If it be a wise child that knows its own father, it would be a very remarkable father who could recognize his own child among such a variegated collection as I saw here. Never upon earth was there a more astonishing mixture of baby flesh—big babies and little babies, pug-nosed, black-eyed, blue-eyed, fat and lean, red, yellow, and white babies—all sorts ever invented or brought to light in this curious world of ours. Yet the utmost order was observed, and the beds, nurses, cribs, and feeding apparatus looked wonderfully clean for a Russian institution, where cleanliness is not generally the prevailing characteristic. But, great guns! what music they must make when they all get started in one grand simultaneous chorus! five or six hundred babies, of both sexes, from one to two or three years old, in one department; as many girls from three to five in another; boys of the same age in another; older boys and older girls innumerable in another! What a luxury it must be to hear them all together! In general, however, they do not make as much noise as might be supposed. I only heard about forty or fifty small choruses while there; but, trifling as that was, it enabled me to form an idea of the style of music that might be made when five or six thousand gave their whole mind to it. I am personally acquainted with one small baby not over a couple of years old, who, when excited of nights, can very nearly raise the roof off the house, and am certain that five hundred of the same kind would burst the whole city of Moscow sky-high if ever they got at it together. These Russian foundlings, however, are generally heavy-faced, lymphatic babies, and fall naturally into the machine existence which becomes their fate; otherwise it would seem a hard life for the poor nurses, who are not always gifted with the patient endurance of mothers. I was told that the children only cried periodically, say at intervals of every four hours, but hardly credit that statement. Being for the most part soggy little animals, they spend a goodly portion of their time in sleep, and doubtless, when not sleeping, are much given to eating and drinking.

During the summer months several thousand of these children are sent out in the country to nurse, after which they are returned in due order. As soon as they become old enough, they are taught reading and writing, and the most intelligent are selected to become teachers. The boys usually receive a military education, and a certain proportion of them furnish recruits for the imperial army.



CHAPTER XVI.

DESPOTISM versus SERFDOM.

The reader has probably discovered by this time that I have no great affection for the political institutions of Europe, and am pretty strong in my prejudices against despotic governments of all sorts. The fact is, I believe our own, with all its faults, is the best system of government ever devised by man.

The Emperor Alexander II. is admitted on all hands to be a most estimable and enlightened sovereign. He possesses, in a greater degree, perhaps, than any of his predecessors, the confidence and affection of his people. All his labors since he ascended the throne in February, 1855, have been directed to the emancipation of the serfs and the general welfare of his country. No fault can be found with him by the most ardent advocate of human liberty. His sympathies are—as far as it is practicable for those of an autocrat, clothed with absolute powers, to be—in favor of freedom. Toward the people and the government of the United States he entertains the most kindly feeling, and would doubtless sincerely regret the overthrow of our republican system. He has, moreover, devoted himself with unceasing zeal to the abolition of many onerous and unnecessary restrictions upon the liberty of the press and the civil rights of his subjects; encouraged institutions of learning; prohibited to a considerable extent cruelty and oppression in the subordinate branches of the public service; and in all respects has proved himself equal to the great duty imposed upon him, and worthy the esteem and commendation of the civilized world. Yet I can not see what there is in a despotic form of government, under the very best circumstances, to enlist our admiration or win our sympathies. We may respect and appreciate a good ruler, but every autocrat is not good of his kind; nor is every country in a happy condition because it may be exempt from the horrors of commotion. But no sovereign power can ever attain a rank among the civilized nations of the earth—beyond the respect to which its brute force may entitle it—so long as the very germ of its existence is founded in the suppression of civil and political liberty among its subjects.

What, after all, does the emancipation of the serfs amount to? They are only to be nominally free. The same power that accords them the poor privilege of tilling the earth for their own subsistence may at any time withdraw it. They are not to be owned by individual proprietors, and bought and sold like cattle; but they possess none of the privileges of freemen; have no voice in the laws that govern them; must pay any taxes imposed upon them; may be ordered, at any time, to abandon their homes and sacrifice their lives in foolish and unnecessary wars in which they have no interest; in short, are just as much slaves as they were before, with the exception that during the pleasure of the emperor they can not be sold. But will every emperor be equally humane? There is nothing to prevent the successor of Alexander the Second from restoring the system of serfage, with all its concomitant horrors. It will not be difficult to find a predominating influence among the nobles to accomplish that object; for this has been a long and severe struggle against their influence, and owes its success entirely to the unremitting labors of the sovereign. The next autocrat may labor with equal earnestness to undo this good work; but it matters little, save in name. Despotism and freedom are antipodes, and can not be brought together. It may be said that it would be difficult to enslave a people who had once even partially tasted the sweets of liberty, but the history of Russia does not furnish testimony to that effect.

Since the publication of the ukase abolishing serfdom, there has been a great deal of trouble in the more remote districts between the serfs and their masters, arising chiefly from ignorance on the one side, and discontent and disaffection on the other. Every possible obstacle has been thrown in the way of a fair understanding of its terms. Some idea may be formed of the extreme ignorance and debased condition of the serfs when I mention that in many parts of the country, where the influence of the court is not so immediately felt by the proprietors, they have assumed such despotic powers over their dependents, and exercise to this day such an inexorable command over their lives, liberties, and persons, that the poor creatures have almost learned to regard them as demigods. When a nobleman of high position, owning large tracts of land and many serfs, visits his estates, it is not an uncommon thing to see the enslaved peasantry, who are taught to believe that they exist by his sufferance, cast themselves prostrate before him and kiss the ground, in the Oriental fashion, as he passes. It is a species of idolatry highly soothing to men in official position, who are themselves subjected to almost similar debasement before their imperial master. In some instances, especially at a distance from the capital, the acts of cruelty perpetrated by these cringing and venal nobles, as an offset to the arbitrary rule under which they themselves exist, are enough to make the blood curdle. The knout, a terrible instrument made of thick, heavy leather, and sometimes loaded with leaden balls, is freely used to punish the most trifling offense. Men and women, indiscriminately, are whipped at the pleasure of their masters, the only real restrictions being that if they die within twenty-four hours the owners are subjected to trial for murder; but even that is nearly always evaded. The present emperor has done much to meliorate these abuses; but his orders have to go a great way and through a great many unreliable hands, and it is very difficult to carry them into effect unless they accord with the views of a venal and corrupt bureaucracy and an unprincipled corps of subordinates.



In some of the districts where the serfs were purposely kept in ignorance of the true meaning and intention of the emperor's ukase, a vague idea took possession of their minds that they were free, and that the proprietors had no right to compel them to labor, or in any way curtail their liberty. Many of them left the estates to which they were attached, and sought occupation elsewhere on their own account; others refused to obey the orders given them by their seigneurs, and a great deal of trouble and bloodshed ensued. In some instances it became necessary to call in the military forces of the district to subdue the mutinous serfs and preserve order. Protests and remonstrances innumerable were addressed to the emperor, pointing out the absolute impracticability of carrying his beneficent scheme into effect, based chiefly on the ground that the serfs themselves were opposed to emancipation. This, of course, occasioned a great deal of anxiety and trouble at head-quarters. It was rather a hard state of things that the very peasants whom he was striving with all his power to serve should, by their insubordination—arising sometimes, it was true, from ignorance, but too often from willful misconduct—do even more than their masters to frustrate his beneficent designs. These troubles went on from time to time, till eventually a deputation of three hundred serfs made their way to St. Petersburg and solicited an audience of the emperor. His majesty, probably in no very amiable mood, called the deputation before him, and demanded what they desired. They answered that they wished an explanation in regard to his order of emancipation, which many of their people did not understand. Some thought they were to be free in two years, but many thought they were free from the date of the order, with the simple condition that they were to pay sixty rubles to their masters the first year, and thirty the second; others, again, that they were free without any condition whatever. All they wanted to know was, were they free or not? If free, why were they forced to labor for other people; and if not free, was there any prospect that they ever would be? The emperor asked, "Can you read?" Some answered that they could read, others that they could not. "Have you read my order?" demanded the emperor of those who could read. "Yes, your majesty," they replied, "we have read your order, but we don't understand it." All who could read and had read the order were removed on one side. "Now," said the emperor, turning to the others, "has this order been read to you?" "Yes, your majesty," they replied, "but we don't understand it." "Very well," observed the emperor; "you seem to be an intelligent set of men, capable of learning, and we shall see that the order is made intelligible. We had supposed it was perfectly clear in its terms; but, since you do not or will not comprehend it, all you who can read must be whipped." The literary portion of the deputation were then taken off by a file of soldiers, treated to a score or two of lashes each, and sent back to their people to explain the manifesto. "And all you," said the emperor, turning to the unlearned members of the deputation, "must serve three years as soldiers, during which time we shall see that you are taught to read." They were accordingly taken off, and furnished with a general outfit of uniforms, and are now serving their imperial master in a military capacity.

Summary justice, that, one might say. It seems, at all events, a pretty prompt method of explaining official documents, and could probably be adopted beneficially in other countries.



CHAPTER XVII.

REFORM IN RUSSIA.

