaustion of their horses and camels had
prevented flight, quarter was not asked or given, and the battle continued
until not a fighting-man was left alive.

The utmost speed was now necessary, for a sufficient reason. The next
safe halting-place of the Kalmucks was on the east bank of the Toorgaï
River. Between it and them rose a hilly country, a narrow defile through
which offered the nearest and best route. This lost, the need of pasturage
would require a further sweep of five hundred miles. The Cossack light
horsemen were only about fifty miles more distant from the pass. If it were
to be won, the most rapid march possible must be made.
For a day and a night the flight went on, with renewed suffering and loss
of animals. Then a snowfall, soon too deep to journey through, checked all
progress, and for ten days they had a season of rest, comfort, and plenty.
The cows and oxen had perished in such numbers that it was resolved to
slaughter what remained, feast to their hearts' content, and salt the
remainder for future stores.
At length clear, frosty weather came: the snow ceased to drift, and its
surface froze. It would bear the camels, and the flight was resumed. But
already seventy thousand persons of all ages had perished, in addition to
those slain in battle, and new suffering and death impended, for word came
that the troops of the empire were converging from all parts of Central Asia
upon the fords of the Toorgaï, as the best place to cut off the flight of the
tribes, while a powerful army was marching rapidly upon their rear, though
delayed by its artillery.
On the 2d of February Ouchim, the much-desired defile, was reached.
The Cossacks had been out-marched. A considerable body of them, it is
true, had reached the pass some hours before, but they were attacked and so
fiercely dealt with that few of them escaped. The Kalmucks here obtained
revenge for the slaughter of their fellows twenty days before.
The road was now open. How long it would continue open was in doubt.
Word came that a large Russian army, led by General Traubenberg, was
advancing upon the Toorgaï. He was to be met on his route by ten thousand
Bashkirs and as many Kirghises, implacable enemies of the Kalmucks, from
whom they had suffered in past years. The only hope now lay in speed, and
onward the Kalmucks pressed, their line of march marked by the bodies of
the dead. The weak, the sick, had to be left behind; nothing was suffered to
impede the rapidity of their flight.

From the starting-point on the Volga to the halting-ground on the
Toorgaï, counting the circuits that had to be made, was full two thousand
miles, much of it traversed in the dead of winter, the cold, for seven weeks
of the journey, being excessively severe. Napoleon's army in its retreat from
Moscow suffered no more from the winter chill than did this migrating
nation. On many a morning the dawning light shone on a circle that had
gathered the night before around a sparse fire (made from the lading of the
camels or from broken-up baggage-wagons), now dead and frozen stiff as
they sat.
But at length the snows ceased to fall, the frost to chill. Spring came.
March and April passed away. May arrived with its balmy airs. Vernal
sights and sounds cheered them on every side. During all these months they
continued their march, and towards the end of May the Toorgaï was reached
and crossed, and the weary wanderers, having left their enemies far in the
rear, hoped to find comfort and security during weeks of rest, and to
complete their journey with less of ruin and suffering. They little dreamed
that the worst of their task had yet to be endured.
During the five months of their wanderings their losses had been
frightfully severe. Not less than two hundred and fifty thousand members of
the horde had perished, while their herds and flocks—oxen, cows, sheep,
goats, horses, mules, and asses—had perished, only the camels surviving.
These hardy creatures had come through the terrible journey unharmed, and
on them rested all their hopes for the remainder of their flight.
But another two thousand miles lay before them, with hostility in front
and in rear. Should they still go on, or should they return and throw
themselves on the mercy of the empress? Oubacha, the khan, advised
return, offering to take all the guilt of the flight upon himself. Zebek-Dorchi
earnestly urged them to proceed, and not lose the fruit of all their suffering.
But the people, worn out with the hardships and perils of their route,
favored a return and a trust in the imperial mercy, and this would probably
have been determined upon but for an untoward event.
This was the arrival of two envoys from Traubenberg, the Russian
general, who, after a long and painful march, had approached within a few
days' journey of the fugitives about the 1st of June. On his way he had been

joined by large bodies of the Kirghis and Bashkir nomads. The harsh tone
and peremptory demands of the envoys aroused hostile feelings among the
Kalmuck chiefs. But the main check to negotiations was the action of the
Bashkirs, who, finding that Traubenberg would not advance, left his camp
in a body and set off for the Kalmuck halting-place.
In six days they reached the Toorgaï, swam their horses across it, and fell
in fury upon the Kalmucks, who were dispersed over leagues of ground in
search of pasture and food. Peace at once changed to war. Over a field from
thirty to forty miles wide, fighting, flight and pursuit, rescue and death,
went on at all points. More than once were the khan and Zebek-Dorchi in
peril of death. At one time both were made prisoners. But at length,
concentrating their strength, they forced the Bashkirs to retreat. For two
days more the wild Bashkir and Kirghis cavalry continued their attacks, and
the Kalmuck chiefs, looking upon these as the advance parties of the
Russian army, felt themselves obliged to order a renewal of the flight. Thus
suddenly ended their hoped-for season of repose.
One event took place during this period of which it is important to speak.
A Russian gentleman, Weseloff by name, was held prisoner in the Kalmuck
camp, and had been brought that far on their route. The khan Oubacha, who
saw no object in holding him, now gave him leave to attempt his escape,
and also asked him to accompany him during a private interview which he
was to hold on the next night with the hetman of the Bashkirs. Weseloff
declined to do so, and bade the khan to beware, as he feared the scheme
meant treachery.
About ten that night Weseloff, with three Kalmucks who had offered to
join in his flight, they having strong reasons for a return to Russia, sought a
number of the half-wild horses of that district which they had caught and
hidden in the thickets on the river's side. They were in the act of mounting,
when the silence of the night was broken by a sudden clash of arms, and a
voice, which sounded like that of the khan, was heard calling for aid.
The Russian, remembering what Oubacha had told him, rode off hastily
towards the sound, bidding his companions follow. Reaching an open glade
in the wood, he saw four men fighting with nine or ten, one, who looked
like the khan, contending on foot against two horsemen. Weseloff fired at

once, bringing down one of the assailants. His companions followed with
their fire, and then all rode into the glade, whereupon the assailants,
thinking that a troop of cavalry was upon them, hastily fled. The dead man,
when examined, proved to be a confidential servant of Zebek-Dorchi. The
secret was out: this ambitious conspirator had sought the murder of the
khan.
Accompanying the khan until he had reached a place of safety, Weseloff
and his companions, at the suggestion of the grateful Oubacha, rode off at
the utmost speed, fearing pursuit. Their return was made along the route the
Kalmucks had traversed, every step of which could be traced by skeletons
and other memorials of the flight. Among these were heaps of money which
had been abandoned in the desert, and of which they took as much as they
could conveniently carry. Weseloff at length reached home, rushed
precipitately into the house where his loving mother had long mourned his
loss, and so shocked her by the sudden revulsion of joy after her long
sorrow that she fell dead on the spot. It was a sad ending to his happy
return.
To return to the Kalmuck flight. Two thousand miles still remained to be
traversed before the borders of China would be reached. All that took place
in the dreary interval is too much to tell. It must suffice to say that the
Bashkirs pursued them through the whole long route, while the choice of
two evils lay in front. Now they made their way through desert regions.
Now, pressed by want of food, they traversed rich and inhabited lands,
through which they had to win a passage with the sword. Every day the
Bashkirs attacked them, drawing off into the desert when too sharply
resisted. Thus, with endless alternations of hunger and bloodshed, the
borders of China at length were approached.
And now we have another scene in this remarkable drama to describe.
Keen Lung, the emperor of China, had been long apprised of the flight of
the Kalmucks, and had prepared a place of residence for these erring
children of his nation, as he considered them, on their return to their native
land. But he did not expect their arrival until the approach of winter, having
been advised that they proposed to dwell during the summer heats on the
Toorgaï's fertile banks.

One fine morning in September, 1771, this fatherly monarch was
enjoying himself in hunting in a wild district north of the Great Wall. Here,
for hundreds of square leagues, the country was overgrown with forest,
filled with game. Centrally in this district rose a gorgeous hunting-lodge, to
which the emperor retired annually for a season of escape from the cares of
government. Leaving his lodge, he had pursued the game through some two
hundred miles of forest, every night pitching his tent in a different locality.
A military escort followed at no great distance in the rear.
On the morning in question the emperor found himself on the margin of
the vast deserts of Asia, which stretched interminably away. As he stood in
his tent door, gazing across the extended plain, he saw with surprise, far to
the west, a vast dun cloud arise, which mounted and spread until it covered
that whole quarter of the sky. It thickened as it rose, and began to roll in
billowy volumes towards his camp.
This singular phenomenon aroused general attention. The suite of the
emperor hastened to behold it. In the rear the silver trumpets sounded, and
from the forest avenues rode the imperial cavalry escort. All eyes were
fixed upon the rolling cloud, the sentiment of curiosity being gradually
replaced by a dread of possible danger. At first the dust-cloud was imagined
to be due to a vast troop of deer or other wild animals, driven into the plain
by the hunting train or by beasts of prey. This conception vanished as it
came nearer, until, seemingly, it was but a few miles away.
And now, as the breeze freshened a little, the vapory curtain rolled and
eddied, until it assumed the appearance of vast aerial draperies depending
from the heavens to the earth; sometimes, where rent by the eddying breeze,
it resembled portals and archways, through which, at intervals, were seen
the gleam of weapons and the dim forms of camels and human beings. At
times, again, the cloud thickened, shutting all from view; but through it
broke the din of battle, the shouts of combatants, the roar of infuriated
hordes in mortal conflict.
It was, in fact, the Kalmuck host, now in the last stage of misery and
exhaustion, yet still pursued by their unrelenting foes. Of the six hundred
thousand who had begun the journey scarcely a third remained, cold, heat,
famine, and warfare having swept away nearly half a million of the fleeing

host, while of their myriad animals only the camels and the horses brought
from the Toorgaï remained. For the past ten days their suffering had reached
a climax. They had been traversing a frightful desert, destitute alike of
water and of vegetation. Two days before their small allowance of water
had failed, and to the fatigue of flight had been added the horrors of
insupportable thirst.
On came the flying and fighting mass. It was soon evident that it was not
moving towards the imperial train, and those who knew the country judged
that it was speeding towards a large freshwater lake about seven or eight
miles away. Thither the imperial cavalry, of which a strong body, attended
with artillery, lay some miles in the rear, was ordered in all haste to ride;
and there, at noon of September 8, the great migration of the Kalmucks
came to an end, amid the most ferocious and bloodthirsty scene of its whole
frightful course.
The lake of Tengis lies in a hollow among low mountains, on the verge
of the great desert of Gobi. The Chinese cavalry reached the summit of a
road that led down to the lake at about eleven o'clock. The descent was a
winding and difficult one, and took them an hour and a half, during the
whole of which they were spectators of an extraordinary scene below, the
last and most fiendish spectacle in eight months of almost constant warfare.
The sight of the distant hills and forests on that morning, and the
announcement of the guides that the lake of Tengis was near at hand, had
excited the suffering host into a state of frenzy, and a wild rush was made
for the water, in which all discipline was lost, and the heat of the day and
the exhaustion of the people were ignored. The rear-guard joined in the mad
flight. In among the people rode the savage Bashkirs, suffering as much as
themselves, yet still eager for blood, and slaughtering them by wholesale,
almost without resistance. Screams and shouts filled the air, but none
heeded or halted, all rushing madly on, spurred forward by the intolerable
agonies of thirst.
At length the lake was reached. Into its waters dashed the whole
suffering mass, forgetful of everything but the wild instinct to quench their
thirst. But hardly had the water moistened their lips when the carnival of
bloodshed was resumed, and the waters became crimsoned with gore. The

savage Bashkirs rode fiercely through the host, striking off heads with
unappeased fury. The mortal foes joined in a death-grapple in the waters,
often sinking together beneath the ruffled surface. Even the camels were
made to take part in the fight, striking down the foe with their lashing
forelegs. The waters grew more and more polluted; but new myriads came
up momentarily and plunged in, heedless of everything but thirst. Such a
spectacle of revengeful passion, ghastly fear, the frenzy of hatred, mortal
conflict, convulsion and despair as fell on the eyes of the approaching
horsemen has rarely been seen, and that quiet mountain lake, which perhaps
had never before vibrated with the sounds of battle, was on that fatal day
converted into an encrimsoned sea of blood.
At length the Bashkirs, alarmed by the near approach of the Chinese
cavalry, began to draw off and gather into groups, in preparation to meet the
onset of a new foe. As they did so, the commandant of a small Chinese fort,
built on an eminence above the lake, poured an artillery fire into their midst.
Each group was thus dispersed as rapidly as it formed, the Chinese cavalry
reached the foot of the hills and joined in the attack, and soon a new scene
of war and bloodshed was in full process of enactment.
But the savage horsemen, convinced that the contest was growing
hopeless, now began to retire, and were quickly in full flight into the desert,
pursued as far as it was deemed wise. No pursuit was needed, even to
satisfy the Kalmuck spirit of revenge. The fact that their enemies had again
to cross that inhospitable desert, with its horrors of hunger and thirst, was as
full of retribution as the most vindictive could have asked.
Here ends our tale. The exhausted Kalmucks were abundantly provided
for by their new lord and master, who supplied them with the food
necessary, established them in a fertile region of his empire, furnished them
with clothing, tools, a year's subsistence, grain for their fields, animals for
their pastures, and money to aid them in their other needs, displaying
towards his new subjects the most kindly and munificent generosity. They
were placed under better conditions than they had enjoyed in Russia,
though changed from a pastoral and nomadic people to an agricultural one.
As for Zebek-Dorchi, his attempt on the life of the khan had produced a
feud between the two, which grew until it attracted the attention of the

emperor. Inquiring into the circumstances of the enmity, he espoused the
cause of Oubacha, which so infuriated the foe of the khan that he wove nets
of conspiracy even against the emperor himself. In the end Zebek-Dorchi,
with his accomplices, was invited to the imperial lodge, and there, at a great
banquet, his arts and plots were exposed, and he and all his followers were
assassinated at the feast.
As a durable monument to the mighty exodus of the Kalmucks, the most
remarkable circumstance of the kind in the whole history of nations, the
emperor Keen Lung ordered to be erected on the banks of the Ily, at the
margin of the steppes, a great monument of granite and brass, bearing an
inscription to the following effect:
By the Will of God,
Here, upon the brink of these Deserts,
Which from this Point begin and stretch away,
Pathless, treeless, waterless,
For thousands of miles, and along the margins of many
mighty Nations,
Rested from their labors and from great afflictions
Under the shadow of the Chinese Wall,
And by the favor of Keen Lung, God's Lieutenant upon
Earth,
The Ancient Children of the Wilderness, the Torgote Tartars,
Flying before the wrath of the Grecian Czar,
Wandering sheep who had strayed away from the
Celestial
Empire in the year 1616,
But are now mercifully gathered again, after infinite
sorrow,
Into the fold of their forgiving Shepherd.
Hallowed be the spot forever, and
Hallowed be the day,—September 8, 1771.
Amen.

A MAGICAL TRANSFORMATION SCENE.

Catharine the Great earned her title cheaply, her patent of greatness
being due to the fact that she had the judgment to select great generals and a
great minister and the wisdom to cling to them. Russia grew powerful
during her reign, largely through the able work of her generals, and she
forgave Potemkin a thousand insults and unblushing robberies in view of
his successful statesmanship. Potemkin possessed, in addition to his ability
as a statesman, the faculty of a spectacular artist, and arranged a show for
the empress which stands unrivalled amid the triumphs of the stage. It is the
tale of this spectacle which we propose to tell.
Catharine had literary aspirations, one of her admirations being Voltaire,
with whom she corresponded, and on whom she depended to chronicle the
glory of her reign. The poet had his dreams, in which the woman shared,
and between them they contrived a scheme of a modern Utopia, a Russo-
Grecian city of whose civilization the empress was to be the source, and
which a decree was to raise from the desert and an idea make great. This
fancy Potemkin, who stood ready to flatter the empress at any price,
undertook to realize, and he built her a city in the fashion in which cities
were built in the times of the Arabian Nights, and made it flourish in the
same unsubstantial fashion. The magnificent Potemkin never hesitated
before any question of cost. Russia was rich, and could bleed freely to
please the empress's whim. He therefore ordered a city to be built, with
dwellings and edifices of every description common to the cities of that
date,—stores, palaces, public halls, private residences in profusion. The
buildings ready, he sought for citizens, and forcibly drove the people from
all quarters to take up a temporary residence within its walls. It was his one
purpose to make a spectacle of this theatrical city to enchant the eyes of the

empress. So that it had an appearance of prosperity during her visit, he
cared not a fig if it fell to pieces and its inhabitants vanished as soon as his
supporting hand was removed. He only required that the scenes should be
set and the actors in place when the curtain rose.
And the city grew, on the banks of the Dnieper, eighteen million rubles
being granted by the empress for its cost,—though much of this clung to the
bird-lime of avarice on Potemkin's fingers. It was named Kherson. The
desert around it was erected into a province, entitled by the wily minister
Catharine's Glory (Slava Ekatarina). Another province, farther north, he
named after his imperial mistress Ekatarinoslaf. And thus, by fraud and
violence, a city to order was brought into existence. The stage was ready.
The next thing to be done was to raise the curtain which hid it from
Catharine's eyes.
It was early in the year 1787 that the empress began her journey towards
her Utopian city, to receive the homage of its citizens and to exhibit to the
world the magnificence of her reign. Great projects were in the air. Poland
had just been cut into fragments and distributed among the hungry
kingdoms around. The same was to be done with Turkey. Joseph II. of
Austria was to meet the empress in Kherson to consult upon this partition of
the Turkish empire; while Constantine, grand duke of Russia and grandson
of the empress, was to reign at Byzantium, or Constantinople, over the new
empire carved from the Turkish realm. Such was the paper programme
prepared by Potemkin and the empress, the minister doubtless smiling
behind his sleeve, his mistress in solid earnest.
And now we have the story to tell of one of the most marvellous
journeys ever undertaken. It was made through a thinly inhabited
wilderness, which to the belief of the empress was to be converted into a
populous and thriving realm. That the journey might proceed by night as
well as by day, great piles of wood were prepared at intervals of fifty
perches, whose leaping flames gave to the high-road a brightness like that
of day. In six days Smolensk was reached, and in twenty days the old
Russian capital of Kief, where the procession halted for a season before
proceeding towards its goal.

As it went on, the whole country became transformed. The deserts were
suddenly peopled, palaces awaited the train in the trackless wild, temporary
villages hid the nakedness of the plain, and fireworks at night testified to
the seeming joy of the populace. Wide roads were opened by the army in
advance of the cortége, the mountains were illuminated as it passed,
howling wildernesses were made to appear like fertile gardens, and great
flocks and herds, gathered from distant pastures, delighted the eyes of the
empress with the appearance of thrift and prosperity as her vehicle drove
rapidly along the roads. To the charmed eyes of those not "to the manner
born" the whole country seemed populous and prosperous, the people
joyous, the soil fertile, the land smiling with abundance. There was no hint
to indicate that it was a desert covered for the time being by an enamelled
carpet.

