The Land of Thor

It must not be supposed from this little sketch of a characteristic scene that I wish to ridicule any form of religion. I saw precisely what I state, and am in no way responsible for it. If people imagine this sort of thing does them any good, they are quite welcome to enjoy it; but they must not expect every body else to be impressed with the profound sensations of solemnity which they feel themselves. The Russians may kiss the heads off every saint in Moscow without the slightest concern or opposition on my part. The Romans have kissed a pound of brass off the big toe of St. Peter, in the grand Cathedral at Rome, and I see no reason why other races should not enjoy similar privileges, only it does not produce the same effect upon every body.

Yet, in some sense, such scenes are not without an aspect of sadness. It is melancholy to look upon such a mingling of glitter and barbarism, wealth and poverty, sincerity, debasement, and crime. No human being is truly ridiculous, however grotesque may be the expression of his feelings, when they are the genuine outpouring of a contrite heart. These nobles, common citizens, and beggars, thus meeting upon common ground, in a country where the distinctions of rank are so rigidly observed, and for the time being disregarding all differences of condition; forgetting their ambitions, their jealousies, and animosities, and giving themselves up with such unselfish zeal to all the demands made upon them by their forms of religion, is, in itself, a touching and impressive sight. I confess that when the first shock of grotesqueness, so strikingly connected with all I saw, passed away, the feeling left was one of unutterable sadness. These people were all fellow-beings, and, right or wrong, they were profoundly in earnest; yet, while thinking thus, I could not but fancy the same divine strain of warning that was wafted to the house of Israel still lingered in the air: “Every man is brutish in his knowledge; every founder is confounded by the graven image; for his molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them; they are vanity and the work of errors; in the time of their visitation they shall perish.”

In reference to the interiors of the churches of the Kremlin, I can only find space to say, after having visited them all, that they present a confusion of gilded and glittering aisles, pillars, alcoves, chapels, and painted domes, which baffles any thing like accurate description. The Cathedral of the Assumption is literally lined with gilding, daubs of paintings representing scriptural scenes, figures and pictures of saints, dragons and devils of every conceivable color and oddity of design and costume, and burnished shrines and candelabras. Through the dazzling mazes of this sacred edifice crowds of devotees, priests, and penitents are continually wandering; here, casting themselves upon their knees, and bowing down before some gold-covered shrine; there standing in mute and rapt adoration before some pictured symbol of eternity – grandees, beggars, and all; the priests bearing tapers and chanting; the air filled with incense; the whole scene an indescribable combination of moving appeals to the senses. All the churches of the Kremlin partake, more or less, of this character. In some of them, the old bones and other relics held peculiarly sacred are inclosed within iron gratings or railings, and are only accessible to the visitor through the services of a priestly guide. Every visitor must, of course, pay for the gratification of his curiosity; so that the bones of the most venerated characters in the history of the Russian Church are turned into a considerable source of profit. It may well be said that every saint pays his own way, so long as there is a fragment of him left in this world. If one could be assured of the truth of all he learns during a tour of inspection through these receptacles of sacred relics, it would indeed confound all his previous impressions that the days of miracles had passed. There is a picture in the Uspenski Saber, the bare contemplation of which, combined with a fervent appeal, it is confidently asserted, recently effected a sudden and wonderful cure in the case of a crippled man, who was carried there from his bed, but after his devotions before this picture walked out of the door as well as ever; and every where about these sacred precincts pictures and carved images are abundant which at stated intervals shed tears and manifest other tokens of vitality.

Outside, on the steps of those churches, the stranger encounters innumerable gangs of beggars, who watch his incoming and his outgoing with the most intense eagerness – rushing toward him with outstretched hands, calling upon all the saints to bless him and his issue forever and ever, and sometimes bowing down to the earth before him, in their accustomed way, as if he himself partook of some sacred attributes. Apart from the wretched aspect of these poor creatures, among which were the lame, the halt, and the blind from all the purlieus of Moscow, there was something very revolting in the debasement of their attitudes. To assist them all was impossible; and I often had to struggle through the crowds with feelings akin to remorse in being compelled to leave them thus vainly appealing to my charity. When alone, hours after, the weary and pathetic strain of their supplications would haunt me, bearing in its sorrowful intonations a weird warning that we are all bound together in the great fellowship of sin.