In my last chapter I took occasion to acknowledge, in terms of sincere respect and admiration, the noble efforts of the present emperor, Alexander II., in the great cause of human freedom. He has already gone very far beyond any of his predecessors in the extension of civil liberty among his subjects, but a great crisis has now arrived which will practically test his sincerity. What he has heretofore done will be worse than nothing unless he remains true to himself and the noble cause which he has espoused. History shows us that the sovereigns of Russia have not always been indifferent to public opinion; but, with one or two honorable exceptions, it also shows us that they have been more liberal in their professions than in their acts. I ventured the assertion that there are insuperable obstacles to a very high order of civilization in Russia. Perhaps this is too gloomy a view of the case, and, considering the wonderful natural capacities of the people, it may be thought rather illiberal for an American; but I must confess the difficulties strike me as very serious. The severity of the climate in the middle and northern parts of the empire, the vast proportion of desert and unavailable lands, and the diversity of fierce and ignorant races to be governed, are certainly obstacles not easily overcome, if we are to understand by civilization a predominance of moral and intellectual cultivation, combined with material prosperity and a reasonable share of liberty and happiness among the mass of the people. It is not that a few shall be learned, and intelligent, and privileged above all others, but that the broad fields of knowledge shall be open to all; that education shall be general, and the right of every class to the fruits of their labor and the enjoyment of civil, political, and religious liberty shall be recognized and protected by the laws of the land. In this view, it seems to me that the most serious obstacle to civilization in Russia is presented by the despotic nature of the government, and the difficulty, under the existing state of things, of substituting another for which the ignorant masses are prepared. The aristocracy are constantly clamoring for increased powers and privileges, but it is very certain they have no affinity, beyond pecuniary interest, with the middle and lower classes, and that their sole aim is to interpose every possible obstacle to the progress of freedom. The emperor is now practically the great conservative power who stands between them and their dependents. Any increase of authority to the aristocracy would deprive the masses of the limited protection which they now enjoy. Already the head and front of Russian despotism are the camarilla and the bureaucracy, who practically administer the affairs of the government. So long as they hold their power, they stand as a barrier to all progress on the part of the people. Thoroughly aristocratic and tyrannical in all their instincts, they have every thing to lose and nothing to hope from a constitutional form of government. Why, it may be asked, if the emperor is sincere in his professions of regard for freedom and civilization, does he not make use of the aristocratic powers vested in him, and cast away from him all these obstacles to the perfection of his plans? The question is easier asked than answered. We are but little enlightened upon the secret councils that prevail at the court of St. Petersburg. Whatever is done there is only known by its results; whatever finds its way into the public press is subject to a rigid censorship, and is worth little so far as it conveys the remotest idea of facts. What you see demonstrated you may possibly be safe in believing, but nothing else. It may be easier to speak of removing obstacles than to do it; or it may be that the emperor has no fixed policy for the future, and therefore hesitates to encounter difficulties through which he can not see his way without any adequate or well-defined object.

No country in the world presents such an anomalous condition of affairs as that presented by Russia at this time. The preliminary steps have been taken to set free over twenty-three millions of white people, so accustomed to a condition of servitude, so generally ignorant, and so incapable of thinking or acting for themselves, that many, if not most of them, look with dread upon the movement made for their emancipation. The rights reserved to them are so little understood, and, indeed, so visionary under any circumstances—for two rights to the same land would be as impracticable in Russia between the proprietors and the peasant as in our country between the whites and the Indians—that they can see nothing beyond abandonment to increased oppressions and sufferings in the proposed movement. Degraded as they are, accustomed from infancy to obey their rulers, kept in a condition of brutish ignorance in order that they may be kept in subjection, it is natural they should be unable to realize the mysterious benefits about to be conferred upon them. In their present abject position they enjoy a certain kind of protection from their owners, who, if not always governed by motives of humanity, are at least generally susceptible of the influences of self-interest, and take care to feed and clothe them, and provide for them in cases of sickness; and although this is done at the expense of their labor, it relieves them from responsibilities which they are scarcely prepared to assume. To set them free against their own will, or even admitting that, in common with all mankind, they must have some general appreciation of liberty—to undertake so radical a change in their condition and future prospects without a practical definition of their rights and the substitution of some substantial benefits for the withdrawal of responsibilities now borne by their owners, is an anomalous movement attended by no ordinary difficulties. When we add to this the adverse influences of the landed proprietors; their determined hostility to the abrogation of rights and privileges which they have so long enjoyed; their entire conviction that, without direct powers of coercion, they can not depend upon the labor of the peasantry; that the natural tendency of free labor is to elevate the masses, and render them less subservient to the will of the aristocracy, then, indeed, it may well be conceived that the natural difficulties arising from the ignorance and improvident habits of the class now held in bondage will be greatly augmented. Believing, however, that all men have a right to their freedom; that such a right is the gift of the Creator, which can only be wrongfully withheld from them by any earthly power; that it is superior to any casual influences or considerations of policy, we can not but admire the moral courage of the movement, and the apparent zeal and constancy with which the emperor has labored, in the face of every obstacle, to carry it into effect. But the question now arises, is it to end before it assumes a substantial form? Is it to be a mere chimera gotten up to entertain and delude the world? If Alexander aspires to the approval of all enlightened people beyond the limits of his own empire, he must make good his claim to it by a determined policy, carrying in it the germ of civil and political liberty. It will not do to "tickle the ears of the groundlings" with high-sounding phrases of human progress, while he fetters their limbs with manacles of iron. There can be no such thing as a graduated despotism—a stringent form of controlling the ignorant and a mild form of controlling the intelligent—under one system of government. The ways to knowledge, to honorable distinction, to wealth and happiness, must be open to all; justice must be administered with impartiality, and wherever there is taxation there must be representation. There can not be one kind of justice for the rich and another for the weak; constitutions for some and despotisms for others. The machine must be complete in all its parts, and work with a common accord, or it will soon become deranged and break to pieces.

Peter the Great did much toward the physical improvement of the country. He built up cities, created a navy, organized an army, extended his dominions, encouraged education, and fostered the mechanical arts; but he held a tight rein upon his subordinate officers, and suppressed what little freedom the masses enjoyed. He was ambitious, and liked to enjoy a reputation for enlightenment, but no regard for civilization beyond the power it gave him to extend his dominions. His subjects were merely his instruments. All he learned in other countries was to sharpen them and keep them in order, that he might use them to the best advantage. His ambition was not of the highest or noblest kind. The page he has left in history is interesting and instructive, but there is nothing in it to warrant the belief that it will be selected by a remote posterity to be bound up among the lives of truly great and good men. Catharine II. extended the privileges of the nobility, made wars upon inoffensive nations, corrupted the morals of her people, and manifested her regard for the serfs by giving large numbers of them away to her paramours. The Emperor Alexander I. was ambitious of distinction, as the most cultivated and enlightened sovereign of his time. He issued liberal edicts, but seldom observed them. He wished to be thought friendly to liberty, without sacrificing any of his despotic privileges. He gave a Constitution to the Poles, but surrounded it by such forms and influences that they could derive no advantage from it. He was weak, cunning, and conceited; given rather to the delicate evasions of diplomacy than to the bold straightforwardness of truth and honor. The Emperor Nicholas was utterly selfish and despotic in all his instincts. He professed to take a profound interest in the cause of emancipation, but it was purely a question of policy with him. He cared nothing about human rights. His dark and cruel nature was unsusceptible of a noble or generous impulse. While he preached liberal generalities, he ruled his subjects with an iron rod. He was bigoted, narrow-minded, and brutal. The sense of right was not in his nature. His ambition was to be an object of heathenish idolatry to his subjects—whether as a god or devil it mattered nothing; fear was the only incense he was capable of craving; and if such a nature can be susceptible of enjoyment, his consisted in the abasement of his fellow-creatures. The severity of his decrees, the rigor of his administration, and the attributes of infallibility which he cast around his person, caused him to be regarded with awe, but not with love. He could brook no opposition nor survive a failure. Few tears were shed when he was stricken down in his pride. He left but a small legacy of good deeds to endear him in the memory of his subjects. The haughty Czar lies dead in his sepulchre—cold, stern, and solitary as he lived.

Nicholas left his country in a distracted and unhappy condition—deeply in debt; commerce deranged; the military service in the worst possible condition, and nearly every branch of the public service in the hands of corrupt and incapable men. Well might he say to his own son upon his dying bed, "Poor Alexander, my beloved son, where lie the ills of unhappy Russia?" Well might he endeavor to make atonement for his errors by recommending at his last hour the emancipation of the serfs.