SCENE ON A RUSSIAN FARM.
The Dnieper reached, the empress and her train passed down that river in
fifteen splendid galleys, with the pomp of a triumphal procession. It was
now the month of May, and the banks of the river showed the same signs of
prosperity as had the sides of the road. At Kaidack the emperor Joseph met
the empress, having reached Kherson in advance and gone north to
anticipate her coming. He accompanied her down the stream, looking with

her on the show of prosperity and populousness which delighted her
inexperienced eyes, and smiling covertly at the delusion which Potemkin's
magic had raised, well assured that as soon as she had passed silence and
desertion would succeed these busy scenes. At a new projected town on the
way, of which Catharine had, with much ceremony, laid the first stone,
Joseph was asked to lay the second. He did so, afterwards saying of the
farcical proceeding, "The Empress of Russia and I have finished a very
important business in a single day: she has laid the first stone of a city, and I
have laid the last." He had no doubt that, when they had gone, the buildings
in which they had slept, the villages which they had seen, the wayside
herders and flocks, would vanish like theatrical scenery, and the country
present the dismal aspect of a deserted stage.
At length the new city was reached, the magical Kherson. Catharine
entered it in grand state, under a noble triumphal arch inscribed in Greek
with the words "The Way to Byzantium." It was a busy city in which she
found herself. The houses were all inhabited; shops, filled with goods, lined
the principal streets; people thronged the sidewalks, spectators of the entry;
luxury of every kind awaited the empress in the capital which had arisen for
her as by the rubbing of Aladdin's ring, and entertainments of the most
lavish character were prepared by the potent genius to whom all she saw
was due. Potemkin hesitated at no expense. The journey had cost the empire
no less than seven millions of rubles, fourteen thousand of which were
expended on the throne built for the empress in what was named the
admiralty of Kherson.
Such was the scenery prepared for one of the most theatrical events the
world has ever witnessed. It cost the empire dearly, but Potemkin's purpose
was achieved. He had charmed the empress by causing the desert to
"blossom like the rose," and after the spectators had passed all sank again
into silence and emptiness. The new empire of Byzantium remained a
dream. Turkey had not been consulted in the project, and was not quite
ready to consent to be dismembered to gratify the whim of empress and
emperor.
As for the city of Kherson, its site was badly chosen, and its seeming
prosperity and populousness during the empress's presence quickly passed
away. The city has remained, but its actual growth has been gradual, and it

has been thrown into the shade by Odessa, a port founded some years later
without a single flourish of trumpets, but which has now grown to be the
fourth city of Russia in size and importance. Of late years Kherson has
shown some signs of increase, but all we need say further of it here is that it
has the honor of being the burial-place of the shrewd Potemkin, under
whose fostering hand it burst into such premature bloom in its early days.

KOSCIUSKO AND THE FALL OF POLAND.

Of the several nations that made up the Europe of the eighteenth century,
one, the kingdom of Poland, vanished before the nineteenth century began.
Destitute of a strong central government, the scene of continual anarchy
among the turbulent nobles, possessing no national frontiers and no national
middle class, its population being made up of nobles, serfs, and foreigners,
it lay at the mercy of the ambitious surrounding kingdoms, by which it was
finally absorbed. On three successive occasions was the territory of the
feeble nation divided between its foes, the first partition being made in
1772, between Russia, Prussia, and Austria; the second in 1793, between
Russia and Prussia; and the third and final in 1795, in which Russia,
Prussia, and Austria again took part, all that remained of the country being
now distributed and the ancient kingdom of Poland effaced from the map of
Europe.
Only one vigorous attempt was made to save the imperilled realm, that
of the illustrious Kosciusko, who, though he failed in his patriotic purpose,
made his name famous as the noblest of the Poles. When he appeared at the
head of its armies, Poland was in a desperate strait. Some of its own nobles
had been bought by Russian gold, Russian armies had overrun the land, and
a Prussian force was marching to their aid. At Grodno the Russian general
proudly took his seat on that throne which he was striving to overthrow. The
defenders of Poland had been dispersed, their property confiscated, their
families reduced to poverty. The Russians, swarming through the kingdom,
committed the greatest excesses, while Warsaw, which had fallen into their
hands, was governed with arrogant barbarity. Such was the state of affairs
when some of the most patriotic of the nobles assembled and sent to
Kosciusko, asking him to put himself at their head.

As a young man this valiant Pole had aided in the war for American
independence. In 1792 he took part in the war for the defence of his native
land. But he declared that there could be no hope of success unless the
peasants were given their liberty. Hitherto they had been treated in Poland
like slaves. It was with these despised serfs that this effort was made.
In 1794 the insurrection broke out. Kosciusko, finding that the country
was ripe for revolt against its oppressors, hastened from Italy, whither he
had retired, and appeared at Cracow, where he was hailed as the coming
deliverer of the land. The only troops in arms were a small force of about
four thousand in all, who were joined by about three hundred peasants
armed with scythes. These were soon met by an army of seven thousand
Russians, whom they put to flight after a sharp engagement.
The news of this battle stirred the Russian general in command at
Warsaw to active measures. All whom he suspected of favoring the
insurrection were arrested. The result was different from what he had
expected. The city blazed into insurrection, two thousand Russians fell
before the onslaught of the incensed patriots, and their general saved
himself only by flight.
The outbreak at Warsaw was followed by one at Vilna, the capital of
Lithuania, the Russians here being all taken prisoners. Three Polish
regiments mustered into the Russian service deserted to the army of their
compatriots, and far and wide over the country the flames of insurrection
spread.
Kosciusko rapidly increased his forces by recruiting the peasantry,
whose dress he wore and whose food he shared in. But these men distrusted
the nobles, who had so long oppressed them, while many of the latter, eager
to retain their valued prerogatives, worked against the patriot cause, in
which they were aided by King Stanislaus, who had been subsidized by
Russian gold.
To put down this effort of despair on the part of the Poles, Catharine of
Russia sent fresh armies to Poland, led by her ablest generals. Prussians and
Austrians also joined in the movement for enslavement, Frederick William
of Prussia fighting at the head of his troops against the Polish patriot.
Kosciusko had established a provisional government, and faced his foes

boldly in the field. Defeated, he fell back on Warsaw, where he valiantly
maintained himself until threatened by two new Russian armies, whom he
marched out to meet, in the hope of preventing their junction.
The decisive battle took place at Maciejowice, in October, 1794.
Kosciusko, though pressed by superior forces, fought with the greatest valor
and desperation. His men at length, overpowered by numbers, were in great
part cut to pieces or obliged to yield, while their leader, covered with
wounds, fell into the hands of his foes. It is said that he exclaimed, on
seeing all hopes at an end, "Finis Poloniæ!" In the words of the poet Byron,
"Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell."
Warsaw still held out. Here all who had escaped from the field took
refuge, occupying Praga, the eastern suburb of the city, where twenty-six
thousand Poles, with over one hundred cannon and mortars, defended the
bridges over the Vistula. Suwarrow, the greatest of the Russian generals,
was quickly at the city gates. He was weaker, both in men and in guns, than
the defenders of the city; but with his wonted impetuosity he resolved to
employ the same tactics which he had more than once used against the
Turks, and seek to carry the Polish lines at the bayonet's point.
After a two days' cannonade, he ordered the assault at daybreak of
November 4. A desperate conflict continued during the five succeeding
hours, ending in the carrying of the trenches and the defeat of the garrison.
The Russians now poured into the suburb, where a scene of frightful
carnage began. Not only men in arms, but old men, women, and children
were ruthlessly slaughtered, the wooden houses set on fire, the bridges
broken down, and the throng of helpless people who sought to escape into
the city driven ruthlessly into the waters of the Vistula. In this butchery not
only ten thousand soldiers, but twelve thousand citizens of every age and
sex were remorselessly slain.
On the following day the city capitulated, and on the 6th the Russian
victors marched into its streets. It was, as Kosciusko had said, "the end of
Poland." The troops were disarmed, the officers were seized as prisoners,
and the feeble king was nominally raised again to the head of the kingdom,
so soon to be swept from existence. For a year Suwarrow held a military
court in Warsaw, far eclipsing the king in the splendor of his surroundings.

By the close of 1795 all was at an end. The small remnant left of the
kingdom was parted between the greedy aspirants, and on the 1st of
January, 1796, Warsaw was handed over to Prussia, to whose share of the
spoils it appertained.
In this arbitrary manner was a kingdom which had an area of nearly
three hundred thousand square miles and a population of twelve millions,
and whose history dated back to the tenth century, removed from the map of
the world, while the heavy hand of oppression fell upon all who dared to
speak or act in its behalf. One bold stroke for freedom was afterwards
made, but it ended as before, and Poland is now but a name.

SUWARROW THE UNCONQUERABLE.

Of men born for battle, to whose ears the roar of cannon and the clash of
sabres are the only music, the smoke of conflict their native atmosphere,
Suwarrow (Suvarof, to give him his Russian name) stands among the
foremost. A little, wrinkled, stooping man, five feet four inches in height
and sickly in appearance, he was the last to whom one would have looked
for great deeds in war or mighty exploits in the embattled field. Yet he had
the soul of a hero in his diminutive frame, and even as a boy the passion for
military glory fired his heart, Cæsar and Charles XII. of Sweden (from
which country his ancestors came) being the heroes worshipped by his
youthful imagination. Born in 1729, he entered the army as a private at
seventeen, but rapidly rose from the ranks, made himself famous in the
Seven Years' War and in the Polish war of 1768–71, and from that time until
death put an end to his career was almost constantly in the field. Napoleon,
against whose armies he fought in his later days, was not more enraptured
with the breath of battle than was this war-dog of the Russian army.
Diminutive and sickly as he looked, Suwarrow was strong and hardy,
and so inured to hardship that the severity of the Russian climate failed to
affect his vigorous frame. Disdaining luxury, and ignoring comfort, he lived
like the soldiers under his command, preferring to sleep on a truss of hay,
and accepting every privation which his men might be called on to endure.
He was a man of high intelligence, a clever linguist, and a diligent reader
even when on campaign, and religiously seems to have been very devout,
being ready to kneel and pray before every wayside image, even when the
roads were deep with mud.
In his ordinary manners he carried eccentricity to an extravagant extent,
was brusque and curt in speech, often to the verge of insult, laconic in his

despatches, and—a soldier in grain—treated with stinging sarcasm all
whose lack of activity or of courage invited his contempt. It was by this
spirit that he incurred the enmity of the Emperor Paul, when, in his half-
mad thirst for change, the latter attempted to change the native dress of the
Russian soldier for the ancient attire of Germany. His fair locks, which the
Russian was used to wash every morning, he was now bidden to bedaub
with grease and flour, while he energetically cursed the black spatterdashes
which it took him an hour to button every morning. Orders to establish
these novelties among his men were sent to Suwarrow, then in Italy with the
army, the directions being accompanied with little sticks for models of the
tails and side curls in which the soldiers' hair was to be arranged. The old
warrior's lips curled contemptuously on seeing these absurd devices, and he
growled out in his curt fashion, "Hair-powder is not gunpowder; curls are
not cannon; and tails are not bayonets."
This sarcastic utterance, which forms a sort of rhyming verse in the
Russian tongue, got abroad, and spread from mouth to mouth through the
army like a choice morsel of wit. The czar, to whose ears it came, heard it
with deep offence. Soon after Suwarrow was recalled from the army, on
another plea, and on his return to St. Petersburg was not permitted to see the
emperor's face. This injustice may have been a cause of his death, which
occurred shortly after his return, on May 18, 1800. No courtier of the
Russian court, and no diplomatist, except the English ambassador, followed
the war-worn veteran to the grave.
Suwarrow was the idol of his men, whose favorite title for him was
"Father Suvarof," and who were ready at command to follow him to the
cannon's mouth. In all his long career he never lost a battle, and only once
in his life of war acted on the defensive. With a superb faith in his own star,
the inspiration of the moment served him for counsel, and rapidity of
movement and boldness and dash in the onset brought him many a victory
where deliberation might have led to defeat.
A striking instance of this, and of his usual brusque eccentricity, took
place in 1799 in Italy, where Suwarrow was placed in command of all the
allied troops. This raising of a Russian to the supreme command excited the
jealousy of the Austrian generals, and they called a council of war to
examine his plans for the campaign. The members of the council, the

youngest first, gave their views as to the conduct of the war. Suwarrow
listened in grim silence until they had all spoken, and had turned to him for
his comment on their views. The wrinkled veteran drew to himself a slate,
and made on it two lines.
"Here, gentlemen," he said, pointing to one line, "are the French, and
here are the Russians. The latter will march against the former and beat
them." This said, he rubbed out the French line. Then, looking up at his
surprised auditors, he curtly remarked, "This is all my plan. The council is
ended."
In war he is said to have been averse to the shedding of blood, and to
have been at heart humane and merciful. Yet this hardly accords with the
story of his exploits, it being said that twenty-six thousand Turks were
killed in the storming of Ismail, while in that of Praga at Warsaw more than
twenty thousand Poles were massacred.
Such was the character of one of the men who aided to make glorious
the reign of Catharine of Russia, and whose merit she—unlike her weak son
Paul—was fully competent to appreciate. With this estimate of the greatest
soldier Russia has ever produced, and one of the ablest generals of modern
times, we may briefly describe some of the most striking exploits of
Suwarrow's career.
In 1789, during one of the interminable wars against Turkey, in which on
this occasion the Austrians took part with the Russians, the Prince of
Coburg was at the head of an Austrian force, which he was strikingly
incapable of commanding. The prince, advancing with sublime deliberation,
found himself suddenly threatened by a considerable Turkish army. Filled
with alarm at the sight of the enemy, he sent a hasty appeal to Suwarrow to
come to his aid.
The Russian general had just rejoined his army after recovering from a
wound. The news of Coburg's peril reached him at Belat, in Moldavia,
between forty and fifty miles away, and these miles of mountains, ravines,
and almost impassable wilds. Suwarrow at once broke camp, and with his
usual impetuosity led his army over its difficult route, reaching the
Austrians in less than thirty-six hours after receiving the news.

It was five o'clock in the evening when he arrived. At eleven he sent his
plan of attack to the prince. An assault on the enemy was to be made at two
in the morning. Coburg, who had never dreamed of such rapidity of
movement and such impetuosity in action, was utterly astounded. In
complete bewilderment, he sought Suwarrow at his quarters, going there
three times without finding him. The supreme command belonged to him as
the older general, but he had the sense not to claim it, and to act as a
subordinate to his abler ally. In an hour after the advance began the allied
armies were in the Turkish camp, and the Turks, though much
outnumbering their assailants, were in full flight. All their stores, a hundred
standards, and seventy pieces of artillery fell into the hands of the victors.
Suwarrow returned to Moldavia, and Coburg looked quietly on while the
Turks collected a new army. In less than two months he found himself
confronted by a hundred thousand men. In new alarm, he hastily sent again
to Suwarrow for aid.
In two days the Russian army had reached the Austrian camp, which the
enemy was just about to attack. The Turks had neglected to fortify their
camp before offering battle. Of this oversight the keen-eyed Russian took
instant advantage, attacked them in their unfinished trenches, and, as
before, took their camp by storm,—though after a more stubborn defence
than in the previous instance. The Turkish army was again dispersed,
immense booty was taken, and Suwarrow received for his valor the title of a
count of the Austrian empire, while the empress Catharine gave him in
reward the honorable surname of Rimniksky, from the name of the river on
which the battle had been fought.
The next great exploit of Suwarrow was performed at Ismail, a Turkish
town which Potemkin had been besieging for seven months. The prime
minister at length grew impatient at the delay, and determined on more
effective measures. Living in a luxury in his camp that contrasted strangely
with the sparse conditions of Suwarrow, Potemkin was surrounded by
courtiers and ladies, who made strenuous efforts to furnish the great man
with amusement. One of the ladies, handling a pack of cards, from which
she laughingly pretended to be able to read the secrets of destiny,
proclaimed that he would be in possession of the town at the end of three
weeks.

"You are not bad at prediction," said Potemkin, with a smile, "but I have
a method of divination far more infallible. My prediction is that I will have
the town in three days."
He at once sent orders to Suwarrow, who was at Galatz, to come and
take the town.
The obedient warrior, who seemed to be always at somebody's beck and
call, quickly appeared and surveyed the situation. His first steps seemed to
indicate that he proposed to continue the siege, the troops being formed into
a besieging army of about forty thousand men, while the Russian fleet was
ordered up to the town. But the deliberation of a siege never accorded with
Suwarrow's ardent humor. His real purpose was to take the place by storm.
He had taken Otchakof in this way the previous year with heavy loss, and
with the slaughter of twenty thousand Turks. He now, on the 21st of
September, twice summoned the city to surrender, threatening the people
with the fate of Otchakof. They refused to yield, and the assault began at
four o'clock of the following morning.
Battalion after battalion was hurled against the walls: the slaughter from
the Turkish fire was frightful, but the stern commander hurled ever new
hosts into the pit of death, and about eight o'clock the summit of the walls
was reached. But the work was yet only begun. The city was defended
street by street, house by house. It was noon before the Russians, fighting
their way through a desperate resistance, reached the market-place, where
were gathered a body of the Tartars of the Crimea. For two hours these
fought fiercely for their lives, and after they had all fallen the Turks kept up
the conflict with equal desperation in the streets. At length the gates were
thrown open and Suwarrow sent his cavalry into the city, who charged
through the streets, cutting down all whom they met. It was four o'clock in
the afternoon when the butchery ended, after which the city was given up
for three days to the mercy of the troops. According to the official report,
the Turks lost forty-three thousand in killed and prisoners, the Russians
forty-five hundred in all; the one estimate probably as much too large as the
other was too small.
We may conclude with the story of Suwarrow's career in Italy and
Switzerland against the armies of the French republic. The plan which the

Russian conqueror had marked out on the slate for the Austrian generals
was literally fulfilled. In less than three months he had cleared Lombardy
and Piedmont of the troops of France. He forced the passage of the Adda
against Moreau and his army, compelling the French to abandon Milan,
which he entered in triumph. His next success was at Turin, a dépôt of
French supplies, towards which Moreau was hastily advancing. The
Russians took the city by surprise, driving the French garrison into the
citadel, and capturing three hundred cannons and enormous quantities of
muskets, ammunition, and military stores. The French army was saved from
ruin only by the great ability of its commander, who led it to Genoa in four
days over a mountain path.
The czar Paul rewarded his victorious general with the honorable
designation of Italienski, or the Italian, and, in his grandiloquent fashion,
issued a ukase commanding all people to regard Suwarrow as the greatest
commander the world had ever known.
We cannot describe the whole course of events. Other victories were
won in Italy, but finally Suwarrow was weakened by the jealousy of the
Austrians, who withdrew their troops, and subsequently was obliged to go
to the relief of his fellow-commander, Korsakof, who, with twenty thousand
men, had imprudently allowed himself to be hemmed in by a French army
at Zurich. He finally forced his way through the enemy, losing all his
artillery and half his host.
Of this Suwarrow knew nothing, as he made his way across the Alps to
the aid of the beleaguered general. He attempted to force his way over the
St. Gothard pass, meeting with fierce opposition at every point. There was a
sharp fight at the Devil's Bridge, which the French blew up, but failed to
keep back Suwarrow and his men, who crossed the rocky gorge of the
Unerloch, dashed through the foaming Reuss, and drove the French from
their post of vantage.
At length, with his men barefoot, his provisions almost exhausted, the
Russian general reached Muotta, to find to his chagrin that Korsakof had
been defeated and put to flight. He at once began his retreat, followed in
force by Masséna, who was driven off by the rear-guard. On October 1
Suwarrow reached Glarus. Here he rested till the 4th, then crossed the

Panixer Mountains through snow two feet deep to the valley of the Rhine,
which he reached on the 10th, having lost two hundred of his men and all
his beasts of burden over the precipices. Thus ended this extraordinary
march, which had cost Suwarrow all his artillery, nearly all his horses, and a
third of his men.
These losses in the Russian armies stirred the czar to immeasurable rage.
All the missing officers—who were prisoners in France—were branded as
deserters, and Suwarrow was deprived of his command, ostensibly for his
failure, but largely for the sarcasm already mentioned. He returned home to
die, having experienced what a misfortune it is for a great man to be at the
mercy of a fool in authority.

THE RETREAT OF NAPOLEON'S GRAND
ARMY.