And now, while we are taking our last lingering look at the Kremlin, the mighty bells of the tower toll forth a funeral knell. A priest lies dead in one of the churches, his coffin draped in the habiliments of woe. The chanting rises ever and anon above the death-knell that sweeps through the air. Standing aloof, we listen to the solemn sounds of mourning. The funeral cortége comes forth from the church. The hearse, with its plumed horses all draped in black, receives the coffin; priests and mourners, bearing lighted tapers, lead the way, chanting a requiem for the departed; and thus they pass before us – the living and the dead – till they reach the Holy Gate. Then the priests and the crowd bow down and pray; and when they have passed out from under the sacred arch, they turn before the image of the Savior and pray again; then rising, they cross themselves devoutly and pass on to the last earthly resting-place of their friend and brother.

Surely death draws us nearer together in life. I thought no more of forms. What matters it if we are all true to our Creator and to our convictions of duty! Life is too short to spend in earthly contentions.

“In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth.”

CHAPTER XV.

RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS

Rude and savage as the lower orders are in their external appearance, they certainly can not be considered deficient in politeness, if the habit of bowing be taken as an indication. In that branch of civilization they are well entitled to take rank with the Germans and French, from whom, doubtless, they have acquired many of their forms of etiquette. Something, however, of Asiatic gravity and courtliness mingles with whatever they may have adopted from the more sprightly and demonstrative races of the South; and a certain degree of dignity, accompanied though it may be with rags and filth, is always observable in their manners. The alacrity, good nature, and enthusiasm so characteristic of the Germans, and the dexterous play of muscles and vivacious suavity of the French, are wholly deficient in the Russians – such of them, at least, as have retained their nationality. The higher classes, of course, who frequently spend their summers at the watering-places of Germany and their winters in Paris, come home, like all traveled gentlemen, with a variety of elegant accomplishments, the chief of which is a disgust for their own language and customs. This, indeed, seems to be a characteristic of several other nations – an inordinate desire to become denationalized by imitating whatever is meretricious and absurd in other people; and you need not be surprised should you fail to recognize even your unpretending friend and correspondent on his return to California; for although I still pretend to write a little English, I no longer speak it except in broken accents. Having also worn out three good hats practicing the art of bowing on the boulevards of Paris and the glacis of Frankfort, I never pretend now to recognize any body without striking the top of my tile against the cap of my knee.

This, you see, is all in the way of excuse for the Russians, and arises rather from an excess of good nature than an excess of egotism. Constant practice in the solemnities of street-worship – uncovering their heads and bowing low before their numerous saints and shrines – may have some influence upon the stateliness of Russian politeness. It is, however, a very prominent and characteristic trait, and in some of its phases rather astounding to a stranger. A common thing in the streets of Moscow is to see a couple of sturdy beggars, uncouth as grizzly bears, meet and stop before each other with the utmost and most punctilious gravity. Beggar number one takes his greasy cap from his head slowly and deliberately, gives it a graceful sweep through the air, and, with a most courtly obeisance, exhibits the matted tuft, or the bald spot on the top of his head, to his ragged friend. Beggar number two responds in a similar courteous style, neither uttering a word. Each then gravely replaces his cap, touches the brim of it once or twice by way of representing a few extra bows, and passes on his way with an expression of profound dignity, utterly unconscious of the grotesque effect of all this ceremony to a stranger. I have seen the most vagabond-looking istrovoschik, or drosky-drivers, jump out of their drosky and perform similar courtesies toward each other; and where men of this craft are given to politeness, one may rest assured that it must be a national characteristic. All seem to be the slaves of ceremony, from the Czar down to the Mujik. Porters, wagoners, water-carriers, butchers, bakers, and chimney-sweeps are equally skilled in the noble art of bowing. At first, judging by the uncouth faces and the grimy costumes of these interesting people, such passages of politeness have very much the effect of burlesque. It seems impossible that men of such rude aspect can be in earnest. One soon gets used to it, however, and regards it as a matter of course. I could not but think how strange it would look to see a couple of Sacramento or San Francisco hack-drivers meet in some populous part of the town, and each one take off his hat to the other, and, with a graceful flourish, make a courtly salaam; or a pair of draymen stop their drays, get down leisurely, approach each other in an attitude of impressive dignity, take off their hats, and double themselves up before an admiring audience. They would certainly be suspected in our rude country of poking fun at each other. I can very well understand why butchers and chimney-sweeps should be polite, since they are accustomed to scraping; and the custom looks appropriate enough with many other classes, including barbers, who are generally men of oily manners, and tailors and printers, who are naturally given to forms; but with men whose business is intimately associated with horse-flesh, I must say it has something of a satirical aspect. Never in this world can I force myself to believe that a hack-driver is in earnest in any thing short of his fare. Do not understand me as casting any injurious reflection upon this valuable class of men; but it is a melancholy feature in humanity – of which sad experience enables me to speak feelingly – that integrity and horse-flesh are antagonistical, and can never go together. For the hack-driver personally I have great respect. He is a man of the world – knows a thing or two about every body and every thing; is constitutionally addicted to cheating, and elevates that noble propensity into one of the fine arts; maintains his independent character, and pockets his extraordinary profits in the face of all municipal restrictions; scoffs at the reign of the law, and drinks his regular bitters. I consider him a persecuted and an injured man; but of such elastic stuff is he made that he rises above all persecutions and all injuries, and still is, and ever will be, master of that portion of the human race which travels and abounds in cities. He is given to humor, too, is the hackman. Nobody better understands how to give a joke, or to resent one. An adept in ridicule, he always enjoys it when not applied to himself. If he is deficient in any one quality, perhaps it is piety. Hack-drivers, as a class, are not pious men; they may be very good men in their way, but, strictly speaking, they are not pious. Neither are they much given to mutual courtesies, especially at steam-boat landings. Therefore I say that to see hack-drivers bow down before shrines and stop on public thoroughfares, and with the utmost gravity uncover their heads and interchange courtly salaams – nay, even kiss hands in certain cases – is a novel and peculiar spectacle, suggestive of improvements which might be beneficially imported into our country.