The milder spirit of Alexander reigns in his place. What future, then, does this humane young sovereign propose to himself and his country? He gives personal liberty to the serfs, but he can not allow them to become intelligent and responsible beings. If they do, they will no longer acknowledge his right to deprive them of political liberty. He removes various restrictions from the press, and the moment the light of intelligence strikes upon the minds of his subjects, they call for a constitution and the overthrow of a despotic camarilla. He undertakes to restrain a powerful, intelligent, and unscrupulous aristocracy, who by instinct, education, and self-interest hate the very name of freedom, and they turn against him, and provoke those whom he would serve to acts of rebellion against his authority. We can scarcely wonder that this is the case when we consider the interests they have at stake. It is not likely that they will quietly relinquish their accustomed source of revenue. On the other hand, the argument is advanced, and with a good share of reason, that the emancipation of the serfs is really a benefit to the owners. It relieves them of enormous responsibilities, and, by encouraging industry, increasing the intelligence, self-reliance, and capacity of the serfs themselves, makes their labor more profitable to the landed proprietors. This is a view of the case, however, in which they have no faith. Believing in nothing free except the free use of authority in their own persons, they can not be brought to understand the advantages of free labor.

But these considerations do not, by any means, comprise all the difficulties in which Russia is now placed. The dependencies are constantly in revolt. Constant troubles are going on in the remote districts. Nine millions of the population—the old believers who do not profess the prevailing religion—have their secret conferences, their plans and purposes, all antagonistical to the existing form of government. A reign of terror exists in Poland. The Finns detest their rulers, and are only kept in a partial state of quietude by a total subversion of the liberties guaranteed to them under the Constitution. The municipal franchises existing in the various provinces of Russia are a mere mockery; mayors and corporate officers are imprisoned or banished without cause or process of law. The councils of the government are secret, and nobody can conjecture how long he may be permitted to enjoy his personal liberty. The exchequer is annually deficient from thirty to forty millions of rubles. Public credit is growing worse and worse every day, and the whole country is falling into a condition of bankruptcy. It is evident, even to the most superficial observer, that a great crisis is at hand. The Poles are united in their resistance to the despotic sway of the government. Witness the late bloody massacres in Warsaw (1862), against which the whole civilized world cries aloud in horror! They will not now be satisfied with empty professions and still emptier concessions. They demand a Constitution—not a mere paper Constitution, like that of 1815, made to be violated by every lackey of the government sent to coerce them. They demand civil, political, and religious liberty. Can the emperor grant it to a dependency, and withhold it from the body of his people?

This has been tried for nearly half a century—ever since 1815—and what has it resulted in? Are the Poles any better satisfied now than they were then? Are they benefited and enlightened by being cut down and hacked to pieces by a set of drunken and bloodthirsty Cossacks in the name of the great Russian government?

The Emperor Alexander must adopt some other system. He will never reduce the Poles to submission in that way. Overpowered and cut to pieces they may be, but not conquered. They belong to the unconquerable races of mankind. The blood that heroes, and heroines, and martyrs are made of runs in the veins of every man, woman, and child of the Polish nation. If they can not govern themselves, it is equally certain they can not be governed by any despotic power. It is not by slaughtering defenseless women and children; not by forcing churches to be opened; not by sending savage and heartless minions to crush the people down in the dust, that Alexander II. is to win a reputation for humanity and liberality. It is not by issuing edicts of emancipation to his serfs, and then, at the instigation of a cruel and ruthless camarilla, deluging the country with their blood to keep them quiet, that he is going to do it. It is not by extending privileges to the press and the universities, and then, by a sudden and violent suppression of all liberty, undertake to arrest some abuses, that he is likely to achieve it. It is not by countenancing venal and unscrupulous writers to sustain every outrage that his nobles may choose to perpetrate, and banishing all who respectfully remonstrate against their misconduct, that he is to attain the highest eminence as a civilized sovereign. It is not by keeping up a system of foreign surveillance, by which Russians in other countries are watched and their lives threatened, that these glorious results are to be achieved. His secret police may (on their own responsibility or his, it matters little to the victims which) assassinate M. Herzain, the editor of the Kolokol, in London; but if they do, a thousand Herzains will rise in his place. No; it is by no such means as these that the name of Alexander II. is to be transmitted to posterity as the most liberal and enlightened sovereign of the age.

If he would regenerate Russia—if he would avert the dismemberment of a great empire—if he would accomplish the noble mission upon which the world gives him the credit of having started, he must banish from his presence all evil councils; he must be true to himself and the great cause of humanity; he must give all his people, and all his dependencies, a liberal and equitable constitution, which will protect them from the despotic sway of military governors and the aristocracy. He must establish a constitutional government, complete in all its parts; abolish secret tribunals, and open the avenues of knowledge and justice to all. He must see that the laws are fairly and equitably administered. He must enlarge the liberty of the press, and proscribe no man for his opinions, unless in cases of treason, and under peculiar circumstances of civil commotion endangering the public safety. He must abolish the censorship of the colleges, universities, and places of public amusement, and leave them to be regulated by the municipal authorities. In short, he must cease to be a despot and become a constitutional monarch. Will he do it? Can he do it? Does he possess the moral courage to do it? Time alone can answer these questions. I sincerely believe the emperor is a good man, actuated by the best motives, but not always governed by the wisest counsels. I believe he now has an opportunity of earning a name that enlightened men will bless through all time to come. So far, it is to be regretted that he has not pursued the most consistent course, but it is not yet too late to retrieve his errors. One thing is certain—there can be no half-way measures of reform in Russia. The spirit of the age—the general increase of intelligence—requires a radical change. He can not be autocrat and king at the same time. He must be one or the other. If he tries both, the empire will be dismembered before many years.

Whatever may be the extent and variety of those hidden restraints, which doubtless exist, and must, from the very nature of the government, be exempt from the scrutiny of a stranger as well as from popular discussion, it is beyond question that in the principal cities, at least, very little is visible in that respect which would be considered objectionable in the municipal regulations of any city in the United States. From this, of course, must be excepted the presence in every public place and thoroughfare of vast numbers of soldiers and officers; but that is a feature which St. Petersburg shares in common with all the cities of Europe, and the traveler can scarcely regard it as an indication of the depressed condition of Russian civilization. I think I have seen in the streets of Pesth, Vienna, Berlin, and Frankfort quite as many soldiers, according to the population, as in St. Petersburg. I would say something about Paris, but I expect to go there after a while, and would dislike very much to be placed in the position of Mr. Dick Swiveller, who was blockaded at his lodgings, and never could go out without calculating which of the public ways was still left open. But if there be officers enough of all kinds in Paris to keep the public peace and suppress objectionable correspondence and pamphlets against members of the reigning family, there are also enough in Lyons and Marseilles, as well as other cities of France, to prove that civilization and soldiers, however inimical to each other, may, by the force of circumstances, be reduced to a partnership. The question that troubles me most is to determine precisely what is the highest condition of civilization. It can not be to enjoy fine palaces and have a great many soldiers, for Marco Polo tells us that the great Kubla Khan had palaces of gold and precious stones of incredible extent and most sumptuous magnificence, such as the world has never seen from that day to this, and could number his troops by millions; yet nobody will undertake to say that the Tartars of the tenth century were in advance of the French of the nineteenth century. It can not consist in the enjoyment of freedom, and the general dissemination of education and intelligence among the people; for where will you find a freer or more intelligent people than those of the United States, who are rated by the Parisians as little better than savages? I think civilization must consist in the perfection of cookery, and a high order of tailoring and millinery. If the French excel in the manufacture of cannons and iron-cased ships, and devote a good deal of attention to surgery, it is a necessity imposed upon them by the presence of Great Britain and their natural propensity for strong governments; but I am disposed to believe that their genius lies in gastronomy and tailoring, and in the construction of hats and bonnets. Since the latter articles cover the heads of the best classes of mankind, they must be the climax or crowning feature of all human intelligence. I am greatly puzzled by the various opinions on this subject entertained by the most cultivated people of Europe. The English seem to think the perfection of civilization consists in preaching against slavery and then trying to perpetuate it, in order to get hold of some cotton; the French in suppressing family pamphlets, annulling the sacred contract of marriage, building iron-cast ships, cooking frogs, snails, and cats, making fancy coats, and topping off the human head with elegant hats and bonnets; the Austrians in the manufacture of shin-plasters for their soldiers, and the making and breaking of constitutions for ungovernable dependencies; the Prussians in the blasphemous necromancy of receiving crowns for their kings direct from God; and all in some shape or other professing devotion to human liberty, and doing every thing in their power to subvert it. Truly it is enough to puzzle one who seeks for truth amid the prevailing fogs of error that seem to have descended upon mankind. If there be any degree in honesty, I really think the Emperor of Russia is entitled to the palm of being the most sincere in his profession of regard for the advancement of human freedom. He imposes no restrictions upon his own subjects which he does not consider necessary for the maintenance of his despotic power, and, while struggling against the influence of a wealthy, intelligent, and refractory aristocracy to extend the boon of personal liberty to twenty-three millions of serfs, is the only sovereign who boldly and openly manifests a generous sympathy for the cause of freedom in the United States. While I can see nothing to admire in any form of despotism, or any thing in common between us and the government of Russia beyond the common bond of humanity that should connect the whole human race, I am forced to admit, with all my hatred of despotic institutions, that they are not always a sure indication of an illiberal and insincere spirit on the part of the rulers, or of a base, sordid, and groveling spirit on that of the subjects. It is a matter of regret, calculated to shake our faith in the beneficial effects of a high order of intelligence among men, that the course of England and France, since the commencement of our difficulties, presents a very unfavorable contrast with that of Russia; for, although self-interest has restrained them from actual participation in the overthrow of our government, they have given its enemies the full benefit of their sympathy.