In the spring of 1812 Napoleon reached the frontiers of Russia at the
head of the greatest army that had ever been under his command, it
embracing half a million of men. It was not an army of Frenchmen,
however, since much more than half the total force was made up of
Germans and soldiers of other nationalities. In addition to the soldiery was a
multitude of non-combatants and other incumbrances, which Napoleon,
deviating from his usual custom, allowed to follow the troops. These were
made up of useless aids to the pomp and luxury of the emperor and his
officers, and an incredible number of private vehicles, women, servants, and
others, who served but to create confusion, and to consume the army stores,
of which provision had been made for only a short campaign.
Thus, dragging its slow length along, the army, on June 24, 1812,
crossed the Niemen River and entered upon Russian soil. From emperor to
private, all were inspired with exaggerated hopes of victory, and looked
soon to see the mighty empire of the north prostrate before the genius of all-
conquering France. Had the vision of that army, as it was to recross the
Niemen within six months, risen upon their minds, it would have been
dismissed as a nightmare of false and monstrous mien.
Onward into Russia wound the vast and hopeful mass, without a battle
and without sight of a foe. The Russians were retreating and drawing their
foes deeper and deeper into the heart of their desolate land. Battles were not
necessary; the country itself fought for Russia. Food was not to be had from
the land, which was devastated in their track. Burning cities and villages lit
up their path. The carriages and wagons, even many of the cannon, had to

be left behind. The forced marches which Napoleon made in the hope of
overtaking the Russians forced him to abandon much of his supplies, while
men and horses sank from fatigue and hunger. The decaying carcasses of
ten thousand horses already poisoned the air.
At length Moscow was approached. Here the Russian leaders were
forced by the sentiment of the army and the people to strike one blow in
defence of their ancient capital. A desperate encounter took place at
Borodino, two days' march from the city, in which Napoleon triumphed, but
at a fearful price. Forty thousand men had fallen, of whom the wounded
nearly all died through want and neglect. When Moscow was reached, it
proved to be deserted. Napoleon had won the empty shell of a city, and was
as far as ever from the conquest of Russia.
It is not our purpose here to give the startling story of the burning of
Moscow, the sacrifice of a city to the god of war. Though this is one of the
most thrilling events in the history of Russia, it has already been told in this
series.[1] We are concerned at present solely with the retreat of the grand
army from the ashes of the Muscovite capital, the most dreadful retreat in
the annals of war.
Napoleon lingered amid the ruins of the ancient city until winter was
near at hand, hoping still that the emperor Alexander would sue for peace.
No suit came. He offered terms himself, and they were not even honored
with a reply. A deeply disappointed man, the autocrat of Europe marched
out of Moscow on October 19 and began his frightful homeward march. He
had waited much too long. The Russian armies, largely increased in
numbers, shut him out from every path but the wasted one by which he had
come, a highway marked by the ashes of burnt towns and the decaying
corpses of men and animals.
On November 6, winter suddenly set in. The supplies had largely been
consumed, the land was empty of food, famine alternated with cold to crush
the retreating host, and death in frightful forms hovered over their path. The
horses, half fed and worn out, died by thousands. Most of the cavalry had to
go afoot; the booty brought from Moscow was abandoned as valueless;
even much of the artillery was left behind. The cold grew more intense. A
deep snow covered the plain, through whose white peril they had to drag

their weary feet. Arms were flung away as useless weights, flight was the
only thought, and but a tithe of the army remained in condition to defend
the rest.
The retreat of the grand army became one of incredible distress and
suffering. Over the seemingly endless Russian steppes, from whose snow-
clad level only rose here and there the ruins of a deserted village, the
freezing and starving soldiers made their miserable way. Wan, hollow-eyed,
gaunt, clad in garments through which the biting cold pierced their flesh,
they dragged wearily onward, fighting with one another for the flesh of a
dead horse, ready to commit murder for the shadow of food, and finally
sinking in death in the snows of that interminable plain. Each morning,
some of those who had stretched their limbs round the bivouac fires failed
to rise. The victims of the night were often revealed only by the small
mounds of fallen snow which had buried them as they slept.
That this picture may not be thought overdrawn, we shall relate an
anecdote told of Prince Emilius of Darmstadt. He had fallen asleep in the
snow, and in order to protect him from the keen north wind four of his
Hessian dragoons screened him during the night with their cloaks. The
prince arose from his cold couch in the morning to find his faithful
guardians still in the position they had occupied during the night,—frozen
to death.
Maddened with famine and frost, men were seen to spring, with wildly
exulting cries, into the flames of burning houses. Of those that fell into the
hands of the Russian boors, many were stripped of their clothing and chased
to death through the snow. Smolensk, which the army had passed in its
glory, it now reached in its gloom. The city was deserted and half burned.
Most of the cannon had been abandoned, food and ammunition were
lacking, and no halt was possible. The despairing army pushed on.
Death followed the fugitives in other forms than those of frost and
hunger. The Russians, who had avoided the army in its advance, harassed it
continually in its retreat. From all directions Russian troops marched upon
the worn-out fugitives, grimly determined that not a man of them should
leave Russia if they could prevent. The intrepid Ney, with the men still
capable of fight, formed the rear-guard, and kept at bay their foes. This

service was one of imminent peril. Cut off at Smolensk from the main body,
only Ney's vigilance saved his men from destruction. During the night he
led them rapidly along the banks of the Dnieper, repulsing the Russian
corps that sought to cut off his retreat, and joined the army again.
The Beresina at length was reached. This river must be crossed. But the
frightful chill, which hitherto had pursued the fleeing host, now
inopportunely decreased, a thaw broke the frozen surface of the stream, and
the fugitives gazed with horror on masses of floating ice where they had
dreamed of a solid pathway for their feet. The slippery state of the banks
added to the difficulty, while on the opposite side a Russian army
commanded the passage with its artillery, and in the rear the roar of cannon
signalled the approach of another army. All seemed lost, and only the good
fortune which had so often befriended him now saved Napoleon and his
host.
For at this critical moment a fresh army corps, which had been left
behind in his advance, came to the emperor's aid, and the Russian general
who disputed the passage, deceived by the French movements, withdrew to
another point on the stream. Taking instant advantage of the opportunity,
Napoleon threw two bridges across the river, over which the able-bodied
men of the army safely made their way.
After them came the vast host of non-combatants that formed the rear,
choking the bridges with their multitude. As they struggled to cross, the
pursuing Russian army appeared and opened with artillery upon the
helpless mass, ploughing long red lanes of carnage through its midst. One
bridge broke down, and all rushed to the other. Multitudes were forced into
the stream, while the Russian cannon played remorselessly upon the
struggling and drowning mass. For two days the passage had continued, and
on the morning of the third a considerable number of sick and wounded
soldiers, sutlers, women, and children still remained behind, when word
reached them that the bridges were to be burned. A fearful rush now took
place. Some succeeded in crossing, but the fire ran rapidly along the
timbers, and the despairing multitude leaped into the icy river or sought to
plunge through the mounting flames. When the ice thawed in the spring
twelve thousand dead bodies were found on the shores of the stream.
Sixteen thousand of the fugitives remained prisoners in Russian hands.

This day of disaster was the climax of the frightful retreat. But as the
army pressed onward the temperature again fell, until it reached twenty-
seven degrees below zero, and the old story of "frozen to death" was
resumed. Napoleon, fearing to be taken prisoner in Germany if the truth
should become known, left his army on December 5, and hurried towards
Paris with all speed, leaving the news of the disaster behind in his flight.
Wilna was soon after reached by the army, but could not be held by the
exhausted troops, and, with its crowded magazines and the wealth in its
treasury, fell into the hands of the Russians.
During this season of disaster the Austrian and Prussian commanders left
behind to guard the route contrived to spare their troops. Schwarzenberg,
the Austrian commander, retreated towards Warsaw and left the Russian
armies free to act against the French. The Prussians, who had been engaged
in the siege of Riga, might have covered the fleeing host; but York, their
commander, entered into a truce with the Russians and remained stationary.
They had been forced to join the French, and took the first opportunity to
abandon their hated allies.
A place of safety was at length reached, but the grand army was
represented by a miserable fragment of its mighty host. Of the half-million
who crossed the Russian frontier, but eighty thousand returned. Of those
who had reached Moscow, the meagre remnant numbered scarcely twenty
thousand in all.

THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF POLAND.

The French revolution of 1830 precipitated a similar one in Poland. The
rule of Russia in that country had been one of outrage and oppression. In
the words of the Poles, "personal liberty, which had been solemnly
guaranteed, was violated; the prisons were crowded; courts-martial were
appointed to decide in civil cases, and imposed infamous punishments upon
citizens whose only crime was that of having attempted to save from
corruption the spirit and the character of the nation."
On the 29th of November the people sprang to arms in Warsaw and the
Russians were driven out. Soon after a dictator was chosen, an army
collected, and Russian Poland everywhere rose in revolt.
It was a hopeless struggle into which the Polish patriots had entered. In
all Europe there was not a hand lifted in their aid. Prussia and Austria stood
in a threatening attitude, each with an army of sixty thousand men upon the
frontiers, ready to march to the aid of Russia if any disturbance took place
in their Polish provinces. Russia invaded the country with an army of one
hundred and twenty thousand men, a force more than double that which
Poland was able to raise. And the Polish army was commanded by a titled
incapable, Prince Radzivil, chosen because he had a great name, regardless
of his lack of ability as a soldier. Chlopicki, his aide, was a skilled
commander, but he fought with his hands tied.
On the 19th of February, 1831, the two armies met in battle, and began a
desperate struggle which lasted with little cessation for six days. Warsaw
lay in the rear of the Polish army. Behind it flowed the Vistula, with but a
single bridge for escape in case of defeat. Victory or death seemed the
alternatives of the patriot force.

RUSSIAN PEASANTS.
The struggle was for the Alder Wood, the key of the position. For the
possession of this forest the fight was hand to hand. Again and again it was
lost and retaken. On the 25th, the final day of battle, it was held by the
Poles. Forty-five thousand in number, they were confronted by a Russian
army of one hundred thousand men. Diebitsch, the Russian commander,
determined to win the Alder Wood at any cost. Chlopicki gave orders to
defend it to the last extremity.
The struggle that succeeded was desperate. By sheer force of numbers
the Russians made themselves masters of the wood. Then Chlopicki, putting
himself at the head of his grenadiers, charged into the forest depths, driving
out its holders at the bayonet's point. Their retreat threw the whole Russian
line into confusion. Now was the critical moment for a cavalry charge.
Chlopicki sent orders to the cavalry chief, but he refused to move. This loss
of an opportunity for victory maddened the valiant leader. "Go and ask
Radzivil," he said to the aides who asked for orders; "for me, I seek only
death." Plunging into the ranks of the enemy, he was wounded by a shell,
and borne secretly from the field. But the news of this disaster ran through
the ranks and threw the whole army into consternation.

The fall of the gallant Chlopicki changed the tide of battle. Fiercely
struggling still, the Poles were driven from the wood and hurled back upon
the Vistula. A battalion of recruits crossed the river on the ice and carried
terror into Warsaw. Crowds of peasants, heaps of dead and dying, choked
the approach to Praga, the outlying suburb. Night fell upon the scene of
disorder. The houses of Praga were fired, and flames lit up the frightful
scene. Groans of agony and shrieks of despair filled the air. The streets were
choked with débris, but workmen from Warsaw rushed out with axes,
cleared away the ruin, and left the passages free.
Inspirited by this, the infantry formed in line and checked the charge of
the Russian horse. The Albert cuirassiers rode through the first Polish line,
but soon found their horses floundering in mud, and themselves attacked by
lancers and pikemen on all sides. Of the brilliant and daring corps scarce a
man escaped.
That day cost the Poles five thousand men. Of the Russians more than
ten thousand fell. Radzivil, fearing that the single bridge would be carried
away by the broken ice, gave orders to retreat across the stream. Diebitsch
withdrew into the wood. And thus the first phase of the struggle for the
freedom of Poland came to an end.
This affair was followed by a striking series of Polish victories. The ice
in the Vistula was running free, the river overflowed its banks, and for a
month the main bodies of the armies were at rest. But General Dwernicki, at
the head of three thousand Polish cavalry, signalized the remainder of
February by a series of brilliant exploits, attacking and dispersing with his
small force twenty thousand of the enemy.
Radzivil, whose incompetency had grown evident, was now removed,
and Skrzynecki, a much abler leader, was chosen in his place. He was not
long in showing his skill and daring. On the night of March 30 the Praga
bridge was covered with straw and the army marched noiselessly across. At
daybreak, in the midst of a thick fog, it fell on a body of sleeping Russians,
who had not dreamed of such a movement. Hurled back in disorder and
dismay, they were met by a division which had been posted to cut off their
retreat. The rout was complete. Half the corps was destroyed or taken, and
the remainder fled in terror through the forest depths.

Before the day ended the Poles came upon Rosen's division, fifteen
thousand in number, and strongly posted. Yet the impetuous onslaught of
the Poles swept the field. The Russians were driven back in utter rout, with
the loss of two thousand men, six thousand prisoners, and large quantities of
cannon and arms. The Poles lost but three hundred men in this brilliant
success. During the next day the pursuit continued, and five thousand more
prisoners were taken. So disheartened were the Russian troops by these
reverses that when attacked on April 10 at the village of Iganie they
scarcely attempted to defend themselves. The flower of the Russian
infantry, the lions of Varna, as they had been called since the Turkish war,
laid down their arms, tore the eagles from their shakos, and gave
themselves up as prisoners of war. Twenty-five hundred were taken.
What immediately followed may be told in a few words. Skrzynecki
failed to follow up his remarkable success, and lost valuable time, in which
the Russians recovered from their dismay. The brave Dwernicki, after
routing a force of nine thousand with two thousand men, crossed the
frontier and was taken prisoner by the Austrians, who had made no
objection to its being crossed by the Russians. And, as if nature were
fighting against Poland, the cholera, which had crossed from India to Russia
and infected the Russian troops, was communicated to the Poles at Iganie,
and soon spread throughout their ranks.
The climax in this suicidal war came on the 26th of May, when the
whole Russian army, led by General Diebitsch, advanced upon the Poles.
During the preceding night the Polish army had retreated across the river
Narew, but, by some unexplained error, had left Lubienski's corps behind.
On this gallant corps, drawn up in front of the town of Ostrolenka, the host
of Russians fell. Flanked by the Cossacks, who spread out in clouds of
horsemen on each wing, the cavalry retreated through the town, followed by
the infantry, the 4th regiment of the line, which formed the rear-guard,
fighting step by step as it slowly fell back.
Across the bridges poured the retreating Poles. The Russians followed
the rear-guard hotly into the town. Soon the houses were in flames.
Disorder reigned in the streets. The fight continued in the midst of the
conflagration. Russian infantry took possession of the houses adjoining the
river and fired on the retreating mass. Artillery corps rushed to the river

bank and planted their batteries to sweep the bridges. All the avenues of
escape were choked by the columns of the invading force.
The 4th regiment, which had been left alone in the town, was in
imminent peril of capture, but at this moment of danger it displayed an
indomitable spirit. With closed ranks it charged with the bayonet on the
crowded mass before it, rent a crimson avenue through its midst, and
cleared a passage to the bridges over heaps of the dead. Over the quaking
timbers rushed the gallant Poles, followed closely by the Russian
grenadiers. The Polish cannon swept the bridge, but the gunners were
picked off by sharp-shooters and stretched in death beside their guns. On
the curving left bank eighty Russian cannon were planted, whose fire
protected the crossing troops.
Meanwhile the bulk of the Polish army lay unsuspecting in its camp.
Skrzynecki, the commander, resting easy in the belief that all his men were
across, heard the distant firing with unconcern. Suddenly the imminence of
the peril was brought to his attention. Rushing from his tent, and springing
upon his horse, he galloped madly through the ranks, shouting wildly, as he
passed from column to column, "Ho! Rybinski! Ho! Malachowski!
Forward! forward, all!"
The troops sprang to their feet; the forming battalions rushed forward in
disorder; from end to end of the line rushed the generalissimo, the other
officers hurrying to his aid. Charge after charge was made on the Russians
who had crossed the stream. As if driven by frenzy, the Poles fell on their
foes with swords and pikes. Singing the Warsaw hymn, the officers rushed
to the front. The lancers charged boldly, but their horses sank in the marshy
soil, and they fell helpless before the Russian fire.
The day passed; night fell; the field of battle was strewn thick with the
dead and dying. Only a part of the Russian army had succeeded in crossing.
Skrzynecki held the field, but he had lost seven thousand men. The
Russians, of whom more than ten thousand had fallen, recrossed the river
during the night. But they commanded the passage of the stream, and the
Polish commander gave orders for a retreat on Warsaw, sadly repeating, as
he entered his carriage, Kosciusko's famous words, "Finis Poloniæ."

The end indeed was approaching. The resources of Poland were limited,
those of Russia were immense. New armies trebly replaced all Russian
losses. Field-Marshal Paskievitch, the new commander, at the head of new
forces, determined to cross the Vistula and assail Warsaw on the left bank of
the stream, instead of attacking its suburb of Praga and seeking to force a
passage across the river at that point, as on former occasions.
The march of the Russians was a difficult and dangerous one. Heavy
rains had made the roads almost impassable, while streams everywhere
intersected the country. To transport a heavy park of artillery and the
immense supply and baggage train for an army of seventy thousand men,
through such a country, was an almost impossible task, particularly in view
of the fact that the cholera pursued it on its march, and the sick and dying
proved an almost fatal encumbrance.
Had it been attacked under such circumstances by the Polish army, it
might have been annihilated. But Skrzynecki remained immovable,
although his troops cried hotly for "battle! battle!" whenever he appeared.
The favorable moment was lost. The Russians crossed the Vistula on
floating bridges, and marched in compact array upon the Polish capital.
And now clamor broke out everywhere. Riots in Warsaw proclaimed the
popular discontent. A dictator was appointed, and preparations to defend the
city to the last extremity were made. But at the last moment twenty
thousand men were sent out to collect supplies for the threatened city,
leaving only thirty-five thousand for its defence. The Russians, meanwhile,
had been reinforced by thirty thousand men, making their army one
hundred and twenty thousand strong, while in cannon they outnumbered the
Poles three to one.
Such was the state of affairs in beleaguered Warsaw on that fatal 6th of
September when the Russian general, taking advantage of the weakening of
the patriot army, ordered a general assault.
At daybreak the attack began with a concentrated fire from two hundred
guns. The troops, who had been well plied with brandy, rushed in a torrent
upon the battered walls, and swarmed into the suburb of Wola, driving its
garrison into the church, where the carnage continued until none were left
to resist.

From Wola the attack was directed, about noon, upon the suburb of
Czyste. This was defended by forty guns, which made havoc in the Russian
ranks, while two battalions of the 4th regiment, rushing upon them in their
disorder, strove to drive them back and wrest Wola from their hands. The
effort was fruitless, strong reinforcements coming to the Russian aid.
Through the blood-strewn streets of the city the struggle continued,
success favoring now the Poles, now the Russians. About five in the
afternoon the tide of battle turned decisively in favor of the Russians. A
shower of shells from the Russian batteries had fired the houses of Czyste,
within whose flame-lit streets a hand-to-hand struggle went on. The famous
4th regiment, intrenched in the cemetery, defended itself valiantly, but was
driven back by the spread of the flames. Night fell, but the conflict
continued. The dawn of the following day saw the city at the mercy of the
Russian host. The twenty thousand men sent out to forage were still absent.
Nothing remained but surrender, and at nine in the evening the news of the
capitulation was brought to the army, to whom orders to retire on Praga
were given.
Thus ended the final struggle for the freedom of Poland. The story of
what followed it is not our purpose to tell. The mild Alexander was no
longer on the Russian throne. The stern Nicholas had replaced him, and
fearful was his revenge. For the crime of patriotism Poland was decimated,
thousands of its noblest citizens being transported to the Caucasus and
Siberia. The remnant of separate existence possessed by Poland was
overthrown, and it was made a province of the Russian empire. Even the
teaching of the Polish language was forbidden, the youth of the nation being
commanded to learn and speak the Russian tongue. As for the persecution
and suffering which fell upon the Poles as a nation, it is too sad a story to be
here told. There is still a Polish people, but a Poland no more.