There was an impassive, abstracted air about Dominico very difficult to describe, but very impressive to a stranger. All these peculiarities were developed the first or second day of our acquaintance. About the third he seemed to grow impatient, hummed over a few gems from unknown operas, and was less disposed than usual to unbend himself. There was evidently a coolness growing up between us. I suspected it originated in my hat, which was really very shabby; and fancied I detected a supercilious expression in his eye as it ranged over my coat and down to my boots. At length he said, “Monsieur, you appear to travel with very little baggage!”

Myself. Yes, only a knapsack.

Dominico (after a pause). Pray what business may Monsieur be engaged in?

M. None at all – just ranging about miscellaneously.

Dom. May I be so bold as to ask what part of England does Monsieur come from?

M. Oh, I didn’t come from England at all!

Dom. (puzzled). Pray where does Monsieur come from?

M. Oh, just come from over the way there – California!

Dom. (elevating his eyebrows and stopping suddenly). California? The great gold country? Where they dig gold out of the ground?

M. Yes – that’s my country.

Dom. (admiringly). Oh, then, Monsieur is a gentleman of fortune, just traveling for pleasure?

M. Precisely; for pleasure and information combined. My estates are situated in the city of Oakland.

Dom. Is that a large city?

M. Well, it covers a good deal of ground – as much, I think, as Moscow.

Dom. If Monsieur pleases, we will take a drosky and visit some of the gardens?

M. Agreed.

And so ended the conversation. It was marvelous, the change it produced in Dominico; how his dignity evaporated; how vivacious he became; how frank and unreserved he was in his descriptions of the wonders of Moscow; how he scorned to take trifles of change, and how magnificently he disregarded expenses. Wherever we went, however grand the domestics, soldiers, or police, Dominico was always high above them, and I could hear him descanting constantly on the wonderful richness of California. Doubtless the strain of his conversation ran about thus: “Behold, gentlemen, I have brought before you a living Californian! Notwithstanding the shabbiness of his hat, and the strange and uncivilized aspect of his clothes, he is the richest man in that land of gold! Yes, gentlemen, his income can scarcely fall short of ten millions of rubles per annum. Make way, if you please!”

All things considered, Dominico let me off pretty well at the close of our acquaintance, upon my explaining to him that a draft for five hundred thousand rubles which ought to be on the way had failed to reach me, owing doubtless to some irregularity in the mail service, or some sudden depression in my Washoe stocks.

In the way of food the hotels are well supplied, and the fare is not bad in the principal cities. Fish and game are abundant, but veal is the standard dish. I called for a beefsteak at the hotel in St. Petersburg, and was furnished with veal. The soup was made of veal. After salad we had veal cutlets. Then came a veal stew; next in order was a veal pie; and before the courses were finished I think we had calf’s head baked and stuffed. At a station-house on the way to Moscow I hurriedly purchased a sandwich. It was made of veal. I asked for mutton-chops at the hotel in Moscow, and got veal. In fact, I was surfeited with veal in every possible shape wherever I went.