You will smile, perhaps, at the oddity of the idea, considering the roughness of our country, the scarcity of palaces, fine equipages, liveried servants with white kid gloves and cocked hats, and the absence of a perfect railroad system in our remote quarter of the world; but I am perfectly in earnest in saying that, if asked to lay my hand upon my heart and declare, in all sincerity, what country upon earth I do consider the most highly favored and enlightened at the present stage of the nineteenth century, I should not hesitate one moment to name the State of California. The idea has been growing in my head ever since I came to Europe. It is based upon considerations which are susceptible of the clearest demonstration. For example, assuming our population to be five hundred thousand, where will you find the same number of educated, enterprising, and intelligent men in any one district or state of Europe, not excepting any given part of France or England? If we have fewer learned and scientific men than older countries can boast, we have a greater number above mediocrity, according to our population, and a vastly higher average of general intelligence. If our laws are too often loosely administered, it is at least in the power of the people to remedy the difficulty by substituting good and faithful for corrupt and inefficient officers; and if any law should prove burdensome, it can be repealed at the will of the majority. So far as injustice is concerned, I have seen more of it in Europe, individual rights were concerned, than I ever saw in California. We have a public sentiment in favor of the right which can not be shaken by corrupt, factious, and transitory influences. If our governors and public men are not furnished with gilded palaces and fine equipages, the labor of the toiling poor is not taxed to supply them. If we are backward in the higher branches of literature and the fine arts, there is scarcely a mechanic or a miner in the state who does not know more of the history of his own country, possess a more accurate knowledge of its institutions, read more of the current intelligence of the day from all other countries—who, in short, is not better versed in every branch of practical knowledge applicable to the ordinary purposes of life, than the average of the most intelligent classes in Great Britain or France. If we are deficient in the dandyism of dress and the puppyism of manners, which so generally pass for refinement and politeness on the Continent of Europe, there is scarcely a boor among us who would not be hooted out of the lowest society for the indifference, rudeness, and disrespect toward women, which form the rule rather than the exception among the polished nations of Europe. I have seen more absolute selfishness, coarseness, and innate vulgarity under the guise of elegant manners, since my arrival on this side of the water, than I ever saw in California under any guise whatever. If that be civilization, I do not want to see it prevail in our country. It would be difficult, indeed, to say in what respect a comparison would not show a heavy balance in our favor. Wealth is more equally diffused, fortune is more accessible to all, the honors and emolument of political position are within the reach of every man, the press is unrestrained in its freedom save in so far as individual rights and the well-being of society may be concerned; no class is oppressed by inequitable burdens, and none endowed with exclusive privileges; a rich soil, a prolific mineral region, a climate unequaled for its salubrity, and a promising future, afford profitable occupation, health, and happiness to the whole community; none need suffer unless from their own misconduct, or the visitation of the Supreme Power by which all are ruled; and none need despond who possess energy of character and the capacity to appreciate the many blessings bestowed upon them. What nation in Europe possesses a future at all, much less such a future as that which lies before us? Russia may improve and prosper to a certain extent; beyond that, no human eye can discern the glimmerings of a higher and more enlarged civilization. England has reached her culminating point. The States of Germany—what future have they? Alas! the past and the present must answer. France—where is her future? Another revolution—another emperor—another and another bloody history of revolutions, barricades, kings, emperors, and demagogues, reaching, so far as human eye can penetrate, through the dim vistas of all time to come. If, on the one side, we see the type of human perfection and the maturity of all worldly knowledge, and if we see on the other only the presumption that springs from ignorance, want of cultivation, or want of reverence for the example of others, then I earnestly pray that we may forever remain in our present benighted condition, or, if we advance at all, that it may not be in the direction taken by any of the governments of Europe. As our present is unlike theirs, so I trust may be our future.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A BOND OF SYMPATHY.

The Russians, doubtless, have a natural appetite for tobacco, in common with all races of mankind, whether Digger Indians, Caffirs, Hindoos, Persians, Turks, Americans, or Dutchmen; for I never yet have met with a people who did not take to the glorious weed, in some shape or other, as naturally as a babe to its mother's breast. Vodka, or native brandy, is their favorite beverage, when they can get it. In that respect, too, they share a very common attribute of humanity—a passion for strong drinks. Nevertheless, although the love of intoxicating liquors is pretty general in Russia, the habit of smoking which usually accompanies it is not so common as in the more southern parts of Europe. A reason for this may be found in the prohibitions established by the government against the general use of tobacco. It is true, any person who pleases may enjoy this luxury, but by a rigid ukase of the emperor the restrictions amount very nearly to an absolute prohibition, so far as the common people are concerned. Smoking is prohibited in the streets of every town and city throughout the empire, and any infraction of the law in this respect, whether by a native or foreigner, is visited by a heavy penalty. I hear of several instances in St. Petersburg and Moscow of arrests by the police for violations of the imperial decree. The reason given by the Russians themselves for this despotic regulation is, that the cities being built mostly of wood, extensive and disastrous conflagrations have arisen from carelessness in street-smoking. It is difficult to see how the risk is lessened in this way, for the prohibition does not extend to smoking within doors. A carpenter may indulge his propensity for cigars over a pile of shavings, provided it be in his workshop, but he must not carry a lighted cigar in his mouth on any of the public thoroughfares. The true reason perhaps is, that the emperor considers it a useless and expensive habit, and thus makes use of his imperial power to discountenance it, as far as practicable, among his subjects. They may drink vodka if they please, because that only burns their insides out; but they must not smoke cigars, as a general rule, because that impairs their moral perceptions. Hence cigars are not permitted to be sold at any of the tobacco-shops in packages of less than ten. Few of the lower classes ever save up money enough to buy ten cigars at a time, so that if they desire to smoke they must go to a cheap groggery and indulge in cheap cigaritos. Owing to the want of opportunity, therefore, smoking is not a national characteristic, as in Germany and the United States.

This, I must confess, gave me a rather gloomy impression of Russia, and accounted in some measure for the grave and uncongenial aspect of the people. One always likes to find some bond of sympathy between himself and the inhabitants of the country through which he travels. I remember reading somewhere of a Scotchman who had occasion to visit the United States on business connected with an establishment in Glasgow. He was disgusted with the manners and customs of the people; had no faith in their capacity for business; found nothing to approve; considered them vulgar, impertinent, irresponsible, and irreligious; and finally was about to take his departure with these unfavorable views, when he discovered, from some practical experience, that they possessed, in addition to all these traits, wonderful shrewdness in the art of swindling. New dodges that he had never dreamt of turned up in the line of debits and credits; he was interested—delighted! A familiar chord was touched. He retracted all he had said; formed the most exalted opinion of the people; reluctantly returned to Glasgow, and there made a fortune in the course of a few years! It is said that he now swears by the eternal Yankee nation—the only oath he was ever known to make use of—and expresses a desire to settle in the United States, if he can find a suitable part of the country abounding in fogs, rain, sleet, snow, and wind.

Somewhat akin to this is the affection with which a traveler in a foreign land regards every mountain, tree, or flower that reminds him of his own country. The most pleasant parts of my experiences of mountain scenery are those that most resemble similar experiences at home. Some suggestion or hint of a familiar scene has often caused me to enjoy what would otherwise perhaps have attracted no particular attention. I remember once, while traveling in Brazil, near the Falls of Tejuca, some very pleasant scenes of early life came suddenly to mind, without any thing that I could perceive at the moment to give rise to such a train of thought. The aspect of the country was different from any I had ever seen before; and it was not till I discovered a bunch of violets close by my feet that I became aware that it was a familiar perfume which had so mysteriously carried me back to by-gone days. On another occasion, when at sea in the Indian Ocean, after many dreary months of absence from home, I one day accidentally found in the pocket of an old coat a paper of fine-cut chewing tobacco. With what delight I grasped the glittering treasure and applied it to my nose can only be conceived by a true lover of the weed—I speak not of your voracious chewers, who masticate this delectable narcotic as if it were food for the stomach instead of nutriment for the soul, but of the genuine devotee, who can appreciate the divinest essence, the rarest delicacies of tone and touch, the most exquisite shades of sentiment in this wondrous weed. What a luxury, after months of dreary longing—what an oasis in the desert of life! No attar of roses could be sweeter than that paper of fine-cut. I played with it—just titillating the nostrils—for hours before I dared to descend to the coarse process of chewing. And then—ah heavens! can mortal mixture ever equal that first chew again! How bright and beautiful the world looked! What happy remembrances I reveled in all that day, of serenades, and oyster-suppers, and pretty girls, and a thousand other fascinations of early youth, all of which grew out of a paper of fine-cut.