SCHAMYL THE HERO OF CIRCASSIA.

In the region lying between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea rise the
rugged Caucasian Mountains, a mighty wall of rock which there divides the
continents of Europe and Asia. Monarch of those lofty hills towers the tall
peak of Elbrus, called by the natives "the great spirit of the mountains."
Farther east Kasbek lifts its lofty summit, and at a lower level the whole
jagged line, "the thousand-peaked Caucasus," rises into view. Below these a
lower range, dark with forests, marks its outline on the snowy summits
beyond. Fruitful clearings appear to the height of five thousand feet on the
western slopes; garden terraces mount the eastward face, and the valleys,
green with meadows or golden with grain, are dotted with clusters of
cottages. Sheep and goats browse in great numbers on the hill-sides; lower
down the camel and buffalo feed; herds of horses roam half wild through
the glades, and from the higher rocks the chamois looks boldly down on the
inhabited realms below.
In these mountain fastnesses dwells a race of bold and liberty-loving
mountaineers who have preserved their freedom through all the historic
eras, yielding only at last, after years of valiant resistance, when the whole
power of the Russian empire was brought to bear upon them in their wilds.
For years the heroic Schamyl, their unconquerable chief, braved his foes,
again and again he escaped from their toils or hurled them back in defeat,
and for a quarter of a century he defied all the power of Russia, yielding
only when driven to his final lair.
In the aoul or village of Himri, perched like an eagle's nest high on a
projecting rock, this famous chief was born in the year 1797. The only
access to this high-seated stronghold was by a narrow path winding several
hundred feet up the slope, while a triple wall, flanked by high towers,

further defended it, and the overhanging brow of the mountain guarded it
above. Such is the character of one of the strongholds of this mountain land,
and such an example of the difficulties its foes had to overcome.
There are no finer horsemen than the daring Circassian mountaineers,
who are ready to dash at full speed up or down precipitous steeps, to leap
chasms, or to swim raging torrents. In an instant, also, they can discharge
their weapons, unslinging the gun when at full gallop, firing upon the foe,
and as quickly returning it to its place. They can rest suspended on the side
of the horse, leap to the ground to pick up a fallen weapon, and bound into
the saddle again without a halt. And such is the precision of their aim that
they are able to strike the smallest mark while riding at full speed.
Such were some of the arts in which Schamyl was trained, and in which
he became signally expert. In the hunt, the trial of skill, all the labors and
sports of the youthful mountaineers, he was an adept, and so valiant and
resourceful that his admiring countrymen at length chose him as their Iman,
or governor, during the defence of their country against the Russian
invaders.
The first battle in which Schamyl engaged was behind the walls of his
native village. Himri, well situated as it was, was hurled into ruin by the
artillery of the foe, and among its prostrate defenders lay Schamyl, with two
balls through his body. He was left by the enemy as dead, and in after-years
the mountaineers looked upon his escape and recovery as due to miracle.
Schamyl was thirty-seven years of age when he became leader of the
tribes. Of middle stature, with fair hair, gray eyes shadowed with thick
brows, a Grecian nose, small mouth, and unusually fair complexion, he was
one of the handsomest and most distinguished in appearance of the
mountaineers. He was erect in carriage, light and active in tread, and had a
natural nobility of air and aspect. His manner was calmly commanding,
while his eloquence was at once fiery and persuasive. "Flames sparkle from
his eyes," says one, "and flowers are scattered from his lips."
In 1839 the Russians made one of their most determined efforts to crush
the resistance of the mountaineers. Schamyl's head-quarters were then at
Akhulgo, a stronghold perched upon the top of an isolated conical peak
around whose foot a river wound. Strong by nature, it was well fortified,

trenches, earthworks, and covered ways now taking the place of those stone
walls which the Russian cannon had so easily overturned at Himri.
Other fortified works were built on the road to Akhulgo, which was
retained as a last resort, behind whose defences the mountaineers were
resolved to conquer or die. Its garrison was composed of the flower of the
Circassian warriors, while some fifteen thousand men beside stood ready to
take part in the fight.
In the month of May the Russians advanced, with such energy and in
such force that the anterior works were soon taken, and the mountaineers
found themselves obliged to take refuge in their final fortress of defence.
The fight here was fierce and persistent. Step by step the Russians made
their way, pushing their parallels against the intrenched works of their foes.
Point after point was gained, and at length, in late August, the crisis came.
A sudden charge carried them into the fort, and the defenders died where
they stood, leaving only women and children to fall as prisoners into the
Russians' hands.
But Schamyl had disappeared. Seek as they would, the chief was not to
be found. The fortress, the approaches, every nook and corner, were
explored, but the famous warrior, for whom his foes would have given half
their wealth, had utterly vanished, no one knew how. To make sure of his
death they had scarcely left a fighting man alive, yet to their chagrin the
redoubtable Schamyl was soon again in the field.
How the brave mountaineer escaped is not known. Of the stories afloat,
one is that he lay concealed until night in a rock refuge, and then managed
to swim the river while some of his friends attracted the attention and drew
the fire of the guards. All that can be said is that in September he
reappeared, ready for new feats of arms, and was seen again at the head of a
gallant body of mountain warriors.
His head-quarters were now fixed at Dargo, a village in the heart of the
mountains and in the midst of the primeval forest. But the chief had learned
a lesson from his late experience. The Circassians were no match for the
Russians behind fortifications. He resolved in the future to fight in a manner
better suited to the habits of his followers, and to wear out the foe by a
guerilla warfare.

Three years passed before the Russians again sought to penetrate the
mountains in force. Then General Grabbe, the victor at Akhulgo, attempted
to repeat his success at Dargo. But the experience he gained proved to be of
a less agreeable type. At the close of the first day's march, when the soldiers
had eaten their evening meal and stretched their limbs to rest after a hard
day's march, they were suddenly brought to their feet by a rattling volley of
musketry from the surrounding woods. All night long the firing continued,
no great damage being done in the darkness, but the soldiers being
effectually deprived of their rest. When day dawned there was not a
Circassian to be seen.
Near noon, as the column wound through a ravine in the forest, the firing
sharply recommenced, a murderous volley pouring upon the vanguard from
behind the trees. The number of wounded became so great that there were
not wagons enough for their transportation. Still General Grab be kept on,
despite the advice of his officers, only to be attacked again at night as his
weary men lay in a small open meadow among the hills. All night long the
whiz of bullets drove away repose, and at every step of the next day's march
the woods belched forth the leaden messengers of death.
The goal of the march was near at hand. The little village of Dargo could
be seen on a distant hill-top. But it was to be reached only by a path of
death, and the Russian commander was at length forced to give the order to
retreat. On seeing the column wheel and begin its backward march the
Circassians grew wild with excitement and triumph. Slinging their rifles
behind their backs, they rushed, sabre in hand, upon the enemy's centre,
breaking through it again and again, while a deadly hail of rifle-shots still
came from the woods. In the end, of the column of six thousand, two
thousand were left dead, the remainder reaching the fortress from which
they had set out in sorry plight.
For several years Schamyl made Dargo his head-quarters. Not until 1845
did the Russians succeed in taking it, their army now being ten thousand
strong. But it was a village in flames they captured. Schamyl had fired it
before leaving, and the Russians were so beset in coming and going that
their empty conquest was made at the cost of three thousand of their men.

In the spring of the following year the valiant chief repaid the enemy in
part for these invasions of his country. He had now under his command no
less than twenty thousand warriors, largely horsemen, and in the leafy
month of May, taking advantage of a weakening of the Russian line, he
dashed suddenly from the highlands for a raid in the neighboring country of
the Kabardians.
Two rivers flowed between the mountain ranges and the Kabardas, and
two lines of hostile fortresses guarded the frontier, containing in all no less
than seventy thousand men. Between the forts lay Cossack settlements, and
beyond them the Kabardians, an armed and warlike race. Schamyl had no
artillery, no fortresses, no dépôts of provisions and ammunition. All he
could do was to make a quick dash and a hasty return.
Down upon the Cossacks he rode, followed by his thousands of daring
riders. Plundering their villages, he halted to take no forts except those that
went down in the whirl of his coming. Before the garrisons in the
strongholds fairly knew that he was among them he was gone; and while
the Kabardians believed that he was lurking in the mountain depths, he
suddenly dashed into their midst. Sixty populous Kabardian villages were
plundered, and the mountaineers proudly refused to turn till they had
watered their horses in the Kuban and even reached the more distant banks
of the Laba.
But how were they to return? Thousands of horsemen had gathered in
the way. Long battalions of infantry had hurried to cut off the raiders on
their retreat. Schamyl knew that he could not get back by the way he had
come; but, turning southward, he galloped at headlong speed through the
Cossack settlements in that quarter, and, with his cruppers laden with booty
and his saddle-bows well furnished with food, evaded his foes and reached
the mountains again. May seemed to bloom more richly than ever as the
wild riders dashed proudly back to the doors of their homes and heard the
glad shouts of joy that greeted their safe return.
The whole story of the exploits of the famous Circassian chief is too
extended and too full of stirring incidents to be here given even in epitome.
It must suffice to say, in conclusion, that ten years after his escape from
Akhulgo that stronghold was again attacked and taken by the Russians, and

as before Schamyl mysteriously escaped. Completely baffled, nothing was
left for the Russians but to wear out the chief and his people by continued
invasions of their mountain land. Again and again their armies were beaten
by their indomitable foe, but the continuance of the struggle slowly
exhausted the land and its powers of resistance.
The Circassians were helped during the Crimean War by the foes of
Russia, who supplied them with arms and money, but after that war the
Russians kept up the struggle with more energy than ever, and, by opening a
road over the mountains, cut off a part of the country and compelled its
submission. At length, in April, 1859, twenty-five years after the struggle
began, Weden, Schamyl's stronghold at that time, was taken, after a seven
weeks' siege. As before, the chief escaped, but the country was virtually
subdued, and he had only a small band of followers left.
For months afterwards his foes pursued him actively from fastness to
fastness, determined to run him down, and at length, on September 6, 1859,
surprised him on the plateau of Gounib. Here the devoted band made a
desperate resistance, not yielding until of the original four hundred only
forty-seven remained alive. Schamyl, the lion of the Caucasus, was at
length taken, after having cost the Russians uncounted losses in life and
money.
With his capture the independence of Circassia came to an end. It has
since formed an integral part of the Russian empire, and its subjugation has
opened the gateway to that vast expansion of Russia in Central Asia which
since then has taken place. The captive chief had won the respect of his
foes, and was honorably treated, being assigned a residence at Kaluga, in
Central Russia, with an annual pension of five thousand dollars. He, like his
countrymen, was a Mohammedan in faith, and removed to Mecca, in
Arabia, in 1870, dying at Medina in the following year.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

The Crimean War, brief as was the interval it occupied in the annals of
time, was one replete with exciting events. And of these much the most
brilliant was that which took place on the 25th of October, 1854, the famous
"Charge of the Light Brigade," which Tennyson has immortalized in song,
and which stands among the most dramatic incidents in the history of war.
It was truthfully said by one of the French generals who witnessed it, "It is
magnificent, but it is not war." We give it for its magnificence alone.

MOUNT ST. PETER, CRIMEA.
First let us depict the scene of that memorable event. The British and
French armies lay in front of Balaklava, their base of supplies, facing
towards Sebastopol. They occupied a mountain slope, which was strongly
intrenched. A valley lay before them, and some two miles distant rose
another mountain range, rocky and picturesque. In the valley between were
four rounded hillocks, each crowned by an earthwork defended by a few
hundred Turks. These outlying redoubts formed the central points of the
famous battle of October 25.

In the early morning of that day the Russians appeared in force,
debouching from the mountain passes in front of the allied army. Six
compact masses of infantry were seen, with a line of artillery in front, and
on each flank a powerful cavalry force, while a cloud of mounted
skirmishers filled the space between. Fronting the line of the allies were the
Zouaves, crouching behind low earthworks, on the right the 93d
Highlanders, and in front the British cavalry, composed of the Heavy
Brigade, under General Scarlett, and, more in advance, the Light Brigade,
under Lord Cardigan. Such were, in broad outline, the formation of the
ground and the position of the actors in the drama of battle about to be
played.
The scene opened with an attack on the advanced redoubts. No. 1 was
quickly taken, the Turks flying in haste before the fire of the Russian guns.
No. 2 was evacuated in similar panic haste, the Cossack skirmishers riding
among the fleeing Turks and cutting them mercilessly down. The guns of
No. 2 were at once turned upon No. 3, whose garrison of Turks fired a few
shots in return, and then, as in the previous cases, broke into open flight.
After them dashed the Cossack light horsemen, flanking them to right and
left, and many of the turbaned fugitives paid for their panic with their lives.
The Russians had won in the first move of the game. They had taken three
of the redoubts before a movement could be made for their support.
Next a squadron of the Russian cavalry charged vigorously upon the
Highlanders. But a deadly rifle fire met them as they came, volley after
volley tearing gaps through their compact ranks, and in a moment more
they had wheeled, opened their files, and were in full flight. "Bravo,
Highlanders!" came up an exulting shout from the thousands of spectators
behind.
It was evident that Balaklava was the goal of the Russian movement, and
the heavy cavalry were ordered into position to protect the approaches. As
they moved towards the post indicated, a large body of the enemy's cavalry
appeared over the ridge in front. These were corps d'élite, evidently, their
jackets of light blue, embroidered with silver lace, giving them a holiday
appearance. Behind them, as they galloped at an easy pace to the brow of
the hill, appeared the keen glitter of lance-tips, and in the rear of the lancers
came several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons as supports. As the serried

ranks of horsemen advanced, their pace declined from a gallop to an easy
trot, and from that almost to a halt. Their first line was double the length of
the British, and three times as deep. Behind it came a second line, equally
strong. They greatly outnumbered their foe.
It was evident that the shock of a cavalry battle was at hand. The hearts
of the spectators throbbed with excitement as they saw the Heavy Brigade
suddenly break into a full gallop and rush headlong upon the enemy,
making straight for the centre of the Russian line. On they went, Grays and
Enniskilleners, in serried array, while their cheers and shouts rent the air as
they struck the Russian line with an impetus which carried them through the
close-drawn ranks. For a moment there was a glittering flash of sword-
blades and a sharp clash of steel, and then, in thinned numbers, the charging
dragoons appeared in the rear of the line, heading with unchecked speed
towards the second Russian rank.
The gallant horsemen seemed buried amid the multitude of the enemy.
"God help them! they are lost!" came from more than one trembling lip and
was echoed in many a fearful heart. The onset was terrific: the second line
was broken like the first, and in its rear the red-coated riders appeared. But
the first line of Russians, which had been rolled back upon its flanks by the
impetuous rush, was closing up again, and the much smaller force in their
midst was in serious peril of being swallowed up and crushed by sheer force
of numbers.
The crisis was a terrible one. But at the moment when the danger seemed
greatest, two regiments of dragoons, the 4th and 5th, who had closely
followed their fellows in the charge, broke furiously upon the enemy,
dashing through and rending to fragments the already broken line. In a
moment all was over. Less than five minutes had passed since the first
shock, and already the Russian horse was in full flight, beaten by half its
force. Wild cheers burst from the whole army as the victors drew back with
almost intact ranks, their loss having been very small.
Thus ended the famous "Charge of the Heavy Brigade." Its glory was to
be eclipsed by that memorable "Charge of the Light Brigade" which
became the theme of Tennyson's stirring ode, and the recital of which still
causes many a heart to throb. We are indebted for our story of it to the

thrilling account of W.H. Russell, the Times correspondent, and a spectator
of the event.
As the Russian cavalry retired, their infantry fell back, leaving men in
three of the captured redoubts, but abandoning the other points gained.
They also had guns on the heights overlooking their position. About the
hour of eleven, while the two armies thus faced each other, resting for an
interval from the rush of conflict, there came to Lord Cardigan that fatal
order which caused him to hurl his men into "the jaws of death." How it
came to be given, how the misapprehension occurred, who was at fault in
the error, has never been made clear. Captain Nolan, who brought the order,
was one of the first to fall, and his story of the event died with him. All we
know is that he handed Lord Lucan a written command to advance, and
when asked, "Where are we to advance to?" he pointed to the Russian line,
and said, "There are the enemy, and there are the guns," or words of similar
meaning.
It is a maxim in war that "cavalry shall never act without a support," that
"infantry should be close at hand when cavalry carry guns," and that a line
of cavalry should have some squadrons in column on its flanks, to guard it
against a flank attack. None of these rules was carried out here, and Lord
Lucan reluctantly gave the order to advance upon the guns, which Lord
Cardigan as reluctantly accepted, for to any eye it was evident that it was an
order to advance upon death. "Some one had blundered," and wisdom
would have dictated the demand for a confirmation of the order. Valor
suggested that it should be obeyed in all its blank enormity. Dismissing
wisdom and yielding to valor, Lord Cardigan gave the word to advance, the
brigade, scarcely a regiment in total strength, broke into a sudden gallop,
and within a minute the devoted line was flying over the plain towards the
enemy.
The movement struck Lord Raglan, from whom the order was supposed
to have emanated, with consternation. It struck the Russians with surprise.
Surely that handful of men was not going to attack an army in position? Yet
so it seemed as the Light Brigade dashed onward, the uplifted sabres
glittering in the morning sun, the horses galloping at full speed towards the
Russian guns, over a plain a mile and a half in width.

Not far had they gone when a hot fire of cannon, musketry, and rifles
belched from the Russian line. A flood of smoke and flame hid the opposing
ranks, and shot and shell tore through the charging troops. Gaps were rent
in their ranks, men and horses went down in rapid succession, and riderless
horses were seen rushing wildly across the plain. The first line was broken.
It was joined by the second. On went the brigade in a single line with
unchecked speed. Though torn by the deadly fire of thirty guns, the brave
riders rode steadily on into the smoke of the batteries, with cheers which
too often changed in a breath to the cry of death.
Through the clouds of smoke the horsemen could be seen dashing up to
and between the guns, cutting down the gunners as they stood. Then,
wheeling, they broke through a line of Russian infantry which sought to
stay their advance, and scattered it to right and left. In a moment more, to
the relief of those who had watched their career in an agony of emotion,
they were seen riding back from the captured redoubt.
Scattered and broken they came, some mounted, some on foot, all
hastening towards the British lines. As they wheeled to retreat, a regiment
of lancers was hurled upon their flank. Colonel Shewell, of the 8th Hussars,
saw the danger, and rushed at the foe, cutting a passage through with great
loss. The others had similarly to break their way through the columns that
sought to envelop them. As they emerged from the cavalry fight, the
gunners opened upon them again, cutting new lines of carnage through their
decimated ranks. The Heavy Brigade had ridden to their relief, but could
only cover the retreat of the slender remnant of the gallant band. In twenty-
five minutes from the start not a British soldier, except the dead and dying,
was left on the scene of this daring but mad exploit.
Captain Nolan fell among the first; Lord Lucan was slightly wounded;
Lord Cardigan had his clothes pierced by a lance; Lord Fitzgibbon received
a fatal wound. Of the total brigade, some six hundred strong, the killed,
wounded, and missing numbered four hundred and twenty-six.
While this event was taking place, a body of French cavalry made a
brilliant charge on a battery at the left, which was firing upon the devoted
brigade, and cut down the gunners. But they could not get the guns off
without support, and fell back with a loss of one-fourth their number. Thus

ended that eventful day, in which the British cavalry had covered itself with
glory, though it had only glory to show in return for its heavy loss.
Such is the story as it stands in prose. Here is Tennyson's poetic version,
which is full of the dash and daring of the wild ride.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not—
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.