Now I am not particular in matters of diet. In a case of emergency I can relish buzzard, but if there is any one kind of food upon earth that I think never was designed to be eaten, it is veal. No very young meat is good, to my notion – not even young pig, so temptingly described by the gentle Elia; nor young dog, so much esteemed by Chinese and Russian epicures. It has neither the consistency nor the flavor of the mature animal, and somehow suggests unpleasant images of flabby innocence. There is something horribly repugnant to one’s sense of humanity in killing and devouring a helpless little calf. Who but a cannibal can look the innocent creature in the face, with its soft confiding eyes, its gentle and baby-like manners, and calculate upon devouring its brains, or satisfying the cravings of hunger upon its tender ribs? Who can see the butcher, with his murderous knife in such a connection, without a sting of remorse at the idea of the mother’s grief – her great eyes swimming in tears, her lowing cries haunting him for days? I never see a gang of these helpless little creatures driven to the shambles without thinking of that touching picture, the Murder of the Innocents.

In vain I tried to escape this veal passion in Russia. Nay, even in Finland and Sweden it pursued me. I actually began to feel flabby, and felt ashamed to look the poor cows in the face. It was a marvel how the cattle, of which there seemed to be no lack, ever arrived at maturity. If the people kill all the calves, as appeared to be the case, in the name of wonder, where do the cows come from? This question puzzled me exceedingly for some time, and was only solved when I asked a Russian to explain it. “Oh,” said he, smiling at my simplicity, “they only kill the male calves. They allow the cow calves to grow up!”

Still, when I came to reflect upon the reason given, it occurred to me that they must be a very singular race of cows. Perhaps they were Amazonian cows.

This leads me by an easy and not ungraceful transition to the Foundling Asylum of Moscow, one of the largest and most remarkable institutions of the kind in the world. In other public places throughout Europe, especially in picture-galleries and museums, the visitor is required to deliver up his walking-stick at the door, in return for which he receives a ticket corresponding with one fastened upon the article itself – as in baggage-cars upon the railway, so that he may redeem it when he thinks proper. But I had little thought, in my experience of foreign travel, that a similar system should prevail in regard to the deposit of living beings, as in the foundling establishment of Moscow. Here, any body with a surplus baby can carry it and have it labeled around the neck, receive a ticket in return corresponding in number with the deposit, and call for it at any future time, certain that it will be delivered up – if alive. The building is of immense extent, and is situated on the banks of the Moskwa River, near the lower part of the town. The grounds around it are tastefully laid out, and must occupy twenty or thirty acres, the whole being surrounded by a high wall, and comprising numerous and substantial outhouses, workshops, etc., for the use of the establishment. Many thousand children are annually taken in and nursed at this institution, no restriction being imposed upon the parents, who may be either married or single, to suit their own taste or condition. The regular force of wet-nurses employed is about six hundred, besides which there are numerous dry-nurses and teachers for the older children. It is estimated that the entire expense of conducting the establishment is not less than five or six hundred thousand rubles per annum, most of which is defrayed by voluntary contributions and interest received on loans.

I spent a forenoon rambling through the various wards, and can safely say I never before saw such an extraordinary collection of human squabs within one inclosure. It was certainly one of the strangest and saddest spectacles I had ever witnessed – so many infant specimens of humanity, bundled up like little packages of merchandise, labeled, numbered, and nursed with a mathematical regularity fearfully inconsistent with one’s notions of the softness and tenderness of babyhood. To be sure, they are well treated – kindly and gently treated, perhaps; but it is pitiful to see these helpless little creatures bereft of the gentle motherly touch; washed, physicked, nursed, and too often buried by hired and unsympathizing hands; and no more thought of them, save in the way of duty, than so many little animals destitute of souls. The very idea of attachments formed by nurses is of itself a painful subject of contemplation; for of what avail is it that a child should be loved by its nurse, or find in her a new mother, when by the rules of the establishment there must be constant separations. It is said that over twenty-five thousand children derive, either directly or indirectly, support from this establishment. About six thousand are taken in annually, of which perhaps one fourth die. Many of them are not far from dead when admitted; and it is only surprising, considering the deprivations they must endure in being so suddenly withdrawn from the mother’s care, that so large a proportion should survive.

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.