My experiences in Sweden were even more delightful in this respect than in Russia. At Stockholm I saw drunken men every day, and at Gottenburg it was the prevailing trait. The trouble was to see a man who was not laboring under a pressure of bricks in his hat. On one occasion I must have seen in the course of a single afternoon several hundred reeling home in the highest possible condition of ecstasy—either that, or the streets were so badly paved, and the roads so devious and undulating, that they made people stagger to keep straight. It was on the occasion of a fair, and may perhaps have been an exception to the general rule. One thing is certain—it looked very natural, and made me cotton wonderfully to these good people. There was something really homelike in a reeling, staggering crowd—their shouts and uproarious songs, their boozy faces and tobacco-stained months. Every body seemed to be on a regular "bender." The only point of difference between the Swedish and the California "bender" was in the way the boys hugged and kissed the peasant-girls; but even in this respect a similitude may sometimes be found in the vicinity of the Indian Reservations, where I have seen Digger damsels treated quite as affectionately. However, it was all right, so long as both parties were willing. I rather liked the Gottenburg custom myself—as a spectator, of course.

My last and perhaps most agreeable experience connected with the pleasures of sympathy occurred in Norway, on the road from Christiania to Trondhjem. With profound humiliation I make the confession that I have never yet been able to eradicate a natural passion for tobacco. Once, after reading the Rev. Dr. Cox's terrific book on the Horrors of Tobacco, in which it was conclusively shown that a single drop of the oil of this noxious weed put upon a cat's tongue killed the cat, I resolved to master this vicious propensity for poison. For six months I neither smoked, snuffed, nor chewed. But it came back somehow. Care, I think, revived it, and every body knows that care, as well as tobacco, killed a cat. A man might as well be killed one way as another. We must all eat our peck of dirt, and in some shape or other swallow our peck of poison. One learned gentleman proves that tobacco is poison; another, that coffee and tea are equally fatal; another, that meat is no better, and so on; our food and drink are pretty much composed of poison, so that we are constantly killing ourselves, and the result is, we die at last. Still, it is marvelous how long some people survive all these deadly stimulants; how fat and hearty the Germans are in spite of their meerschaums; how wonderfully the French survive their strong coffee; how the Russians deluge their stomachs with hot tea and yet still live; how the English get over their porter and brown stout; and how long it takes the various poisons to which the various nations of the earth are addicted to produce any sensible diminution in the population. Sometimes I am inclined to think people would die if they never ate a particle of any thing—either food or poison. It seems to be one of those debts that we incur on coming into the world, and can only discharge by going out of it.

All of which leads you gradually to the main point—my experience in Norway. First, however, I must tell you that on my arrival in Europe, not being able to find a plug of genuine Cavendish, I was forced to satisfy the cravings of this morbid appetite by nibbling bad cigars. But a new difficulty soon became manifest—there was not a spot in all Germany where it was possible to get rid of a quid without attracting undue attention. No man likes to be stared at as an outlaw against the recognized decencies of life. One may smoke cigars under a lady's nose, dress like a popinjay, or kiss his bearded friend in most Continental cities, but he must not chew tobacco, because it is considered a barbarous and filthy habit. He may guzzle beer, take snuff, and wear dirty shirts, but if he would avoid reproach as an unclean animal he must abandon his quids. Now, as a general rule, I dislike to violate public sentiment, or inconvenience people with whom I associate. If they are nonsensical and inconsistent in their notions, I agree with them for the sake of harmony, if not for politeness. Nothing pleases me better than to annoy an Englishman by doing every thing that he most dislikes, because he makes it a point to be disagreeable and unmannerly; carries his nationality wherever he goes, and it does me good to furnish him with material for criticism. Out of pure good nature, I meet him half way; chew and spit that he may grumble, and put my legs over the back of the nearest chair to see him enjoy a good hearty fit of disgust, and talk loud that he may find material for ill-natured reflections on American manners—all of which, I know, is exactly what obliges him. It affords him such undeniable grounds for the depreciation of others, and the indulgence of his own weak vanity!

In like manner I obliged my German friends, who, however, are altogether different in their exactions, and only require Americans to drop all their uncivilized habits, and become like themselves—quiet, decent, and respectable old fogies. Therefore I obeyed the laws, doffed my savage California costume, quit whisky, took to beer, avoided all passages of tenderness toward the female sex, and herded mostly with men. For a time, however, I held on to my beloved quid of cigar. It was such a solace in the midst of all these privations! But, alas! I had to give that up too; there was not a spot in all Germany suitable for the purpose of expectoration! The floors of the houses are so dreadfully clean—not a piece of carpet bigger than a rug to sit upon; the porcelain stoves so inaccessible; the windows always shut; every nook and corner blazing with little ornaments; the lady of the house so severely conscious of every movement; even the little earthen pans near the stove, filled with white sand nicely smoothed over to represent salt-cellars—the ostensible spittoons of the establishment—staring one in the face with a cold, steady gaze amounting to a positive prohibition—no, the thing was impossible! I saw plainly that a good, old-fashioned squirt of tobacco-juice would ruin such a country as this, where every room in every house was inimical to the habit, and every speck of ground throughout the length and breadth of the land adapted to some useful or ornamental purpose. Why, sir, I assure you that in the little duchy of Nassau—where it is said the grand-duke is unable to exercise his soldiers at target-shooting without obtaining permission to place the target in some neighboring state—I found the garden-walks and public roads so fearfully clean, every leaf and twig being swept up daily, and preserved to manure the duchy, that during a pedestrian tour of three days I was absolutely ashamed to spit any where. There was no possible chance of doing it without expunging a soldier or a policeman, or disfiguring the entire province. The result was, between tobacco-juice, salt water, iron water, sulphur water, soda-water, and all other sorts of water that came out of the earth from Brunnens of Nassau, I got home as thin as a snake, and was forced to deny myself even the poor consolation of a Frankfort cigar. So matters went on for nearly a year. I became a morose and melancholy man. This will account for all the bitter and ill-natured things I said of the Germans in some of my sketches, every word of which I now retract.

But to come to the point of the narrative. In the due course of a vagabond life, after visiting Russia and Sweden, I found myself one day on the road from Lillehammer to the Dorre Fjeld in Norway. I sat in a little cariole—an old peasant behind. The scenery was sublime. Poetry crept over my inmost soul. The old man leaned over and said something. Great heavens! What a combination of luxuries! His breath smelled of whisky and tobacco. I was enchanted. I turned and gazed fondly and affectionately in his withered old face. Two streams of rich juice coursed down his furrowed chin. His leathery and wrinkled mouth was besmeared with the precious fluid; his eyes rolled foolishly in his head; he hung on to the cariole with a trembling and unsteady hand; a delicious odor pervaded the entire man. I saw that he was a congenial soul—cottoned to him at once—grasped him by the hand—swore he was the first civilized human I had met in all my travels through Europe—and called upon him, in the name of the great American brotherhood of chewers, to pass me a bite of his tobacco. From that moment we were the best of friends. The old man dived into the depths of a greasy pocket, pulled out a roll of black pigtail, and with joy beaming from every feature, saw me tear from it many a goodly mouthful. We talked—he in Norwegian, I in a mixture of German and English; we chewed; we spat; we laughed and joked; we forgot all the discrepancies of age, nativity, condition, and future prospects; in short, we were brothers, by the sublime and potent free-masonry of tobacco. All that day my senses were entranced. I saw nothing but familiar faces, gulches, canyons, bar-rooms, and boozy stage-drivers; smelt nothing but whisky and tobacco in every flower by the wayside; aspired to nothing but Congress and the suffrages of my fellow-citizens. I was once again in my own, my beloved California.

"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home."



CHAPTER XIX.

CIVILIZATION IN RUSSIA.

It may be a little startling to set out with the general proposition that Russia is not only very far from being a civilized country, but that it never can be one in the highest sense of the term. The remark of Peter the Great, that distance was the only serious obstacle to be overcome in the civilization of Russia, was such as might well be made by a monarch of iron will and unparalleled energy, at whose bidding a great city arose out of the swamps of Courland, where Nature never intended a city to stand. But the remark is not true in point of fact. Distance can be annihilated, or nearly so; and although Peter the Great was probably aware of that fact, he might well have reasoned that facility of intercommunication is not so much the cause as the result of civilization. The wilderness may be made to blossom as the rose through human agency, but it can only be done by divine permission. I think that permission has been withheld in the case of a very considerable portion of Russia. No human power can successfully contend against the depressing influences of a climate scarcely paralleled for its rigor. Where there are four months of a summer, to which the scorching heats of Africa can scarcely bear a comparison, and from six to eight months of a polar winter, it is utterly impossible that the moral and intellectual faculties of man can be brought to the highest degree of perfection. There must, of course, always be exceptions to every general rule; but even in the dark and bloody history of Russia we find that the exceptions of superior intelligence and enlightenment have been chiefly confined to those who availed themselves of the advantages afforded by more temperate climes. Peter himself, the greatest of the Czars, and certainly the most gifted of his race in point of intellect, perfected his education in other countries, and in all his grand enterprises of improvement availed himself of the intellect and experience of other races. Every important improvement introduced into Russia during his reign was the product of some other country, executed under foreign supervision. This, perhaps, more than any thing else, may be said to afford the most striking evidence of the enlarged and progressive character of his mind. Yet the very same practice has been followed to a greater or less extent by all his successors, and still, with the exception of a railroad built by Americans, a telegraph system, a few French fashions, and a movement professing to have for its object the emancipation of the serfs, the country, beyond the limits of the sea-port districts and those parts bordering on the States of Germany, has advanced but little toward civilization since the reign of Peter.