The history of Russia has been largely a history of wars,—which indeed
might be said with equal justice of most of the nations of Europe. In truth,
history as written gives such prominence to warlike deeds, and glosses over
so hastily the events of peace, that we seem to hear the roll of the drum
rising from the written page itself, and to see the hue of blood crimsoning
the printed sheets. This dominance of war in history is a striking instance of
false perspective. Nations have not spent all or most of their lives in
fighting, but the clash of the sword rings so loudly through the historic
atmosphere that we scarcely hear the milder sounds of peace.
So far as Russia is concerned, the torrent of war has rolled mainly
towards the south. From those early days in which the Scythians drove back
the Persian host and the early Varangians fiercely assailed the Greek
empire, the relations of the north and the south have been strained, and a
rapid succession of wars has been waged between the Russians and their
varying foes, the Greeks, the Tartars, and the Turks. For ten centuries these
wars have continued, with Constantinople for their ultimate goal, yet in all
these ten centuries of conflict no Russian foot has ever been set in hostility
within that ancient city's walls.
Of these many wars, that which looms largest on the historic page is the
fierce conflict of 1854–55, in which England and France came to Turkey's
aid and Russia met with defeat on the soil of the Crimea. We have already
given the most striking and dramatic incident of this famous Crimean war.
It may be aptly followed by the final scene of all, the assault upon and
capture of Sebastopol.

The city of this name (Russian Sevastopol) is a seaport and fortress on
the site of an old Tartar village near the southwest extremity of the Crimea,
built by Russia as her naval station on the Black Sea. It possesses one of the
finest natural harbors of the world, and formed the central scene of the
Crimean War, the English and French armies besieging it with all the
resources at their command. For nearly a year this stronghold of Russia was
subjected to bombardment. Battles were fought in front of it, vigorous
efforts for its capture and its relief were made, but in early September,
1855, it still remained in Russian hands, though frightfully torn and rent by
the torrent of iron balls which had been poured into it with little cessation.
But now the climax of the struggle was at hand, and all Europe stood in
breathless anxiety awaiting the result.
On September 5 the fiercest cannonade the city had yet felt was begun
by the French, the English batteries quickly joining in. All that night and
during the night of the 6th the bombardment was unceasingly continued,
and during the 7th the cannons still belched their fiery hail upon the town.
Everywhere the streets showed the terrible effect of this vigorous assault.
Nearly every house in sight was rent asunder by the balls. Towards evening
the great dock-yard shears caught fire, and burned fiercely in the high wind
then prevailing. A large vessel in the harbor was next seen in flames, and
burned to the water's edge. This bombardment was preliminary to a general
assault, fixed for the 8th, and on the morning of that day it was resumed, as
a mask to the coming charge upon the works.
The Malakoff fort, the key to the Russian position, was to be assaulted
by the French, who gathered in great force in its front during the night. The
Redan, another strong fortification, was reserved for the British attack. In
the trenches, facing the works, men were gathered as closely as they could
be packed, with their nerves strung to an intense pitch as they awaited the
decisive word. The hour of noon was fixed for the French assault, and as it
approached a lull in the cannonade told that the critical moment was at
hand.
At five minutes to twelve the word was given, and like a swarm of angry
bees the French sprang from their trenches and rushed in mad haste across
the narrow space dividing them from the Malakoff. The place, a moment
before quiet and apparently deserted, seemed suddenly alive. A few bounds

took the active line of stormers across the perilous interval, and within a
minute's time they were scrambling up the face and slipping through the
embrasures of the long-defiant fort. On they came, stream after stream,
battalion succeeding battalion, each dashing for the embrasures, and before
the last of the stormers had left the trenches the flag of the foremost was
waving in triumph above a bastion of the fort.
The Russians had been taken by surprise. Very few of them were in the
fort. The destructive cannonade had driven them to shelter. It was in the
hands of the French by the time their foes were fully aware of what had
occurred. Then a determined attempt was made to recapture it, and the
Russian general hurled his men in successive storming columns upon the
work, vainly endeavoring to drive out its captors. From noon until seven in
the evening these furious efforts continued, thousands of the Russians
falling in the attempt. In the end the exhausted legions were withdrawn, the
French being left in possession of the work they had so ably won and so
valiantly held.
Meanwhile the British were engaged in their share of the assault. The
moment the French tricolor was seen waving from the parapet of the
Malakoff four signal rockets were sent up, and the dash on the Redan
began. It was made in less force than the French had used, and with a very
different result. The Russians were better prepared, and the space to be
crossed was wider, the assaulting column being rent with musketry as it
dashed over the interval between the trenches and the fort. On dashed the
assailants, through the abatis, which had been torn to fragments by the
artillery fire, into the ditch, and up the face of the work. The parapet was
scaled almost without opposition, the few Russians there taking shelter
behind their breastworks in the rear, whence they opened fire on the
assailing force.
At this point, instead of continuing the charge, as their officers implored
them to do, the men halted and began loading and firing, a work in which
they were greatly at a disadvantage, since the Russians returned the fire
briskly from behind their shelters. Every moment reinforcements rushed in
from the town and added to the weight of the enemy's fire. The assailants
were falling rapidly, particularly the officers, who were singled out by their
foes.

For an hour and a half the struggle continued. By that time the Russians
had cleared the Redan, but the British still held the parapets. Then a rush
from within was made, and the assailants were swept back and driven
through the embrasures or down the face of the parapet into the ditch,
where their foes followed them with the bayonet.
A short, sharp, and bloody struggle here took place. Step by step the
band of Britons was forced back by the enemy, those who fled for the
trenches having to run the gauntlet of a hot fire, those who remained having
to defend themselves against four times their force. The attempt had
hopelessly failed, and of those in the assailing column comparatively few
escaped. The day's work had been partly a success and partly a failure. The
French had succeeded in their assault. The English had failed in theirs, and
lost heavily in the attempt.
What the final result was to be no one could tell. Silence followed the
day's struggle, and night fell upon a comparatively quiet scene. About
eleven o'clock a new act in the drama began, with a terrific explosion that
shook the ground like an earthquake. By midnight several other explosions
vibrated through the air. Here and there flames were seen, half hidden by
the cloud of dust which rose before the strong wind. As the night waned, the
fires grew and spread, while tremendous explosions from time to time told
of startling events taking place in the town. What was going on under the
shroud of night? The early dawn solved the mystery. The Russians were
abandoning the city they had so long and so gallantly held.
The Malakoff was the key of their position. Its loss had made the city
untenable. The failure of the attempt to recover it was followed by
immediate preparations for evacuation. The gray light of the coming day
showed a stream of soldiers marching across the bridge to the north side.
The fleet had disappeared. It lay sunk in the harbor's depths.
The retreat had begun at eight o'clock of the evening before, soon after
the failure to retake the Malakoff. But it was a Moscow the Russian general
proposed to leave his foes. Combustibles had been stored in the principal
houses. About two o'clock flames began to rise from these, and at the same
hour all the vessels of the fleet except the steamers were scuttled and sunk.
The steamers were retained to aid in carrying off the stores. A terrific

explosion behind the Redan at four o'clock shook the whole camp. Four
others equally startling followed. Battery after battery was hurled into the
air by the explosion of the magazines. Before seven o'clock the last of the
Russians had crossed the bridge to the north side, which was uninvested by
the allies, and the hill-sides opposite the city were alive with troops.
Smaller explosions followed. From a steamer in the harbor clouds of dense
smoke arose. Flames spread rapidly, and by ten o'clock the whole city was
in a blaze, while vast columns of smoke rose far into the skies, lurid in the
glare of the flames below. The sounds of battle had ceased. Those of
conflagration and ruin succeeded. The final flames were those sent up from
the steamers, which were set on fire when the work of transporting stores
had ceased.
Great was the surprise throughout the camp that Sunday morning when
the news spread that Sebastopol was on fire and the enemy in full retreat.
Most of the soldiers, worn out with their desperate day's work, slept through
the explosions and woke to learn that the city so long fought for was at last
theirs—or so much of it as the flames were likely to leave.
About midnight, attracted by the dead silence, some volunteers had crept
into an embrasure of the Redan and found the place deserted by the foe. As
soon as dawn appeared, the French Zouaves began to steal from their
trenches into the burning town, heedless of the flames, the explosions, and
the danger of being shot by some lurking foe, the desire for plunder being
stronger in their minds than dread of danger. Soon the red uniforms of these
daring marauders could be seen in the streets, revealed by the flames, and
the day had but fairly dawned when men came staggering back laden with
spoils, Russian relics being offered for sale in the camps while the Russian
columns were still marching from the deserted city. The sailors were
equally alert, and could soon be seen bearing more or less worthless lumber
from the streets, often useless stuff which they had risked their lives to gain.
The allies had won a city in ruins; but they had defeated the Russians at
every encounter, in field and in fort, and the Muscovite resources were
exhausted. The war must soon cease. What followed was to complete the
destruction which the torch had began. The splendid docks which Russia
had constructed at immense cost were mined and blown up. The houses
which had escaped the fire were robbed of doors, windows, and furniture to

add to the comfort of the huts which were built for winter quarters by the
troops. As for the scene of ruin, disaster, and death within the city, it was
frightful, and it was evident that the Russians had clung to it with a death-
grip until it was impossible to remain. It was an absolute ruin from which
the Sebastopol of to-day began its growth.

AT THE GATES OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

From the days of Rurik down, a single desire—a single passion, we may
say—has had a strong hold upon the Russian heart, the desire to possess
Constantinople, that grand gate-city between Europe and Asia, with its
control of the avenue to the southern seas. While it continued the capital of
the Greek empire it was more than once assailed by Russian armies. After it
became the metropolis of the Turkish dominion renewed attempts were
made. But Greek and Turk alike valiantly held their own, and the city of the
straits defied its northern foes. Through the centuries war after war with
Turkey was fought, the possession of Constantinople their main purpose,
but the Moslem clung to his capital with fierce pertinacity, and not until the
year 1878 did he give way and a Russian army set eyes on the city so long
desired.
In 1875 an insurrection broke out in Bosnia and Herzegovina, two
Christian provinces under Turkish rule. The rebellious sentiment spread to
Bulgaria, and in 1876 Turkey began a policy of repression so cruel as to
make all Europe quiver with horror. Thousands of its most savage soldiery
were let loose upon the Christian populations south of the Balkans, with full
license to murder and burn, and a frightful carnival of torture and massacre
began. More than a hundred towns were destroyed, and their inhabitants
treated with revolting inhumanity. In the month of June, 1876, about forty
thousand Bulgarians, of all ages and sexes, were put to death, many of the
children being sold as slaves in the Turkish cities.
Of all the powers of Europe, Russia was the only one that took arms to
avenge these slaughtered populations. England stood impassive, the other
nations held aloof, but Alexander II. called out his troops, and once more

the Russian battalions were set en route for the Danube, with
Constantinople as their ultimate goal.
In June, 1877, the Danube was crossed and the Russian host entered
Bulgaria, the Turks retiring as they advanced. But the march of invasion
was soon arrested. The Balkan Mountains, nature's line of defence for
Turkey, lay before the Russian troops, and on the high-road to its passes
stood the town of Plevna, a fortress which must be taken before the
mountains could safely be crossed. The works were very strong, and behind
them lay Osman Pacha, one of the boldest and bravest of the Turkish
soldiers, with a gallant little army under his command. The defence of this
city was the central event of the war. From July to September the Russians
sought its capture, making three desperate assaults, all of which were
repulsed. In October the city was invested with an army of forty thousand
men, under the intrepid General Skobeleff, with a determination to win. But
Osman held out with all his old stubbornness, and continued his unflinching
defence until starvation forced him to yield. He had lost his city, but had
held back the Russian army for nearly half a year and won the admiration of
the world.
The fall of Plevna set free the large Russian army that had been tied up
by its siege. What should be done with these troops, more than one hundred
thousand strong? The Balkans, whose gateways Plevna had closed, now lay
open before them, but winter was at hand, winter with its frosts and snows.
An attempt to cross the mountains at this time, even if successful, would
bring them before strong Turkish fortresses in midwinter, with a chain of
mountains in the rear, over which it would be impossible to maintain a line
of supplies. The prudent course would have been to put the men into winter
quarters at the foot of the Balkans on the north and wait for spring before
venturing upon the mountain passes.
The Grand Duke Nicholas, however, was not governed by such
considerations of prudence, but determined, at all hazards, to strike the
Turks before they had time to reorganize and recuperate. The army was,
therefore, at once set in motion, General Gourko marching upon the Araba-
Konak, Radetzky upon the Shipka Pass. The story of these movements is a
long one, but must be given here in a few words. The bitter cold, the deep
snow, the natural difficulties of the passes, the efforts of the enemy, all

failed to check the Russian advance. Gourko forced his way through all
opposition, took the powerful fortress of Sophia without a blow, and routed
an army of fifty thousand men on his march to Philippopolis. Radetzky did
even better, since he captured the Turkish army defending the Shipka Pass,
thirty-six thousand strong. The whole Turkish defence of the Balkans had
gone down with a crash, and the Russians found themselves on the south
side of the mountains with the enemy everywhere on the retreat, a broken
and demoralized host.
Meanwhile what had become of the Turkish population of the Balkans
and Roumelia? There were none of them to be seen; no fugitives were
passed; not a Turk was visible in Sophia; the whole region traversed up to
Philippopolis seemed to have only a Christian population. But on leaving
the last-named city the situation changed, and a terrible scene of bloodshed,
death, and misery met the eyes of the marching hosts. It was now easy to
see what had become of the Turks: they were here in multitudes in full
flight for their lives. The Bulgarians had avenged themselves bitterly on
their late oppressors. Dead bodies of men and animals, broken carts, heaps
of abandoned household goods, and tatters of clothing seemed to mark
every step of the way. Fierce and terrible had been the struggle, dreadful the
result, Turks and Bulgarians lying thickly side by side in death. Here
appeared the bodies of Bulgarian peasants horrible with gaping wounds and
mutilations, the marks of Turkish vengeance; there beside them lay corpses
of dignified old Turks, their white beards stained with their blood.
While the men had died from violence, the women and children had
perished from cold and hunger, many of them being frozen to death, the
faces and tiny hands of dead children visible through the shrouding snows.
The living were dragging their slow way onward through this ghastly array
of the dead, in a seemingly endless procession of wagons, drawn by half
starved oxen, and bearing sick and feeble human beings and loads of
household goods. Beside the laden vehicles the wretched, famine-stricken,
worn-out fugitives walked, pushing forward in unceasing fear of their
merciless Bulgarian foes.
Farther on the scene grew even more terrible. The road was strewn with
discarded bedding, carpets, and other household goods. In one village were
visible the bodies of some Turkish soldiers whom the Bulgarians had stoned

to death, the corpses half covered with the heaps of stones and bricks which
had been hurled at them.
Beyond this was reached a vast mass of closely packed wagons
extending widely over roads and fields, not fewer than twenty thousand in
all. The oxen were still in the yokes, but the people had vanished, and
Bulgarian plunderers were helping themselves unresisted to the spoil. The
great company, numbering fully two hundred thousand, had fled in terror to
the mountains from some Russian cavalry who had been fired upon by the
escort of the fugitives and were about to fire in return. Abandoning their
property, the able-bodied had fled in panic fear, leaving the old, the sick,
and the infants to perish in the snow, and their cherished effects to the hands
of Bulgarian pilferers.
In advance lay Adrianople, the ancient capital of Turkey and the second
city in the empire. Here, if anywhere, the Turks should have made a stand.
But news came that this stronghold had been abandoned by its garrison, that
the wildest panic prevailed, and that the Turkish population of the city and
the surrounding villages was in full flight. At daylight of the 20th of
January the city was entered by the cavalry, and on the 22d Skobeleff
marched in with his infantry, at once despatching the cavalry in pursuit of
the retreating enemy. The defence of Adrianople had been well provided for
by an extensive system of earthworks, but not an effort was made to hold it,
and an incredible panic seemed everywhere to have seized the Turks.
Russia had almost accomplished the task for which it had been striving
during ten centuries. Constantinople at last lay at its mercy. The Turks still
had an army, still had strong positions for defence, but every shred of
courage seemed to have fled from their hearts, and their powers of
resistance to be at an end. They were in a state of utter demoralization and
ready to give way to Russia at all points and accept almost any terms they
could obtain. Had they decided to continue the fight, they still possessed a
position famous for its adaptation to defence, behind which it was possible
to hold at bay all the power of Russia.
This was the celebrated position of Buyak-Tchek-medje, a defensive line
twenty-five miles from Constantinople and of remarkable military strength.
The peninsula between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora is at this

point only twenty miles wide, and twelve of these miles are occupied by
broad lakes which extend inland from either shore. Of the remaining
distance, about half is made up of swamps which are almost or quite
impassable, while dense and difficult thickets occupy the rest of the line.
Behind this stretch of lake, swamp, and thicket there extends from sea to
sea a ridge from four hundred to seven hundred feet in height, the whole
forming a most admirable position for defence. This ridge had been fortified
by the Turks with redoubts, trenches, and rifle-pits, which, fully garrisoned
and mounted with guns, might have proved impregnable to the strongest
force. The thirty thousand men within them could have given great trouble
to the whole Russian army, and double that number might have completely
arrested its march. Yet this great natural stronghold was given up without a
blow, signed away with a stroke of the pen.

THE WALLS OF CONSTANTINOPLE.
On January 31 an armistice was signed, one of whose terms was that this
formidable defensive line should be evacuated by the Turks, who were to
retire to an inner line, while the Russians were to occupy a position about
ten miles distant. It was no consideration for Turkey that now kept the
Russians outside the great capital, but dread of the powers of Europe, which
jealously distrusted an increase of the power of Russia, and were bent on
saving Turkey from the hands of the czar.
On February 12 an event took place that threatened ominous results. The
British fleet forced the passage of the Dardanelles and moved upon
Constantinople, on the pretence of protecting the lives of British subjects in
that city. As soon as news of this movement reached St. Petersburg the
emperor telegraphed to the Grand Duke Nicholas, giving him authority to
march a part of his army into Constantinople, on the same plea that the
British had made. In response the grand duke demanded of the sultan the
right to occupy a part of the environs of his capital with Russian soldiers,
the negotiations ending with the permission to occupy the village of San

Stefano, on the Sea of Marmora, about six miles from the walls of the
threatened city.
What would be the end of it all was difficult to foresee. On the waters of
the city floated the English iron-clads, with their mute threat of war; around
the walls Turkish troops were rapidly throwing up earthworks; leading
officers in the Russian army chafed at the thought of stopping so near their
longed-for goal, and burned with the desire to make a final end of the
empire of the Turks and add Constantinople to the dominions of the czar.
Yet though thus, as it were, on the edge of a volcano, their ordinary policy
of delay and hesitation was shown by the Turkish diplomats, and the treaty
of peace was not concluded and signed until the 3d of March. The Russians
had used their controlling position with effect, and the treaty largely put an
end to Turkish dominion in Europe.
The news of the signing was received with cheers of enthusiasm by the
Russian army, drawn up on the shores of the inland sea, the Preobrajensky,
the famous regiment of Peter the Great, holding the post of honor. Scarce a
rifle-shot distant, crowding in groups the crests of the neighboring hills, and
deeply interested spectators of the scene, appeared numbers of their late
opponents. The news received, the cheering battalions wheeled into column,
and past the grand duke went the army in rapid review, the march still
continuing after darkness had descended on the scene.
And thus ended the war, with the Russians within sight of the walls of
that city which for so many centuries they had longed and struggled to
possess. Only for the threatening aspect of the powers of Europe the
Ottoman empire would have ended then and there, and the Turk, "encamped
in Europe," would have ended forever his rule over Christian realms.

