ed horsemen struck and dashed in vain. The Christianity,
science, and culture of the Russian nation sought shelter in the
cloisters, and from them started afterward Russia's deliverance from
the domination of the Mongolians and Poles.

Today there was again mass in the open air, and five battalions
received new flags, which in addition were blessed by the priests;
then the Metropolitan Archbishop walked the length of the front and
sprinkled the troops thoroughly with holy water; some of the men were
practically soaked to the skin. The Emperor and both Empresses not
only kissed the cross, but the archbishop's hand. Then the Emperor
passed the front of every battalion, and, with a true military
attitude, spoke a few words to the men, which were received with
endless applause. He was an excellent rider, and rode a well-trained
horse. Then he inspected the front of the whole camp--one and a half
German miles. There were seventy-four battalions, with eight hundred
men apiece--about sixty thousand men in all. They stood unarmed and in
caps, all of them old, bearded, and dark-faced.

I care nothing for the deafening hurrahs that lasted two hours; but
these old, mustached men show how glad they are to see their Czar.

The Emperor spoke to some of them. They answered their Batuschka
(little father) without embarrassment. In Russia the family is the
microcosm of the State. All power rests with the father. All theories
of representative government in Russia are pure nonsense. "How can
human statutes circumscribe the divine right of a father?" asks the
Russian. So that the unlimited power in the hands of the Emperor is
necessary and beneficial in a land where nothing is done that is not
ordered from above.

Whoever should gaze, as I have done, on a warm, sunny day, upon the
city of Moscow for the first time from the height of the Kremlin would
certainly not think that he was in the same latitude in which the
reindeer graze in Siberia, and the dogs drag the sleighs over the ice
in Kamtchatka. Moscow reminds one of the South, but of something
strange never seen before. One seems to be transported to Ispahan,
Bagdad, or some other place--to the scene of the story of the
Sultaness Scheherezade.

Although Moscow does not count more than three hundred thousand
inhabitants, it covers two square miles with its houses, gardens,
churches, and monasteries. In this flat region one can hardly see
beyond the extreme suburbs, and houses and