With such a vast extent of territory, and such a variety of climates as it must necessarily embrace, it may seem rather a broad assertion to say that climate can be any obstacle to Russian civilization; but let us glance for a moment at the general character of the country. Between the sixtieth and seventy-eighth degrees of north latitude, embracing a considerable portion of European and Asiatic Russia, the winters are exceedingly long and severe, the summers so short that but little dependence can be placed upon crops. The greater part of this region consists of lakes, swamps, forests of pine, and extensive and barren plains. The mines of Siberia may be regarded as the most valuable feature in this desolate region. The production of flax and hemp in the province of Petersburg, and the lumber products of the forests which are accessible to the capital, give some importance to such portions as border on the southern and European limit of this great belt; but its general features are opposed to agricultural progress. Whatever of civilization can exist within it must be of forced growth, and be maintained under the most adverse circumstances. South of this, between the fifty-fifth and sixtieth degrees of latitude, comes a still wider and more extensive region, comprising St. Petersburg, Riga, Moscow, Smolensk, and a portion of Irkutsk and Nijni Novgorod. Here the summers are longer and the winters not quite so severe; but a large portion of the country consists of forests, sterile plains, and extensive marshes, and much of it is entirely unfit for cultivation. The European portions are well settled, and corn, flax, and hemp are produced wherever the land is available, and large bands of cattle roam over many parts of the country. In its general aspect, however, considering the duration and severity of the winters, and the large proportion of unavailable lands, I do not think it can ever become very productive in an agricultural point of view. Between fifty and fifty-five degrees latitude, embracing the valley of the Volga, is a more favored region, abounding in fertile lands, and the summers are longer, but the winters are still severe, especially in the eastern portions. From latitude forty-three to fifty, embracing portions of Kief, the Caucasus, and other southern possessions of the empire, the winters are comparatively temperate, and the summers warm and long; but here, again, a great portion of this country consists of mountains, arid plains, and deserts, and it is subject to extreme and terrible droughts. Here is a vast extent of territory, comprising about one hundred and sixty-five degrees of longitude and thirty-five of latitude, which contains within its limits a greater variety of bad climates, and a greater amount of land unavailable for any purposes of human life, than any equal compass of territory upon the globe, if we except Africa, which is at least doubtful. Within the limits of this vast, and, for the most part, inhospitable region, we find nearly all the races who, as far back as the history of mankind dates, have been the most addicted to predatory wars, and the indulgence of every savage propensity growing out of an untamable nature—Tartars, Cossacks, gipsies, Turks, Circassians, Georgians, etc., and the Russians proper, whose wild Sclavonic blood contains very nearly all the vices and virtues that circulate through the veins of all these races, besides many enterprising and unscrupulous traits of character to which the inferior tribes could never aspire. Here we have a mixed population, estimated in 1856 at seventy-one millions, including North American possessions and tributary tribes, a great part of it composed of totally incongruous elements, and with a variety of religions, embracing about nine millions of Roman, Armenian, and irregular Greek Catholics, Lutherans, Mohammedans, Israelites, and Buddhists—the national creed being the Greco-Russe, which, it is estimated, is professed by about fifty millions of the inhabitants, including, of course, infants and young children, and many others who know nothing about it. To keep all these incongruous elements in order, and provide against foreign invasion, requires a standing army of 577,859 troops "for grand operations," as the last almanac expresses it, besides various corps de reserve, and a navy of 186 from steamers, 41 large sailing vessels, and numerous gun-boats and smaller vessels, in the Baltic, the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, the White Sea, and the Sea of Azof. More than seven eighths of these are frozen up and totally unavailable for six months every year. It is estimated that, after allowing for the forces necessary to protect the home possessions of the empire, of which Russian Poland is the most troublesome, the number of troops that can be brought into active offensive operation does not, under ordinary circumstances, exceed two hundred thousand men, and it must be obvious, considering that Russia has but little external sea-board, and must submit to the rigors of a climate which locks up the best part of her navy at least half of every year, that she can never attain any great strength as a naval power. I am inclined to believe, therefore, that while this great nation, or combination of nations, is, from the very nature of its climate and topography, almost impregnable to foreign invasion, it can never become a very formidable power at any great distance from home; and there are considerations connected with its form of government, and the difficulty or impracticability of changing it, which, in my opinion, forms an insuperable obstacle to the education of the people, and such general dissemination of intelligence among the masses as will entitle them to take the highest rank among civilized nations. Nor does the history of Russia during past ages afford much encouragement for a different view of the future. Democracy existed for several centuries before the country became subject to despotic rule, and from the ninth to the fifteenth century the aristocracy possessed no hereditary privileges; the offices of state were accessible to all, and the peasantry enjoyed personal liberty. It was not until the reign of Peter the Great—the high-priest of civilization—that the serfs became absolute slaves subject to sale, with or without the lands upon which they lived. In respect to political liberty, there has been little, if any advance since the reign of the Empress Catherine, who accorded some elective privileges to certain classes of her subjects in the provinces, and reduced the administration of the laws to something like a system. The absurd pretense of Alexander I. in according to the Senate the right of remonstrating against imperial decrees is perfectly in keeping with all grants of power made by the sovereigns of Russia to their subjects. There is not, and can not be in the nature of things, a limited despotism. As soon as the subjects possess constitutional rights at all binding upon the supreme authority, it becomes another form of government. The great difficulty in Russia is, that the sovereign can not divest himself of any substantial part of his power without adding to that of the nobles and the aristocracy, who are already, by birth, position, and instinct, the class most to be feared, and most inimical to the process of freedom. It is not altogether the ignorance of the masses, therefore, that forms an insuperable barrier to the introduction of more liberal institutions, but the wealth, intelligence, and influence of the higher classes, who neither toil nor spin, but derive their support from the labor of the masses whom they hold in subjection. It is natural enough they should oppose every reform tending to elevate these subordinate classes upon whom they are dependent for all the powers and luxuries of their position. Admitting that the present emperor may have a leaning toward free institutions, and possibly contemplate educating forty or fifty millions of his subjects to run him into the Presidency of Russia, it is obvious that the path is very thorny, and that the position will be well earned if ever he gets there. But these acts of sovereign condescension, although they read very well in newspapers, and serve to entertain mankind with vague ideas of the progress of freedom, are generally the essence of an intense egotism, and amount to nothing more than cunning devices to subvert what little of liberty their subjects may be likely to extort from them by the maintenance of their rights. I do not say that Alexander II. is governed by these motives, but, having no faith in kings or despots of any kind, however good they may be, I can see no reason why he should prove any better than his predecessors. Upon this point let me tell you an anecdote. You are aware, perhaps, that the Finns have a Constitution which allows them to do what they please, provided it be pleasing to the emperor. Like the ukase of Alexander I. to the Senate, and all similar grants of authority, it is not worth the parchment upon which it is written, and in its practical operation is no better than a practical joke. The Finns, however, are a brave, simple minded, and rather superstitious people, and take some pride in this Constitution. It is the ghost of liberty at all events, and they indulge in the hope that some day or other it will fish up the dead body. Not more than a few weeks ago, a small party of these worthy people, on their way to Stockholm for purposes of business or pleasure, were arrested and put in prison by the Russian authorities on the supposition that they differed from the emperor in his interpretation of this liberal Constitution, and were going to Sweden to lay their grievances before their old compatriots. It is quite possible that this was true. I heard complaints made when I was in Helsingfors that there was quite a difference of opinion on the subject. But it is a marvel how they could misunderstand their right under the Constitution, when there is a strong military force stationed at the principal cities of Finland to make it intelligible. So thought the emperor or his subordinates, and put them in jail to give them light. The point in the transaction which strikes me most forcibly is, that a power like that of Russia, after having wrested the province of Finland from Sweden, with an army and navy far inferior to what she now possesses, should be afraid that a handful of Finns should tell a pitiful tale to the King of Sweden, and prevail upon him to take their country back again. If this be the freedom granted under the free Constitution of Finland, the restraints upon personal liberty must be pretty stringent in dependencies where no Constitutions at all exist.