THE NIHILISTS AND THEIR WORK.

In 1861 Alexander II., Emperor of Russia, signed a proclamation for the
emancipation of the Russian serfs, giving freedom by a stroke of the pen to
over fifty millions of human beings. In 1881, twenty years afterwards,
when, as there is some reason to believe, he was about to grant a
constitution and summon a parliament for the political emancipation of the
Russian people, he fell victim to a band of revolutionists, and the thought of
granting liberty to his people perished with him.
This assassination was the work of the secret society known as the
Nihilists. To say that their association was secret is equivalent to saying that
we know nothing of their purposes other than their name and their deeds
indicate. Nihilism signifies nothingness. It comes from the same root as
annihilate, and annihilation of despots appears to have been the Nihilist
theory of obtaining political rights. This society reached its culmination in
the reign of Alexander II., and, despite the fact that he proved himself one
of the mildest and most public-spirited of the czars, he was chosen as the
victim of the theory of obtaining political regeneration by terror.
Threats preceded deeds. The final years of the emperor's life were made
wretched through fear and anxiety. His ministers were killed by the
revolutionists. Some of the guards placed about his person became victims
of the secret band. Letters bordered with black and threatening the
emperor's life were found among his papers or his clothes. An explosive
powder placed in his handkerchief injured his sight for a time; a box of
asthma pills sent him proved to contain a small but dangerous infernal
machine. He grew haggard through this constant peril; his hair whitened,
his form shrank, his nerves were unstrung.

In February, 1879, Prince Krapotkin, governor-general of Kharkoff, was
killed by a pistol-shot fired into his carriage window. In April a Nihilist
fired five pistol-shots at the czar. In June the Nihilists resolved to use
dynamite with the purpose of destroying the governors-general of several
provinces and the czar and heir-apparent. Among their victims was the chief
of police, while two of his successors barely escaped death.
The first attempt to kill the czar by dynamite took the form of excavating
mines under three railroads on one of which he was expected to travel. Of
these mines only one was exploded. A house on the Moscow railroad, not
far from that city, was purchased by the conspirators, and an underground
passage excavated from its cellar to the roadway. Here auger-holes were
bored upward in which were inserted iron pipes communicating with
dynamite stored below. On the day when the emperor was expected to pass,
a woman Nihilist named Sophia Perovskya stood within view of the track,
with instructions to wave her handkerchief to the conspirators in the house
at the proper moment. The pilot train which always preceded the imperial
train was allowed to pass. The other train drew up to take water, and was
wrecked by the explosion of the mine. Fortunately for the emperor, he was
in the pilot train and out of danger.
Some of the participants in this affair were arrested, but their chief, a
German named Hartmann, escaped. Despite the utmost efforts of the police,
he made his way safely out of Russia, aided by Nihilists at every step,
sometimes travelling on foot, at other times in peasants' carts, finally
crossing the frontier and reaching the nest of conspirators at Geneva. Here
he is supposed to have taken part with others in devising a new and what
proved a fatal plot. Meanwhile a fresh attempt was made on the life of the
czar.
On February 5, 1880, Alexander II. was to entertain at dinner in the
Winter Palace a royal visitor, Prince Alexander of Hesse. Fortunately, the
czar was detained for a short time, and the hour fixed for the dinner had
passed when the party proceeded along the corridor to the dining-hall. The
brief delay probably saved their lives, for at that moment a tremendous
explosion took place, wrecking the dining-hall and completely demolishing
the guard-room, which was filled with dead and dying victims, sixty-seven
in all. It proved that a Nihilist had obtained employment among some

carpenters engaged in repairs within the palace, and had succeeded in
storing dynamite in a tool-chest in his room. He escaped, and was never
seen in St. Petersburg again. Two days later the corpse of a murdered
policeman was found on the frozen surface of the Neva, a paper pinned to
his breast threatening with death every governor-general except Melikoff,
the successor of the murdered Krapotkin.
Their failures had proved so nearly successes that the Nihilists were
rather encouraged than depressed. New plans followed the failure of old
ones. It was proposed to poison the emperor and his son, the murder to be
followed by a revolt of the disaffected in Moscow and St. Petersburg, the
seizure of the palaces, and the establishment of a constitutional government.
This plan, however, was given up as not likely to have the "great moral
effect" which the Nihilists hoped to produce.
A Nihilist student in St. Petersburg had sent to the Paris committee of the
society a recipe for a formidable explosive of his invention. A quantity of
this dangerous substance was manufactured in France and secretly
conveyed to St. Petersburg, where bombs to contain it had been prepared.
The plans of the conspirators were now very carefully laid. They did not
propose to fail again, if care could insure success. A cheesemonger's shop
was opened on a street leading to the palace, under which a mine was laid
to the centre of the carriage-way, it being proposed to kill the czar when out
driving. If his carriage should take another route and follow the street
leading from the Catharine Canal, it was arranged to wreck it with bombs
flung by hand. The death of the czar was the sole thing in view. The
conspirators seemed willing freely to sacrifice their own lives to that object.
As regards the mine, it was so heavily charged with dynamite that its
explosion would have wrecked a great part of the Anitchkoff Palace while
killing the czar.
How the explosive material was conveyed from Paris to Russia is a
mystery which was never successfully traced by the police. The utmost care
was taken at the frontiers to prevent the entrance of any suspicious
substance. For a year or two even the tea that came on the backs of camels
from China was carefully searched, while all travellers were closely
examined, and all articles coming from Western Europe were almost pulled
to pieces in the minuteness of the scrutiny. The explosive is said to have

looked like golden syrup, and to have been sweet to the taste, though acrid
in its after-effects. A drop or two let fall on a hot stove flashed up in a
brilliant sheet of flame, though without smell or noise.

THE ARREST OF A NIHILIST.
Among the conspirators, one of the most useful was Sophia Perovskya,
the woman already named. She was young, of noble family, handsome,
educated, and fascinating in manner. Her beauty and high connections gave

her opportunities which none of her fellow-conspirators enjoyed, and by her
influence over men of rank and position she was enabled to learn many of
the secrets of the court and to become familiar with all the precautions
taken by the police to insure the safety of the czar. There was another
woman in the plot, a Jewish girl named Hesse Helfman. Eight men
constituted the remainder of the party.
The fatal day came in March, 1881. On the morning of the 12th
Melikoff, minister of the interior, told the czar that a man connected with
the railroad explosion had just been arrested, on whose person were found
papers indicating a new plot. He earnestly entreated Alexander to avoid
exposing himself. On the next morning the czar went early to mass, and
subsequently accompanied his brother, the Grand Duke Michael, to inspect
his body-guard. Sophia Perovskya had been apprised of these intended
movements, and informed the chief conspirators, who at once determined
that the deed should be done that day. The lover of Hesse Helfman had been
arrested and had at once shot himself. Papers of an incriminating character
had been found in her house, and it was feared that further delay might
frustrate the plot, so that the purpose of waiting until the czar and his son
might be slain together was abandoned. It was not known which street the
czar would take. If he took the one, the mine was to be exploded; if the
other, the bombs were to be thrown.
Two men, Resikoff and Elnikoff, the latter a young man completely
under Sophia's influence, were to throw the bombs. She took a position
from which she might signal the approach of the carriage. As it proved, the
Catharine Canal route was taken. The carriage approached. Everything
wore its usual aspect. There was nothing to excite suspicion. Suddenly a
dark object was hurled from the sidewalk through the air and a tremendous
report was heard. Resikoff had flung his bomb. A baker's boy and the
Cossack footman of the czar were instantly killed, but the intended victim
was unhurt and the horses were only slightly wounded. The coachman, who
had escaped injury, wished to drive onward at speed out of the quickly
gathering crowd, but Alexander, who had seen his footman fall, insisted on
getting out of the carriage to assist him. It was a fatal resolve. As his feet
touched the ground, Elnikoff flung his bomb. It exploded at the feet of the
czar with such force as to throw men many yards distant to the ground, but
proved fatal to only two, Elnikoff, who was instantly killed, and Alexander,

who was mortally wounded, his lower limbs and the lower part of his body
being frightfully shattered. He survived for a few hours in dreadful pain.
Terrible as was the crime, it was worse than useless. The proposed rising
did not take place. A new czar immediately succeeded the dead one. The
hoped-for constitution perished with him upon whom it depended. The
Nihilists, instead of gaining liberal institutions, had set back the clock of
reform for a generation, and perhaps much longer. Of the conspirators, one
of the men was killed, one shot himself, and two escaped; the other four
were executed. Of the women, Sophia was executed. She knew too much,
and those who had betrayed to her the secrets of the court, fearing that she
might implicate them, privately urged the new czar to sign her death-
warrant. She held her peace, and died without a word.

THE ADVANCE OF RUSSIA IN ASIA.

The Emperor of Russia, lord of his people, absolute autocrat over some
one hundred and twenty-five millions of the human race, to-day stands
master not only of half the soil of Europe but of more than a third of the far
greater continent of Asia. To gain some definite idea of the total extent of
this vast empire it may suffice to say that it is considerably more than
double the size of Europe, and nearly as large as the whole of North
America. The tales already given will serve to show how the European
empire of Russia gradually spread outward from its early home in the city
and state of Novgorod until it covered half the continent. How Russia made
its way into Asia has been described in part in the story of the conquest of
Siberia. The remainder needs to be told.

DOWAGER CZARINA OF RUSSIA.
It is now more than three hundred years since the Cossack robber
Yermak invaded Siberia, and more than two centuries since that vast section
of Northern Asia was added to the Russian empire. The great river Amur,
flowing far through Eastern Siberia to the Pacific, was discovered in 1643
by a party of Cossack hunters, who launched their boats on this magnificent
stream and sailed down it to the sea. It was Chinese soil through which it

ran, its waters flowing through the province of Manchuria, the native land
of the emperors of China.
But to this the Russian pioneers paid little heed. They invaded Chinese
soil, built forts on the Amur, and for forty years war went on. In the end
they were driven out, and China came to her own again.
Thus matters stood until the year 1854. Six years before, an officer with
four Cossacks had been sent down the river to spy out the land. They never
returned, and not a word could be had from China as to their fate. In the
year named the Russians explored the river in force. China protested, but
did not act, and the whole vast territory north of the stream was proclaimed
as Russian soil. Forts were built to make good the claim, and China
helplessly yielded to the gigantic steal. Since then Russia has laid hands on
an extensive slice of Chinese territory which lies on the Pacific coast far to
the south of the Amur, and has forcibly taken possession of the Japanese
island of Saghalien. Her avaricious eyes are fixed on the kingdom of Corea,
and the whole of Manchuria may yet become Russian soil.
Siberia is by no means the inhospitable land of ice which the name
suggests to our minds. That designation applies well to its northern half, but
not to the Siberia of the south. Here are vast fertile plains, prolific in grain,
which need only the coming railroad facilities to make this region the
granary of the Russian empire. The great rivers and the numerous lakes of
the country abound in valuable fish; large forests of useful timber are
everywhere found; fur-bearing animals yield a rich harvest in the icy
regions of the north; the mineral wealth is immense, including iron, gold,
silver, platinum, copper, and lead; precious stones are widely found, among
them the diamond, emerald, topaz, and amethyst; and of ornamental stones
may be named malachite, jasper, and porphyry, from which magnificent
vases, tables, and other articles of ornament are made. The region on the
Amur and its tributaries is particularly valuable and rich, and a great
population is destined in the future to find an abiding-place in this vast
domain.
South of Siberia lies another immense extent of territory, stretching
across the continent, and comprising the great upland plain known as the
steppes. On this broad expanse rain rarely falls, and its surface is half a

desert, unfit for agriculture, but yielding pasturage to vast herds of cattle,
horses, and sheep, the property of wandering tribes. Here is the great home
of the nomad, and from these broad plains conquering hordes have poured
again and again over the civilized world. From here came the Huns, who
devastated Europe in Roman days; the Turks, who later overthrew the
Eastern Empire; and the Mongols, who, led by Genghis and Tamerlane,
committed frightful ravages in Asia and for centuries lorded it over Russia.
To-day the greater part of this vast territory belongs to China. But
westward from Chinese Mongolia extends a broad region of the steppes,
bordering upon Europe on the west, and traversed by numerous wandering
tribes known by the name of the Kirghis hordes. For many years Russia, the
great annexer, has been quietly extending her power over the domain of the
hordes, until her rule has become supreme in the land of the Kirghis, which
in all maps of Europe is now given as part of Siberia.
One by one military posts have been established in this semi-desert
realm, the wandering tribes being at first cajoled and in the end defied. The
glove of silk has been at first extended to the tribes, but within it the hand of
iron has always held fast its grasp. The simple-minded chiefs have easily
been brought over to the Russian schemes. Some of them have been won by
money and soft words; others by some mark of distinction, such as a medal,
a handsome sabre, a cocked hat or a gold-laced coat. Rather than give these
up some of them would have sold half the steppes. They have signed papers
of which they did not understand a word, and given away rights of whose
value they were utterly ignorant.
Thus insidiously has the power of the emperor made its way into the
steppes, fort after fort being built, those in the rear being abandoned as the
country became subdued and new forts arose in the south. Cities have risen
around some of these forts, of which may be mentioned Kopal and Vernoje,
which to-day have thousands of inhabitants.
"Russia is thus surrounding the Kirgheez hordes with civilization," says
the traveller Atkinson, "which will ultimately bring about a moral
revolution in this country. Agriculture and other branches of industry will
be introduced by the Russian peasant, than whom no man can better adapt
himself to circumstances."

Michie, another traveller, gives in brief the general method of the
Russian advance. It will be seen to be similar to that by which the Indian
lands of the western United States were gained. "The Cossacks at Russian
stations make raids on their own account on the Kirgheez, and subject them
to rough treatment. An outbreak occurs which it requires a military force to
subdue. An expedition for this purpose is sent every year to the Kirgheez
steppes. The Russian outposts are pushed farther and farther south, more
disturbances occur, and so the front is year by year extended, on pretence of
keeping peace. This has been the system pursued by the Russian
government in all its aggressions in Asia."
But this does not tell the whole story of the Russian advance in Asia.
South of the Kirghis steppes lies another great and important territory,
known as Central Asia, or Turkestan. Much of this region is absolute desert,
wide expanses of sand, waterless and lifeless, on which to halt is to court
death. Only swift-moving troops of horsemen, or caravans carrying their
own supplies, dare venture upon these arid plains. But within this realm of
sand lie a number of oases whose soil is well watered and of the highest
fertility. Two mighty rivers traverse these lands, the Amu-Daria—once
known as the Oxus—and the Syr-Daria—formerly the Jaxartes,—both of
which flow into the Sea of Aral. It is to the waters of these streams that the
fertility of the oases is due, they being diverted from their course to irrigate
the land.
Three of the oases are of large size. Of these Khiva has the Caspian Sea
as its western boundary, Bokhara lies more to the east, while northeast of
the latter extends Khokand. The deserts surrounding these oases have long
been the lurking-places of the Turkoman nomads, a race of wild and warlike
horsemen, to whom plunder is as the breath of life, and who for centuries
kept Persia in alarm, carrying off hosts of captives to be sold as slaves.
The religion of Arabia long since made its way into this land, whose
people are fanatical Mohammedans. Its leading cities, Khiva, Bokhara, and
Samarcand, have for many centuries been centres of bigotry. For ages
Turkestan remained a land of mystery. No European was sure for a moment
of life if he ventured to cross its borders. Vambéry, the traveller, penetrated
it disguised as a dervish, after years of study of the language and habits of
the Mohammedans, yet he barely escaped with life. It is pleasant to be able

to say that this state of affairs has ceased. Russia has curbed the violence of
the fanatics and the nomads, and the once silent and mysterious land is now
traversed by the iron horse.
The first step of Russian invasion in this quarter was made in 1602. In
that year a Russian force captured the city of Khiva, but was not able to
hold its prize. In 1703, during the reign of Peter the Great, the Khan of
Khiva placed his dominions under Russian rule, and during the century
Khiva continued friendly, but after the opening of the nineteenth century it
became bitterly hostile.
Meanwhile Russia was making its way towards the Caspian and Aral
seas. In 1835 a fort was built on the eastern shore of the Caspian and
several armed steamers were placed on its waters. Four years later war
broke out with Khiva, and the khan was forced to give up some Russian
prisoners he had seized. In 1847 a fort was built on the Sea of Aral, at the
mouth of the Syr-Daria, whose waters formed the only safe avenue to the
desert-girdled khanate of Khokand. Steamers were brought in sections from
Sweden, being carried with great labor across the desert to the inland sea,
on whose banks they were put together and launched. Armed with cannon,
they quickly made their appearance on the navigable waters of the Syr.
The Amu-Daria is not navigable, so that the Syr at that time formed the
only ready channel of approach to Khokand, and from this to the other
khanates, none of which could be otherwise reached without a long and
dangerous desert march. Russia thus, by planting herself at the mouth of the
Syr, had gained the most available position from which to begin a career of
conquest in Central Asia.
War necessarily followed these steps of invasion. In 1853 the Russians
besieged and captured the fort of Ak Mechet, on the Syr, thought by its
holders to be impregnable. Up the river, bordered on each side by a narrow
band of vegetation from which a desert spread away, the Russians gradually
advanced, finally planting a military post within thirty-two miles of
Tashkend, the military key of Central Asia.
Such was the state of affairs in 1862, when war arose between the
khanates themselves, and the Emir of Bokhara invaded and conquered
Khokand. Russia looked on, awaiting its opportunity. It came at length in an

appeal from the merchants of Tashkend for protection. The protection came
in true Russian style, a Cossack force marching into and occupying the
town, which has since then remained in Russian hands. The movement of
invasion went on until a large portion of Khokand was seized.
This audacious procedure of the Muscovites, as the Emir of Bokhara
regarded it, roused that ruler to a high pitch of fury and fanaticism. He
imprisoned Colonel Struve, an eminent Russian astronomer who was on a
mission to his capital, and declared a holy war against the invading infidels.
The emir had little fear of his foes, having what he considered two
impassable lines of defence. Of these the first was the desert, which
enclosed his land as within a wall of sand. The second, and in his view the
more impregnable, was the large number of saints that lay buried in
Bokharan soil, before whose graves the infidel host would surely be stayed.
He probably soon lost faith in the saints, for the Russians quickly drove
his troops out of Khokand and then invaded Bokhara itself, defeating his
troops near the venerable and famous city of Samarcand, of which they
immediately afterwards took possession. These infidel assaults soon
brought the holy war to an end, the emir being forced to cede Samarcand
and three other places to Russia, the four being so chosen as to give the
invaders full military control of the country.
This disaster, which fell upon Bokhara in 1868, was repeated in Khiva in
1873. Bokharan troops aided the Russians, and Bokhara was rewarded with
a generous slice of the conquered territory. Khiva was overthrown as
quickly as the other oases had been, and the whole of Central Asia became
Russian soil. It is true that a shadow of the old government is maintained,
the khans of Bokhara and Khiva still occupying their thrones. But they are
mere puppets to move as the Czar of Russia pulls the strings. As for
Khokand, it has disappeared from the map of Asia, being replaced by the
Russian province of Ferghana.
We have thus in few words told a long and vital story, that of the steps
by which Russia gained its strong foothold in Asia, and extended its
boundaries from the Ural Mountains and Caspian Sea to the Pacific Ocean
and the boundaries of China, Persia, and India, all of which may yet

become part of the vast Russian empire, if what some consider the secret
purpose of Russia be carried out.
Asia has been won by the sword; it is being held by other influences.
Schools have been founded among the Kirghis, and a newspaper is printed
in their language. Their plundering habits have been suppressed, agriculture
is encouraged, and luxuries are being introduced into the steppes, with the
result of changing the ideas and habits of the nomads. Thriving Cossack
colonies have grown up on the plains, and the wandering barbarians behold
with wonder the ways and means of civilization in their midst.
The same may be said of Turkestan, in which violence has been
suppressed and industry encouraged, while the Russian population, alike of
the steppes and of the oases, is rapidly increasing. A railroad penetrates the
formerly mysterious land, trains roll daily over its soil, carrying great
numbers of Asiatic passengers, and an undreamed-of activity of commerce
has taken the place of the old-time plundering raids of the half-savage
Turkoman horsemen.
The Russian is thoroughly adapted to deal with the Asiatic. Half an
Asiatic himself, in spite of his fair complexion, he knows how to baffle the
arts and overcome the prejudices of his new subjects. The Russian
diplomatist has all the softness and suavity of his Asiatic congeners. He
conforms to their customs and allows them to delay and prevaricate to their
hearts' content. He is an adept in the art of bribery, has emissaries
everywhere, and is much too deeply imbued with this Asiatic spirit for the
bluntness of European methods. "You must beat about the bush with a
Russian," we are told. "You must flatter them and humbug them. You must
talk about everything but the thing. If you want to buy a horse you must
pretend you want to sell a cow, and so work gradually round to the point in
view."
Thus the shrewd Russian has gained point after point from his Oriental
neighbors, and has succeeded in annexing a vast territory while keeping on
the friendliest of terms with his new subjects. He has respected their
prejudices, left their religions untouched, dealt with them in their own
ways, and is rapidly planting the Muscovite type of civilization where
Asiatic barbarism had for untold ages prevailed.