By a natural law, the waves of despotism gather strength and volume as they spread from the central power. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that the Autocrat of Russia is the least despotic of all the despots in authority. The landed proprietors in the remote provinces too often rule their dependents with an iron rod, and the strong arm of the supreme authority is more frequently exercised in the protection than in the oppression of the lower classes. The tribunals of justice in these districts are corrupt, and the laws, as they are administered by the subordinate officers of the government, afford but little chance of justice to the ignorant masses. The landed proprietors are subjected to various exactments and oppressions from the governors, and these again are at the mercy of the various colleges or departments above them, and so on up to the imperial council and imperial presence. Each class or grade becomes independent, despotic, and corrupt in proportion as they recede from the central authority, having a greater latitude of power, and being less apprehensive of punishment for its abuse. In truth, the nobles and aristocracy are the immediate oppressors of the ignorant masses, who are taught to regard them as demigods, and bow down before them in slavish abasement. Now and then, in extreme cases, where the autocrat discovers abuses which threaten to impair his authority, he sends some of these aspiring gentlemen on a tour of pleasure to Siberia, and thus practically demonstrates that there is a ruling power in the land. As all authority emanates from him, and all responsibility rests with him, so all justice, liberality, fair dealing, and humanity are apt to find in a good sovereign, under such a system, their best friend and most conscientious supporter. The success of his government, the prosperity and happiness of his people, even the perpetuity of the entire political system, depend upon the judicious and equitable use which he makes of his power. There are limits to human forbearance, as sovereigns have discovered by this time. The Czar is but a man, a mere mortal, after all, and can only hold his authority through the consent, indifference, or ignorance of his subjects; but should he oppress them by extraordinary punishments or exactions, or withdraw from them his protection against the petty tyranny of his subordinates, he would find, sooner or later, that the most degraded can be aroused to resentment. It is the belief on the part of the peasantry, of which the population of Russia is in so large a part formed, that the emperor is their friend—that he does not willingly or unnecessarily deprive them of their liberties. This tends to keep them in subjection. Indeed, they have but faint notions of liberty, if any at all, born as they are to a condition of servitude, and reared in abject submission to the governing authorities. They are generally well satisfied if they can get enough to eat; and, when they are not subjected to cruel and unusual abuses, are comparatively happy.

The unreasonable assumptions of power on the part of their immediate governing authorities present a trait common to mankind. We know from experience in our own country that the negro-driver on a Southern plantation—a slave selected from slaves—is often more tyrannical in the use of authority than the overseer or owner. We know that there are hard and unfeeling overseers on many plantations, where the owner is comparatively mild and humane. So far as he knows any thing of the details of his own affairs, his natural disposition accords with his interest, and he is favorable to the kind treatment of his slaves. But he can not permit them to become intelligent beings. They may study all the mechanical arts which may be useful to him—become blacksmiths, carpenters, or machinists, but they must not learn that they are held in servitude, and that the Almighty has given him no natural right to live upon their earnings, or enjoy his pleasure or power at the expense of their labor and their freedom. The same condition of things, with some variation, of course, arising from differences of climate and races, exists in Russia, and the results are not altogether dissimilar. We find idleness, lack of principle, overbearing manners, ignorance, and sensualism a very common characteristic of the superior classes, mingled though it may be with a show of fine manners, and such trivial and superficial accomplishments as may be obtained without much labor. It is a great negro plantation on a large scale, in which the gradation of powers has a depressing tendency, causing them to increase in rigor as they descend, like a stone dropped from a height, which at first might be caught in the open hand, but soon acquires force enough to brain an ox.

One of the effects of the strong coercive powers of the government is perceptible in this, that the greatest latitude prevails in every thing that does not interfere with the maintenance of political authority; and although it is difficult, in such a country, to find much that comes within that category, occasional exceptions may be found. Thus drunkenness, debauchery, indecency, and reckless, prodigal, and filthy habits, are but little regarded, while the slightest approach to the acquisition of a liberal education, or the expression of liberal opinions on any subject connected with public polity, is rigidly prohibited. Most of the English newspapers are excluded from the empire, although if admitted they would have but few general readers among the Russians—certainly not many among the middle or lower classes. No publication on political economy, no work of any kind relating to the science of government or the natural rights of man; nothing, in short, calculated to impair the faith of the people in the necessity of their political servitude, is permitted to enter the country without a most careful examination. A rigid censorship is exercised over the press, the libraries, the public colleges, the schools, and all institutions having in view the education of the people and the dissemination of intelligence. The Censorial Bureau is in itself an important branch of the government, having its representatives diffused throughout every province, in every public institution, and even extending its ramifications into the sacred realms of private life; for it is a well-known fact that a family can not employ a private tutor whose antecedents and political proclivities have not undergone the scrutiny and received the official sanction of the censorial authorities.

How can a country, under such circumstances, be expected to take a high rank among the enlightened nations of the earth? The very germ of its existence is founded in the suppression of intelligence. It may enjoy a limited advancement, but there can be no great progress in any direction which does not tend at the same time to the subversion of a despotic rule. Even the theatres, operas, cafes, and all places of public amusement, are under the same rigid surveillance. No play can be performed, no opera given, no cafe opened, no garden amusements offered to the public, unless under the supervision and with the sanction of the censorial authorities. In all well-regulated communities there must be, of course, some local or municipal restrictions respecting popular amusements, based upon a regard for public morals, but in this case the question of morality is not taken into much account. Provided there is nothing politically objectionable in the performance, and it has no tendency to make the people better acquainted with the rottenness of courts, the selfishness, wickedness, and insincerity of men in authority, and their own rights as human beings—provided the theme be Jishn za Zara—"Your life for your Czar," or the exhibition a voluptuous display—provided it be merely a matter of abject adulation or fashionable sensation, the most fastidious censor can find no fault with it. What, then, does the education of the masses amount to? We read of lectures for the diffusion of knowledge among the people; of colleges for young men; of various institutions of learning; of a liberal system of common schools for the poor. All this is very well in its way. A little light is better than none when the road is crooked, and the country abounds in ruts and deep pitfalls. But the lights shed by these institutions are much obscured by the official glasses through which they shine. The building of fortifications; the manufacture of gunpowder; the use of guns and swords; the beauties of rhetoric abounding in the drill manual; the eloquence of batteries and broadsides; the poetry of ditching and draining; the ethics of primary obedience to the authorities, and afterward to God and reason; all that pertains to rapine, bloodshed, and wholesale murder—the noble art of mutilating men in the most effective manner, and the best method of cutting them up or putting them together again when that is done; the horrid sin of using one's own lights on any internal problem of right or wrong, religion or public policy, when the emperor, in the plenitude of his generosity, furnishes light enough out of his individual head for sixty-five millions of people—these are the principal themes upon which the intellects of the rising generation of Russia are nourished. In the primary schools a select and authorized few are taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, but they seldom get much farther, and not always that far, before subordinate positions in the army or navy are found for them. Their education is indeed very limited, and may be set down as an exception to the general ignorance.

It will thus be seen that the whole system of education has but one object in view, the maintenance of a military despotism. In this it would scarcely be reasonable to search for cause of complaint. Doubtless the acquisition of knowledge is encouraged as far as may be consistent with public security and public peace. But it is obvious that under such a system these people can never emerge from their condition of semi-barbarism. They must continue behind the spirit of the age in all that pertains to the highest order of civilization. Science, in a limited sense, may find a few votaries; the arts may be cultivated to a certain degree; a feeble school of literature may attain the eminence of a national feature; but there can be no general expansion of the intellectual faculties, no enlarged and comprehensive views of life and of human affairs. Whatever these people do must be subservient to military rule; beyond that there can be little advance save in what is palpable to the grosser senses, or what panders to the savagery of their nature. A statesman or a philosopher, with independence enough to think and speak the truth if his views differed from those of the constituted authorities, would be a very dangerous character, and be very apt to pursue his career, in company with all who have hitherto aspired to distinction in that way, beyond the confines of Siberia. Russia may produce many Karasmins to write glowing histories of her wars and conquests, but her Burkes, her Pitts, and her Foxes will be few, and her Shakspeares and her Bacons fewer still. Her Pascal's Reflections will be tinged with Siberian horrors; her Young's Night Thoughts will be of the dancing damsels of St. Petersburg; her Vicars of Wakefield will abound in the genial humor of devils and dragons, saints and tortures; and the wit of her Sidney Smiths will have a crack of the knout about it, skinning men's back's rather than their backslidings; effective only when it draws human blood, and best approved by the censors when it strikes at human freedom.

We find the results of such a system strongly marked upon the general character. While equals are jealous of each other, inferiors are slavish and superiors tyrannical. It is often the case that overbearing manners and abject humility are centred in the same class or person. Thus the Camarilla are overbearing to the bureaucracy, the bureaucracy to the provincial nobility, and the provincial nobility to the inferior classes. As I said before, it is a sliding-scale of despotism. The worst feature of it is seen in the treatment of women. Among the better classes conventionality has, doubtless, somewhat meliorated their condition. Absolute physical cruelty would be, perhaps, a violation of etiquette and good breeding; but neglect, selfishness, innate coarseness of thought, and a general want of chivalrous appreciation, are too common in the treatment of Russian women not to strike the most casual observer. Certainly the impressions of one who has been taught from infancy to regard the gentler sex as entitled to the most profound respect and chivalrous devotion—to look upon them as beings of a more delicate essence than man, yet infinitely superior in those moral attributes which rise so high above intellect or physical power—are not favorable to the assumptions of Russian civilization. Yet, since the condition of woman is but little better in any part of Europe, it may be that this is one of the fashions imported from France or Germany, and since these two claim to be the most polite and cultivated nations in existence, it is even possible that the Americans—a rude people, who have not yet had time to polish their manners or perfect their customs—may be mistaken in their estimate of the ladies, and will, some day or other, become more Europeanized.

But, in all fairness, if the Russians be a little uncouth in their way, they possess, like bears, a wonderful aptness in learning to dance; if the brutal element is strong in their nature, so also is the capacity to acquire frivolous and meretricious accomplishments. Like all races in which the savage naturally predominates, they delight in the glitter of personal decoration, the allurements of music, dancing, and the gambling-table, and all the luxuries of idleness and sensuous folly—traits which they share pretty generally with the rest of mankind. Tropical gardens, where the thermometer is twenty degrees below zero; feasts and frolics that in a single night may leave them beggars for life; military shows; the smoke and carnage of battle; the worship of their saints and Czars—these are their chief pleasures and most genial occupations.

But, with all this folly and prodigality, there is really a great deal of native generosity in the Russian character. Liberal to a fault in every thing but the affairs of government, they freely bestow their wealth upon charitable institutions, and, whether rich or poor, are ever ready to extend the hand of relief to the distresses of their fellow-creatures. It is rarely they hoard their gains. There are few who do not live up to the full measure of their incomes, and most of them very far beyond. Whether they spend their means for good or for evil, they are at least free from the groveling sin of stinginess. I never met more than one stingy Russian to my knowledge; but let him go. He reaped his reward in the dislike of all who knew him. Toward each other, even the beggars are liberal. There is nothing little or contemptible in the Russian character. Overbearing and despotic they may be; deficient in the gentler traits which grace a more cultivated people; but meanness is not one of their failings. In this they present a striking contrast to a large and influential portion of their North German neighbors, for whose sordid souls Beelzebub might search in vain through the desert wastes that lie upon the little end of a cambric needle.

In some respects the Russians evince a more enlarged appreciation of the world's progress than many of their European neighbors. They have no fixed prejudices against mechanical improvements of any kind. Quick to appreciate every advance in the useful arts, they are ever ready to accept and put in practical operation whatever they see in other countries better than the product of their own. Thus they adopt English and American machinery, railways, telegraphs, improvements in artillery, and whatever else they deem beneficial, or calculated to augment their prosperity and power as a nation. While in Germany it would be almost an impossibility to introduce the commonest and most obvious improvement in the mechanical arts—if we except railways and telegraphs, which have become a military and political necessity, growing out of the progress of neighboring powers—while many of their fabrics are still made by hand, and their mints, presses, and fire-engines are of almost primeval clumsiness, the Russians eagerly grasp at all novelties, and are wonderfully quick in the comprehension of their uses and advantages. A similar comparison might be made in reference to the freedom of internal trade, and the encouragement given to every industrial pursuit among the people, being the exact reverse of the policy pursued by the German governments. Thus, while we find them backward in the refinements of literature and intellectual culture, it is beyond doubt that they possess wonderful natural capacity to learn. They lack steadiness and perseverance, and are not always governed by the best motives; but in boldness of spirit, disregard of narrow prejudice, ability to conceive and execute what they desire to accomplish, they have few equals and no superiors. Combined with these admirable traits, their wild Sclavonic blood abounds in elements which, upon great occasions, arise to the eminence of a sublime heroism. Brave and patriotic, devoted to their country and their religion, we search the pages of history in vain for a parallel to their sacrifices in the defense of both. Not even the wars of the Greeks and Romans can produce such an example of heroic devotion to the maintenance of national integrity as the burning of Moscow. When an entire people, devoted to their religion, gave up their churches and their shrines to the devouring element; when princes and nobles placed the burning brands to their palaces; when bankers, merchants, and tradesmen freely yielded up their hard-earned gains; when women and children joined the great work of destruction to deliver their country from the hands of a ruthless invader, it may well be said of that sublime flame—

"Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire, To come, in which all empires shall expire."

Truly, when we glance back at the national career of the Russians, they can not but strike us as a wonderful people. While we must condemn their cruelty and rapacity; while we can see nothing to excuse in their ferocious persecution of the Turks; while the greater part of their history is a bloody record of injustice to weaker nations, we can not but admire their indomitable courage, their intense and unalterable attachment to their brave old Czars, and their sublime devotion to their religion and their nationality.



CHAPTER XX.

PASSAGE TO REVEL.

It was not without a feeling of regret that I took my departure from St. Petersburg. Short as my visit to Russia had been, it was full of interest. Not a single day had been idly or unprofitably spent. Indeed, I know of no country that presents so many attractions to the traveler who takes pleasure in novelties of character and peculiarities of manners and customs. The lovers of picturesque scenery will find little to gratify his taste in a mere railroad excursion to Moscow; but with ample time and means at his disposal, a journey to the Ural Mountains, or a voyage down the Volga to the Caspian Sea, would doubtless be replete with interest. For my part, much as I enjoy the natural beauties of a country through which I travel, they never afford me as much pleasure as the study of a peculiar race of people. Mere scenery, however beautiful, becomes monotonous, unless it be associated with something that gives it a varied and striking human interest. The mountains and lakes of Scotland derive their chief attractions from the wild legends of romance and chivalry so inseparably connected with them; and Switzerland would be but a dreary desert of glaciers without its history. In Russia, Nature has been less prodigal in her gifts; and the real interest of the country centres in its public institutions, the religious observances of the people, and the progress of civilization under a despotic system of government. Of these I have endeavored to give you such impressions as may be derived from a sojourn of a few weeks in Moscow and St. Petersburg—necessarily imperfect and superficial, but I trust not altogether destitute of amusing features.

On a pleasant morning in August, I called for my "rechnung" at the German gasthaus on the Wasseli-Ostrow. The bill was complicated in proportion to its length. There was an extra charge of fifteen kopeks a day for the room over and above the amount originally specified. That was conscientious cheating, so I made no complaint. Then there was a charge for two candles when I saw but one, and always went to bed by daylight. That was customary cheating, and could not be disputed. Next came an item for beefsteaks, when, to the best of my knowledge and belief, nothing but veal cutlets, which were also duly specified, ever passed my lips in any part of Russia. Upon that I ventured a remonstrance, but gave in on the assurance that it was Russian beefsteak. I was too glad to have any ground for believing that it was not Russian dog. Next came an item for police commissions. All that work I had done myself, and therefore was entitled to demur. It appeared that a man was kept for that purpose, and when he was not employed he expected remuneration for the disappointment. Then there was an item for domestic service, when the only service rendered was to black my boots, for which I had already paid. No matter; it was customary, so I gave in. Then came sundry bottles of wine. I never drink wine. "But," said the proprietor, "it was on the table." Not being able to dispute that, I abandoned the question of wine. Various ices were in the bill. I had asked for a lump of ice in a glass of water on several occasions, supposing it to be a common article in a country on the edge of the Arctic circle, but for every lump of ice the charge was ten kopeks. Upon this principle, I suppose they attach an exorbitant value to thawed water during six months of the year, when the Neva is a solid block of ice. I find that ice is an uncommonly costly luxury in Northern Europe, where there is a great deal of it. In Germany it is ranked with fresh water and other deadly poisons; in Russia it costs too much for general use; and in Norway and Sweden, where the snow-capped mountains are always in sight, the people seem to be unacquainted with the use of iced water, or, indeed, any other kind of water as a beverage in summer. They drink brandy and schnapps to keep themselves cool. However, I got through the bill at last, without loss of temper, being satisfied it was very reasonable for St. Petersburg. Having paid for every article real and imaginary; paid each servant individually for looking at me; then paid for domestic services generally; paid the proprietor for speaking his native language, which was German, and the commissioner for wearing a brass band on his cap, and bowing several times as I passed out, the whole matter was amicably concluded, and, with my knapsack on my back, I wended my way down to the steam-boat landing of the Wasseli-Ostrow. As I was about to step on board the Russian steamer bound for Revel—an eager crowd of passengers pressing in on the plankway from all sides—I was forcibly seized by the arm. Supposing it to be an arrest for some unconscious violation of the police regulations, a ghastly vision of Siberia flashed upon my mind as I turned to demand an explanation. But it was not a policeman who arrested me—it was only my friend, Herr Batz, the rope-maker, who, with a flushed face and starting eyes, gazed at me. "Where are you going?" said he. "To Revel," said I. Almost breathless from his struggle to get at me, he forcibly pulled me aside from the crowd, drew me close up to him, and in a hoarse whisper uttered these remarkable words: "Hempf is up! It took a rise yesterday—Zweimal zwey macht vier, und sechsmal vier macht vier und zwanzig! verstehen sie?" "Gott im Himmel!" said I, "you don't say so?" "Ya, freilich!" groaned Herr Batz, hoarsely: "Zwey tausent rubles! verstehen sie? Sechs und dreissig, und acht und vierzig." "Ya! ya!" said I, grasping him cordially by the hand, for I was afraid the steamer would leave—"Adjeu, mein Herr! adjeu!" and I darted away into the crowd. The last I saw of the unfortunate rope-maker, he was standing on the quay, waving his red cotton handkerchief at me. As the lines were cast loose, and the steamer swung out into the river, he put both hands to his mouth, and shouted out something which the confusion of sounds prevented me from hearing distinctly. I was certain, however, that the last word that fell upon my ear was "hempf!"