No man can predict the final result of these movements. Asia has been in
all ages the field of great invasions and of the sudden building up of
immense empires. But the movements of the Muscovite conquerors have
none of the torrent rush of those great invasions of the past. The Russian
advances with extreme caution, takes no risks, and makes sure of his game
before he shows his hand. He prepares the ground in front before taking a
step forward, and all that he leaves in his rear falls into the strong folds of
the imperial net. Gold and diplomacy are his weapons equally with the
sword, and in the progress of his arms we seem to see Europe marching into
Asia with a solid and unyielding front.

THE RAILROAD IN TURKESTAN.

On the 24th of January, 1881, Edward O'Donovan, a daring traveller
who had journeyed far through the wastes and wilds of Turkestan, found
himself on a mountain summit not far removed from the northern boundary
of Persia, from which his startled eyes beheld a spectacle of fearful import.
Below him the desert stretched in a broad level far away to the distant
horizon. Near the foot of the range rose a great fortress, within which at that
moment a frightful struggle was taking place. Bringing his field-glass to
bear upon the scene, the traveller saw a host of terror-stricken fugitives
streaming across the plain, and hot upon their steps a throng of merciless
pursuers, who slaughtered them in multitudes as they fled. Even from where
he stood the white face of the desert seemed changing to a crimson hue.
What the astounded traveller beheld was the death-struggle of the desert
Turkomans, the hand of retribution smiting those savage brigands who for
centuries had carried death and misery wherever they rode. These were the
Tekke Turkomans, the tribes who haunted the Persian frontier, and whose
annual raids swept hundreds of captives from that peaceful land to spend
the remainder of their days in the most woful form of slavery. For a month
previous General Skobeleff, the most daring and merciless of the Russian
leaders, had besieged them in their great fort of Geop Tepe, an earthwork
nearly three miles in circuit, and containing within its ample walls a desert
nation, more than forty thousand in all, men, women, and children.
On that day, fatal to the Turkoman power, Skobeleff had taken the fort
by storm, dealing death wherever he moved, until not a man was left alive
within its walls except some hundreds of fettered Persian slaves. Through
its gateways a trembling multitude had fled, and upon these miserable

fugitives the Russian had let loose his soldiers, horse, foot, and artillery,
with the savage order to hunt them to the death and give no quarter.
Only too well was the brutal order obeyed. Not men alone, but women
and children as well, fell victims to the sword, and only when night put an
end to the pursuit did that terrible massacre cease. By that time eight
thousand persons, of both sexes and all ages, lay stretched in death upon the
plain. Within the fort thousands more had fallen, the women and children
here being spared. Skobeleff's report said that twenty thousand in all had
been slain.
Such was the frightful scene which lay before O'Donovan's eyes when
he reached the mountain top, on his way to the Russian camp, a spectacle of
horrible carnage which only a man of the most savage instincts could have
ordered. "Bloody Eyes" the Turkomans named Skobeleff, and the title fairly
indicated his ruthless lust for blood. It was his theory of war to strike hard
when he struck at all, and to make each battle a lesson that would not soon
be forgotten. The Turkoman nomads have been taught their lesson well.
They have given no trouble since that day of slaughter and revenge.
Such was one of the weapons with which the Russians conquered the
desert,—the sword. It was succeeded by another,—the iron rail. It is now
some twenty years since the idea of a railroad from the Caspian Sea
eastward was first advanced. In 1880 a narrow-gauge road was begun to aid
Skobeleff, but that daring and impetuous chief had made his march and
finished his work before the rails had crept far on their way. Soon it was
determined to change the narrow-gauge for a broad-gauge road, and
General Annenkoff, a skilful engineer, was placed in charge in 1885, with
orders to push it forward with all speed.
It was a new and bold project which the Russians had in view. Never
before had a railroad been built across so bleak a plain, a treeless and
waterless expanse, stretching for hundreds of miles in a dead level, over
which the winds drove at will the shifting sands, constantly threatening to
bury any work which man ventured to lay upon the desert's broad breast.
West of Bokhara and south of Khiva stretched the great desert of Kara-
Kum, touching the Caspian Sea on the west, the Amu-Daria River on the
east, the home of the wandering Turkomans, the born foes of the settled

races, but from whom all thought of disputing the Russian rule had for the
time been driven by Skobeleff's death-dealing blade.
The total length of the road thus ordered to be built—extending from the
shores of the Caspian Sea, the outpost of European Russia, to the far-away
city of Samarcand, the ancient capital of Timur the Tartar, and the very
stronghold of Asiatic barbarism—was little short of a thousand miles, of
which several hundred were bleak and barren desert. Two immense steppes,
waterless, and scorching hot in summer, lay on the route, while it traversed
the oases of Kizil-Arvat, Merv, Charjui, and Bokhara. In the northern
section of the last lay the famous city of Samarcand, the eastern terminus of
the road. The western terminus was at Usun-ada, on the Caspian, and
opposite the petroleum region of Baku, perhaps the richest oil-yielding
district in the world.
General Annenkoff had special difficulties to overcome in the building
of this road, of a kind never met with by railroad engineers before. Chief
among these were the lack of water and the instability of the roadway, the
wind at times manifesting an awkward disposition to blow out the
foundation from under the ties, at other times to bury the whole road under
acres of flying sand.
These difficulties were got rid of in various ways. Fresh water, made by
boiling the salt water of the Caspian and condensing the steam, was carried
in vats or tuns over the road to the working parties. At a later date water was
conveyed in pipes from the mountains to fill cisterns at the stations, whence
it was carried in canals or underground conduits along the line, every well
and spring on the route being utilized.
To overcome the shifting of the sand, near the Caspian it was thoroughly
soaked with salt water, and at other places was covered with a layer of clay.
But there are long distances where no such means could be employed, at
least two hundred miles of utter wilderness, where the surface resembles a
billowy sea, the sand being raised in loose hillocks and swept from the
troughs between, flying in such clouds before every wind that an incessant
battle with nature is necessary to keep the road from burial. To prevent this,
tamarisk, wild oats, and desert shrubs are planted along the line, and in
particular that strange plant of the wilderness, the saxaoul, whose branches

are scraggly and scant, but whose sturdy roots sink deep into the sand,
seeking moisture in the depths. Fascines of the branches of this plant were
laid along the track and covered with sand, and in places palisades were
built, of which only the tops are now visible.
Yet despite all these efforts the sands creep insidiously on, and in certain
localities workmen have to be kept employed, shovelling it back as it
comes, and fighting without cessation against the forces of the desert and
the winds. In the building of the road, and in this battling with the sands,
Turkomans have been largely employed, having given up brigandage for
honest labor, in which they have proved the most efficient of the various
workmen engaged upon the road.
Aside from the peculiar difficulties above outlined, the Transcaspian
Railway was remarkably favored by nature. For nearly the whole distance
the country is as flat as a billiard-table, and the road so straight that at times
it runs for twenty or thirty miles without the shadow of a curve. In the entire
distance there is not a tunnel, and only some small cuttings have been made
through hills of sand. Of bridges, other than mere culverts, there are but
three in the whole length of the road, the only large one being that over the
Amu-Daria. This is a hastily built, rickety affair of timber, put up only as a
make-shift, and at the mercy of the stream if a serious rise should take
place.
The whole road, indeed, was hastily made, with a single track, the rails
simply spiked down, and the work done at the rate of from a mile to a mile
and a half a day. Before the Bokharans fairly realized what was afoot, the
iron horse was careering over their level plains, and the shrill scream of the
locomotive whistle was startling the saints in their graves.
Over such a road no great speed can be attained. Thirty miles an hour is
the maximum, and from ten to twenty miles the average speed, while the
stops at stations are exasperatingly long to travellers from the impatient
West. To the Asiatics they are of no concern, time being with them not
worth a moment's thought.
In the operation of this road petroleum waste is used as fuel, the refining
works at Baku yielding an inexhaustible supply. The carriages are of mixed
classes, some being two stories in height, each story of different class.

There are very few first-class carriages on the road. As for the stations,
some of them are miles from the road, that of Bokhara being ten miles
away. This method was adopted to avoid exciting the prejudices of the
Asiatics, who at first were not in favor of the road, regarding it as a device
of Shaitan, the spirit of evil. Yet the "fire-cart," as they call it, is proving
very convenient, and they have no objection to let this fiery Satan haul their
grain and cotton to market and carry themselves across the waterless plains.
The camel is being thrown out of business by this shrill-voiced prince of
evil. The road is being extended over the oases, and will in the end bring all
Turkestan under its control.
It almost takes away one's breath to think of railway stations and time-
tables in connection with the old-time abiding-place of the terrible Tartar,
and of the iron horse careering across the empire of barbarism, rushing into
the metropolis of superstition, and waking with the scream of the steam
whistle the silent centuries of the Orient. Nothing of greater promise than
this planting of the railroad in Central Asia has been performed of recent
years. The son of the desert is to be civilized despite himself, and to be
taught the arts and ideas of the West by the irresistible logic of steel and
steam.
But this enterprise is a minor one compared with that which Russia has
recently completed, that of a railway extending across the whole width of
Siberia, being, with its branches, more than five thousand miles long—
much the longest railway in the world. Work on this was begun in 1890, and
it is now completed to Vladivostok, the chief Russian port on the Pacific, a
traveller being able to ride from St. Petersburg to the shores of the Pacific
Ocean without change of cars. A branch of this road runs southward through
Manchuria to Port Arthur, but as a result of the war with Japan this has been
transferred to China, Manchuria being wrested from the controlling grasp of
Russia. It is a single-track road, but it is proposed to double-track it
throughout its entire length, thus greatly increasing its availability as a
channel of transport alike in war and peace.
All this is of the deepest significance. The railroad in Asia has come to
stay; and with its coming the barbarism of the past is nearing its end. The
sleeping giant of Orientalism is stirring uneasily in its bed, its drowsy
senses stirred by the shrill alarum of the locomotive whistle. New ideas and

new habits must follow in the track of the iron horse. The West is forcing
itself into the East, with all its restless activity. In the time to come this
whole broad continent is destined to be covered with railroads as with a vast
spider-web; new industries will be established, machinery introduced, and
the great region of the steppes, famous in the past only as the starting-point
of conquering migrations, must in the end become an active centre of
industry, the home of peace and prosperity, a new-found abiding-place of
civilization and human progress.

AN ESCAPE FROM THE MINES OF
SIBERIA.

The name Siberia calls up to our minds the vision of a stupendous
prison, a vast open penitentiary larger than the whole United States, a
continental place of captivity which for three centuries past has been the
seat of more wretchedness and misery than any other land inhabited by the
human race. To that far, frozen land a stream of the best and worst of the
people of Russia has steadily flowed, including prisoners of state, religious
dissenters, rebels, Polish patriots, convicts, vagabonds, and all others who
in any way gave offence to the authorities or stood in the way of persons in
power.
Not freedom of action alone, but even freedom of thought, is a crime in
Russia. It is a land of innumerable spies, of secret arrest and rapid
condemnation, in which the captive may find himself on the road to Siberia
without knowing with what crime he is charged, while his friends, even his
wife and family, may remain in ignorance of his fate. Every year a convoy
of some twenty thousand wretched prisoners is sent off to that dismal land,
including the ignorant and the educated, the debased and the refined, men
and women, young and old, the horror of exile being added to indescribably
by this mingling of delicate and refined men and women with the rudest and
most brutal of the convict class, all under the charge of mounted Cossacks,
well armed, and bearing long whips as their most effective arguments of
control.
It may be said here that the misery of this long journey on foot has been
somewhat mitigated since the introduction of railroads and steamboats, and
will very likely be done away with when the Trans-siberian Railway is

finished; but for centuries the horrors of the convict train have piteously
appealed to the charity of the world, while the sufferings and brutalities
which the exiles have had to endure stand almost without parallel in the
story of convict life.
The exiles are divided into two classes, those who lose all and those who
lose part of their rights. Of a convict of the former class neither the word
nor the bond has any value: his wife is released from all duty to him, he
cannot possess any property or hold any office. In prison he wears convict
clothes, has his head half shaved, and may be cruelly flogged at the will of
the officials, or murdered almost with impunity. Those deprived of partial
rights are usually sent to Western Siberia; those deprived of total rights are
sent to Eastern Siberia, where their life, as workers in the mines, is so
miserable and monotonous that death is far more of a relief than something
to be feared.

GROUP OF SIBERIANS.
Many of the exiles escape,—some from the districts where they live
free, with privilege of getting a living in any manner available, others from
the prisons or mines. The mere feat of running away is in many cases not
difficult, but to get out of the country is a very different matter. The officers

do not make any serious efforts to prevent escapes, and can be easily bribed
to allow them, since they are enabled then to turn in the name of the
prisoner as still on hand and charge the government for his support. In the
gold-mines the convicts work in gangs, and here one will lie in a ditch and
be covered with rubbish by his comrades. When his absence is discovered
he is not to be found, and at nightfall he slips from the trench and makes for
the forest.
To spend the summer in the woods is the joy of many convicts. They
have no hope of getting out of the country, which is of such vast extent that
winter is sure to descend upon them before they can approach the border,
but the freedom of life in the woods has for them an undefinable charm.
Then as the frigid season approaches they permit themselves to be caught,
and go back to their labor or confinement with hearts lightened by the
enjoyment of their vagrant summer wanderings. There is in some cases
another advantage to be gained. A twenty years' convict who has escaped
and lets himself be caught again may give a false name, and avoid all
incriminating answers through a convenient failure of memory. If not
detected, he may in this way get off with a five years' sentence as a vagrant.
But if detected his last lot is worse than his first, since the time he has
already served goes for nothing.
There is another peril to which escaping prisoners are exposed. The
native tribes are apt to look upon them as game and shoot them down at
sight. It is said that they receive three roubles for each convict they bring to
the police, dead or alive. "If you shoot a squirrel," they say, "you get only
his skin; but if you shoot a varnak [convict] you get his skin and his
clothing too."
Atkinson, the Siberian traveller, tells a remarkable story of an escape of
prisoners, which may be given in illustration of the above remarks. One
night in September, 1850, the people of Barnaoul, a town in Western
Siberia, were roused from their slumbers by the clatter of a party of
mounted Cossacks galloping up the quiet street. The story they brought was
an alarming one. Siberia had been invaded by three thousand Tartars of the
desert, who were marching towards the town. Nearly all the gold from the
Siberian gold-mines lay in Barnaoul, waiting to be smelted into bars and
sent to St. Petersburg. There was much silver also, with abundance of other

valuable government stores. All this would form a rich booty for an army of
nomad plunderers, could they obtain it, and the news filled the town with
excitement and alarm.
As the night passed and the day came on, other Cossacks arrived with
still more alarming news. The three thousand had grown to seven thousand,
many of them armed with rifles, who were burning the Kalmuck villages as
they advanced, and murdering every man, woman, and child who fell into
their hands. Some thought that the wild hordes of Asia were breaking loose
again, as in the time of Genghis Khan, and the terror of many of the people
grew intense.
By noon the enemy had increased to ten thousand, and the people
everywhere were flying before their advance. Hasty steps were taken for
defence and for the safety of the gold and silver, while orders were
despatched in all directions to gather a force to meet them on their way. But
as the days passed on the alarm began to subside. The number of the
invaders declined almost as rapidly as it had grown. They were not
advancing upon the town. No army was needed to oppose them, and
Cossacks were sent to stop the march of the troops. In the course of two
days more the truth was sifted from the mass of wild rumors and reports.
The ten thousand invaders dwindled to forty Circassian prisoners who had
escaped from the gold-mines on the Birioussa.
These fugitives had not a thought of invading the Russian dominions.
They were prisoners of war who, with heartless cruelty, had been
condemned to the mines of Siberia for the crime of a patriotic effort to save
their country, and their sole purpose was to return to their far-distant homes.
By the aid of small quantities of gold, which they had managed to hide
from their guards, they succeeded in purchasing a sufficient supply of rifles
and ammunition from the neighboring tribesmen, which they hid in a
mountain cavern about seven miles away. There was no fear of the Tartars
betraying them, as they had received for the arms ten times their value, and
would have been severely punished if found with gold in their possession.
On a Saturday afternoon near the end of July, 1850, after completing the
day's labors, the Circassians left the mine in small parties, going in different
directions. This excited no suspicion, as they were free to hunt or otherwise

amuse themselves after their work. They gradually came together in a
mountain ravine about six miles south of the mines. Not far from this
locality a stud of spare horses were kept at pasture, and hither some of the
fugitives made their way, reaching the spot just as the animals were being
driven into the enclosure for the night. The three horse-keepers suddenly
found themselves covered with rifles and forced to yield themselves
prisoners, while their captors began to select the best horses from the herd.
The Circassians deemed it necessary to take the herdsmen with them to
prevent them from giving the alarm. Two of these also were skilful hunters
and well acquainted with the surrounding mountain regions, and were likely
to prove useful as guides. In all fifty-five horses were chosen, out of the
three or four hundred in the herd. The remainder were turned out of the
enclosure and driven into the forest, as if they had broken loose and their
keepers were absent in search of them. This done, the captors sought their
friends in the glen, by whom they were received with cheers, and before
midnight, the moon having risen, the fugitives began their long and
dangerous journey.
Sunrise found them on a high summit, which commanded a view of the
gold-mine they had left, marked by the curling smoke which rose from fires
kept constantly alive to drive away the mosquitoes, the pests of the region.
Taking a last look at their place of exile, they moved on into a grassy valley,
where they breakfasted and fed their horses. On they went, keeping a sharp
watch upon their guides, day by day, until the evening of the fourth day
found them past the crest of the range and descending into a narrow valley,
where they decided to spend the night.
Thus far all had gone well. They were now beyond the Russian frontier
and in Chinese territory, and as their guides knew the country no farther,
they were set free and their rifles restored to them. Venison had been
obtained plentifully on the march, and fugitives and captives alike passed
the evening in feasting and enjoyment. With daybreak the Siberians left to
return to the mine and the Circassians resumed their route.
From this time onward difficulties confronted them. They were in a
region of mountains, precipices, ravines, and torrents. One dangerous river
they swam, but, instead of keeping on due south, the difficulties of the way

induced them to change their course to the west, alarmed, probably, by the
vast snowy peaks of the Tangnou Mountains in the distance, though if they
had passed these all danger from Siberia would have been at an end. As it
was, after more than three weeks of wandering, the nature of the country
forced them towards the northwest, until they came upon the eastern shore
of the Altin-Kool Lake.
Here was their final chance. Had they followed the lake southerly they
might still have reached a place of safety. But ill fortune brought them upon
it at a point where it seemed easiest to round it on the north, and they passed
on, hoping soon to reach its western shores. But the Bëa, the impassable
torrent that flows from the lake, forced them again many miles northward in
search of a ford, and into a locality from which their chance of escape was
greatly reduced.
More than two months had passed since they left the mines, and the poor
wanderers were still in the vast Siberian prison, from which, if they had
known the country, they might now have been far away. The region they
had reached was thinly inhabited by Kalmuck Tartars, and they finally
entered a village of this people, with whose inhabitants they unluckily got
into a broil, ending in a battle, in which several Kalmucks were killed and
the village burned.
To this event was due the terrifying news that reached Barnaoul, the
alarm being carried to a Cossack fort whose commandant was drunk at the
time and sent out a series of exaggerated reports. As for the fugitives, they
had in effect signed their death-warrant by their conflict with the Kalmucks.
The news spread from tribe to tribe, and when the real number of the
fugitives was learned the tribesmen entered savagely into pursuit,
determined to obtain revenge for their slain kinsmen. The Circassians were
wandering in an unknown country. The Kalmucks knew every inch of the
ground. Scouts followed the fugitives, and after them came well-mounted
hunters, who rapidly closed upon the trail, being on the evening of the third
day but three miles away.
The Circassians had crossed the Bëa and turned to the south, but here
they found themselves in an almost impassable group of snow-clad
mountains. On they pushed, deeper and deeper into the chain, still closely

pursued, the Kalmucks so managing the pursuit as to drive them into a
pathless region of the hills. This accomplished, they came on leisurely,
knowing that they had their prey safe.
At length the hungry and weary warriors were driven into a mountain
pass, where the pursuers, who had hitherto saved their bullets, began a
savage attack, rifle-balls dropping fast into the glen. The fugitives sought
shelter behind some fallen rocks, and returned the fire with effect. But they
were at a serious disadvantage, the hunters, who far outnumbered them, and
knew every crag in the ravines, picking them off in safety from behind
places of shelter. From point to point the Circassians fell back, defending
their successive stations desperately, answering every call to surrender with
shouts of defiance, and holding each spot until the fall of their comrades
warned them that the place was no longer tenable.
Night fell during the struggle, and under its cover the remaining fifteen
of the brave fugitives made their way on foot deeper into the mountains,
abandoning their horses to the merciless foe. At daybreak they resumed
their march, scaling the rocky heights in front. Here, scanning the country
in search of their pursuers, not one of whom was to be seen, they turned to
the west, a range of snow-clad peaks closing the way in front. A forest of
cedars before them seemed to present their only chance of escape, and they
hurried towards it, but when within two hundred yards of the wood a puff of
white smoke rose from a thicket, and one of the fugitives fell. The hunters
had ambushed them on this spot, and as they rushed for the shelter of some
rocks near by five more fell before the bullets of their foes.
The fire was returned with some effect, and then a last desperate rush
was made for the forest shelter. Only four of the poor fellows reached it,
and of these some were wounded. The thick underwood now screened them
from the volley that whistled after them, and they were soon safe from the
effects of rifle-shots in the tangled forest depths.
Meanwhile the clouds had been gathering black and dense, and soon rain
and sleet began to fall, accompanied by a fierce gale. Two small parties of
Kalmucks were sent in pursuit, while the others began to prepare an
encampment under the cedars. The storm rapidly grew into a hurricane,
snow falling thick and whirling into eddies, while the pursuers were soon

forced to return without having seen the small remnant of the gallant band.
For three days the storm continued, and then was followed by a sharp frost.
The winter had set in.
No further pursuit was attempted. It was not needed. Nothing more was
ever seen of the four Circassians, nor any trace of them found. They
undoubtedly found their last resting-place under the snows of that mountain
storm.

THE SEA FIGHT IN THE WATERS OF
JAPAN.

On the memorable Saturday of May 27, 1905, in far eastern waters in
which the guns of war-ships had rarely thundered before, took place an
event that opened the eyes of the world as if a new planet had swept into its
ken or a great comet had suddenly blazed out in the eastern skies. It was
that of one of the most stupendous naval victories in history, won by a
people who fifty years before had just begun to emerge from the dim
twilight of mediæval barbarism.
Japan, the Nemesis of the East, had won her maiden spurs on the field of
warfare in her brief conflict with China in 1894, but that was looked upon
as a fight between a young game-cock and a decrepit barn-yard fowl, and
the Western world looked with a half-pitying indulgence upon the spectacle
of the long-slumbering Orient serving its apprenticeship in modern war. Yet
the rapid and complete triumph of the island empire over the leviathan of
the Asiatic continent was much of a revelation of the latent power that dwelt
in that newly-aroused archipelago, and when in 1903 Japan began to speak
in tones of menace to a second leviathan, that of Eastern Europe and
Northern Asia, the world's interest was deeply stirred again.
Would little Japan dare attack a European power and one so great and
populous as Russia, with half Asia already in its clasp, with strong
fortresses and fleets within striking distance, and with a continental railway
over which it could pour thousands of armed battalions? The idea seemed
preposterous, many looked upon the attitude of Japan as the madness of
temerity, and when on February 6, 1904, the echo of the guns at Port Arthur
was heard the world gave a gasp of astonishment and alarm.

Were there any among us then who believed it possible for little Japan to
triumph over the colossus it had so daringly attacked? If any, they were
very few. It is doubtful if there was a man in Russia itself who dreamed of
anything but eventual victory, with probably the adding of the islands of
Japan to its chaplet of orient pearls. True, the success of the attack on their
fleet was a painful surprise, and when they saw their great iron-clads locked
up in Port Arthur harbor it was cause for annoyance. But if the fleet had
been taken by surprise, the fortress was claimed to be impregnable, the
army was powerful and accustomed to victory over its foes in Asia, and it
was with an amused contempt of their half-barbarian foes and confidence in
rapid and brilliant triumph that the Muscovite cohorts streamed across Asia
with arms in hand and hope in heart.
We do not propose to tell here what followed. The world knows it. Men
read with an interest they had rarely taken in foreign affairs of the rapid and
stupendous successes of the little soldiers of Nippon, the indomitable valor
of the troops, the striking skill of their leaders, the breadth and
completeness of their tactics, the training and discipline of the men, the rare
hygienic condition of the camps, their impetuosity in attack, their
persistence in pursuit; in short, the sudden advent of an army with all the
requisites of a victorious career, as pitted against the ill-handled myriads of
Russia, not wanting in brute courage, but sadly lacking in efficient
leadership and strategical skill in their commanders.
Back went the Russian hosts, mile by mile, league by league, steadily
pressed northward by the unrelenting persistence of the island warriors;
while on the Liao-tung peninsula the besieging forces crept on foot by foot,
caring apparently nothing for wounds or death, caring only for the
possession of the fortress which they had been sent to win.
We should like to record some victories for the Russians, but the annals
of the war tell us of none. Outgeneralled and driven back from their strong
position on the Yalu River; decisively beaten in the great battle of Liao-
yang; checked in their offensive movement on the Shakhe River, with
immense loss; and finally utterly defeated in the desperate two weeks'
struggle around Mukden; the field warfare ended in the two great armies
facing each other at Harbin, with months of manœuvring before them.

Meanwhile the campaign in the peninsula had gone on with like
desperate efforts and final success of the Japanese, Port Arthur surrendering
to its irresistible besiegers on the opening day of 1905. With it fell the
Russian fleet which had been cooped up in its harbor for nearly a year;
defeated and driven back in its every attempt to escape; its flag-ship, the
"Petropavlovsk," sunk by a mine on April 13, 1904, carrying down Admiral
Makaroff and nearly all its crew; the remnant of the fleet being finally sunk
or otherwise disabled to save them from capture on the surrender of Port
Arthur to the besieging forces.
Such, in very brief epitome, were the leading features of the conflict on
land and its earlier events on the sea. We must now return to the great naval
battle spoken of above, which calls for detailed description alike from its
being the closing struggle of the contest and from its extraordinary
character as a phenomenal event in maritime war.
The loss of the naval strength of Russia in eastern waters led to a
desperate effort to retrieve the disaster, by sending from the Baltic every
war-ship that could be got ready, with the hope that a strong fleet on the
open waters of the east would enable Russia to regain its prestige as a naval
power and deal a deadly blow at its foe, by closing the waters upon the
possession of which the islanders depended for the support of their armies
in Manchuria.
This supplementary fleet, under Admiral Rojestvensky, set sail from the
port of Libau on October 16, 1904, beginning its career inauspiciously by
firing impulsively on some English fishing-boats on the 21st, with the
impression that these were Japanese scouts. This hasty act threatened to
embroil Russia with another foe, the ally of Japan, but it passed off with no
serious results.
Entering the Mediterranean and passing through the Suez Canal, the fine
fleet under Rojestvensky, nearly sixty vessels strong, loitered on its way
with wearisome deliberation, dallying for a protracted interval in the waters
of the Indian Ocean and not passing Singapore on its journey north till April
12. It looked almost as if its commander feared the task before him, six
months having now passed since it left the Baltic on its very deliberate
cruise.

The second Russian squadron, under Admiral Nebogatoff, did not pass
Singapore until May 5, it being the 13th before the two squadrons met and
combined. On the 22d they were seen in the waters of the Philippines
heading northward. The news of this, flashed by cable from the far east to
the far west, put Europe and America on the qui vive, in eager anticipation
of startling events quickly to follow.
Meanwhile where was Admiral Togo and his fleet? For months he had
been engaged in the work of bottling up the Russian squadron at Port
Arthur. Since the fall of the latter place and the destruction of the war-ships
in its harbor he had been lying in wait for the slow-coming Baltic fleet,
doubtless making every preparation for the desperate struggle before him,
but doing this in so silent and secret a method that the world outside knew
next to nothing of what was going on. The astute authorities of Japan had
no fancy for heralding their work to the world, and not a hint of the
movements or whereabouts of the fleet reached men's ears.
As the days passed on and the Russian ships steamed still northward, the
anxious curiosity as to the location of the Japanese fleet grew painfully
intense. The expected intention to waylay Rojestvensky in the southern
straits had not been realized, and as the Russians left the Philippines in their
rear, the question, Where is Togo? grew more insistent still. With
extraordinary skill he had lain long in ambush, not a whisper as to the
location of his fleet being permitted to make its way to the western world;
and when Rojestvensky ventured into the yawning jaws of the Korean Strait
he was in utter ignorance of the lurking-place of his grimly waiting foes.
Before Rojestvensky lay two routes to choose between, the more direct
one to Vladivostok through the narrow Korean Strait, or the longer one
eastward of the great island of Honshu. Which he would take was in doubt
and in which Togo awaited him no one knew. The skilled admiral of Japan
kept his counsel well, doubtless satisfied in his own mind that the Russians
would follow the more direct route, and quietly but watchfully awaiting
their approach.
It was on May 22, as we have said, that the Russian fleet appeared off
the Philippines, the greatest naval force that the mighty Muscovite empire
had ever sent to sea, the utmost it could muster after its terrible losses at

Port Arthur. Five days afterwards, on the morning of Saturday, May 27, this
proud array of men-of-war steamed into the open throat of the Straits of
Korea, steering for victory and Vladivostok. On the morning of Monday,
the 29th, a few battered fragments of this grand fleet were fleeing for life
from their swift pursuers. The remainder lay, with their drowned crews, on
the sea-bottom, or were being taken into the ports of victorious Japan. In
those two days had been fought to a finish the greatest naval battle of recent
times, and Japan had won the position of one of the leading naval powers of
the world.
On that Saturday morning no dream of such a destiny troubled the souls
of those in the Russian fleet. They were passing into the throat of the
channel between Japan and Korea, but as yet no sign of a foeman had
appeared, and it may be that numbers on board the fleet were disappointed,
for doubtless the hope of battle and victory filled many ardent souls on the
Russian ships. The sun rose on the new day and sent its level beams across
the seas, on which as yet no hostile ship had appeared. The billowing waters
spread broad and open before them and it began to look as if those who
hoped for a fight would be disappointed, those who desired a clear sea and
an open passage would be gratified.
No sails were visible on the waters except those of small craft, which
scudded hastily for shore on seeing the great array of war-ships on the
horizon. Fishing-craft most of these, though doubtless among them were the
scout-boats which the watchful Togo had on patrol with orders to signal the
approach of the enemy's fleet. But as the day moved on the scene changed.
A great ship loomed up, steering into the channel, then another and another,
the vanguard of a battle-fleet, steaming straight southward. All doubt
vanished. Togo had sprung from his ambush and the battle was at hand.
It was a rough sea, and the coming vessels dashed through heavy waves
as they drove onward to the fray. From the flag-ship of the fleet of Japan
streamed the admiral's signal, not unlike the famous signal of Nelson at
Trafalgar, "The defense of our empire depends upon this action. You are
expected to do your utmost."
Northward drove the Russians, drawn up in double column. The day
moved on until noon was passed and the hour of two was reached. A few

minutes later the first shots came from the foremost Russian ships. They fell
short and the Japanese waited until they came nearer before replying. Then
the roar of artillery began and from both sides came a hail of shot and shell,
thundering on opposing hulls or rending the water into foam. From two
o'clock on Saturday afternoon until two o'clock on Sunday morning that
iron storm kept on with little intermission, the huge twelve-inch guns
sending their monstrous shells hurtling through the air, the smaller guns
raining projectiles on battle-ships and cruisers, until it seemed as if nothing
that floated could live through that terrible storm.
Never in the history of naval warfare had so frightful a cannonade been
seen. Its effect on the opposing fleets was very different. For months Togo
had kept his gunners in training and their shell-fire was accurate and deadly,
hundreds of their projectiles hitting the mark and working dire havoc to the
Russian ships and crews; while to judge from the little damage done, the
return fire would seem to have been wild and at random. Either the work of
training his gunners had been neglected by the Russian admiral, or they
were demoralized by the projectiles from the rapid-fire guns of the
Japanese, which swept their decks and mowed down the gunners at their
posts.
This fierce and telling fire soon had its effect. Ninety minutes after it
began, the Russian armored cruiser "Admiral Nakhimoff" went reeling to
the bottom with the greater part of her crew of six hundred men. Next to
succumb was the repair-ship "Kamchatka." Badly hurt early in the battle,
her steering-gear was later disabled, then a shell put her engines out of
service, and shortly after her bow rose in the air and her stern sank, and
with a tremendous roar she followed the "Nakhimoff" to the depths.
Around the "Borodino," one of the largest of the Russian battle-ships,
clustered five of the Japanese, pouring in their fire so fiercely that flames
soon rose from her deck and the wounded monster seemed in sore distress.
This was Rojestvensky's flag-ship, and the enemy made it one of their chief
targets, sweeping its decks until the great ship became a veritable shambles.
Admiral Rojestvensky, wounded and his ship slowly settling under him,
was transferred in haste to a torpedo-boat destroyer, and as evening came on
the huge ship, still fighting desperately, turned turtle and vanished beneath

the waves. As for the admiral, the destroyer which bore him was taken and
he fell a prisoner into Japanese hands.
Previous to this three other battle-ships, the "Lessoi," the "Veliky," and
the "Oslabya," had met with a similar fate, and shortly after sundown the
"Navarin" followed its sister ships to the yawning depths. The fiery assault
had quickly thrown the whole Russian array into disorder, while the
Japanese skilfully manœuvred to press the Russians from side and rear,
forcing them towards the coast, where they were attacked by the Japanese
column there advancing. In this way the fleet was nearly surrounded, the
torpedo-boat flotilla being thrown out to intercept those vessels that sought
to break through the deadly net.
With the coming on of darkness the firing from the great guns ceased,
the Russian fleet being by this time hopelessly beaten. But the torpedo-
boats now came actively into action, keeping up their fire through most of
the night. When Sunday morning dawned the shattered remnants of the
Russian fleet were in full flight for safety, hotly pursued by the Japanese,
who were bent on preventing the escape of a single ship. The roar of guns
began again about nine o'clock and was kept up at intervals during the day,
new ships being bagged from time to time by Togo's victorious fleet, while
others, shot through and through, followed their brothers of the day before
to the ocean depths.
The most notable event of this day's fight was the bringing to bay off
Liancourt Island of a squadron of five battle-ships, comprising the division
of Admiral Nebogatoff. Togo, in the battle-ship "Mikasa," commanded the
pursuing squadron, which overtook and surrounded the Russian ships,
pouring in a terrible fire which soon threw them into hopeless confusion.
Not a shot came back in reply and Togo, seeing their helpless plight,
signalled a demand for their surrender. In response the Japanese flag was
run up over the Russian standard, and these five ships fell into the hands of
the islanders without an effort at defense. The confusion and dismay on
board was such that an attempt to fight could have led only to their being
sent to the bottom with their crews.
It was a miserable remnant of the proud Russian fleet that escaped,
including only the cruiser "Almez" and a few torpedo-boats that came

limping into the harbor of Vladivostok with the news of the disaster, and the
cruisers "Oleg," "Aurora," and "Jemchug," under Rear-admiral Enquist, that
straggled in a damaged condition into Manila harbor a week after the great
fight. Aside from these the Russian fleet was annihilated, its ships destroyed
or captured; the total loss, according to Admiral Togo's report, being eight
battle-ships, three armored cruisers, three coast-defense ships, and an
unenumerated multitude of smaller vessels, while the loss in men was four
thousand prisoners and probably twice that number slain or drowned.
The most astonishing part of the report was that the total losses of the
Japanese were three torpedo-boats, no other ships being seriously damaged,
while the loss in killed and wounded was not over eight hundred men. It
was a fight that paralleled, in all respects except that of dimensions of the
battling fleets, the naval fights at Manila and Santiago in the Spanish-
American war.
What followed this stupendous victory needs not many words to tell. On
land and sea the Russians had been fought to a finish. To protract the war
would have been but to add to their disasters. Peace was imperative and it
came in the following September, the chief result being that the Russian
career of conquest in Eastern Asia was stayed and Japan became the master
spirit in that region of the globe.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Historical Tales: France.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORIC TALES:
THE ROMANCE OF REALITY. VOL. 08 (OF 15), RUSSIAN ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be
renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law
means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the
Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States
without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying
and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the
PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a
registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook,
except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying
royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge
anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is
very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg
eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do
practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by
U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license,
especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any
other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you
agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License
available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing
Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work,
you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the
terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright)
agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement,
you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg
electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy
of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to
be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on
or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be
bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can
do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying
with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a
lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you
follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to
Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual
work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are

located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works
based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are
removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing
Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for
keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can
easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you
share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a
constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the
laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before
downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating
derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work.
The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status
of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied
or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with
this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in
the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country
where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from
texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice
indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the
work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without
paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a
work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on
the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs
1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the
permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply
with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed
by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project
Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the
copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License
terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any
other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently
displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or
immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the
official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no
additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of
exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work
in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format
must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph
1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing,
copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply
with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to
or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the
use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the
owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate
royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days
following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to
prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly
marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about
donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does
not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You
must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works
possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all
access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in
this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project