his people. With a stroke of the pen he threw aside the last prop to
despotic rule. Yet he hoped to continue Czar of All the Russias. This
tall, pale, gentle, determined man was a man of courage. When the time
came he faced the consequence of his own temerity with an unflinching
eye.

"What do you want of me?" he asked, the very moment after he had been
saved almost by a miracle from assassination. For he knew that he was
giving more than was wise. It is said that he was puzzled and thoughtful
after each attempt upon his life.

The war with Turkey was the first sign that Russia was awakening--that
the soldiers knew how to read and write. It was the first time in
history that the nation forced a Czar to declare war, and Servia was
full of Russian volunteers fighting for Christian Slavs before the
Emperor realized that he must fight--and fight alone, for no nation in
Europe would help him. He had taught Russia to read; had raised the veil
of ignorance that hung between his people and the rest of civilization.
They had read of the Bulgarian atrocities, and there was no holding
them.

To rule autocratically what was then the vastest empire in the world was
in itself more than one brain could compass. But in addition to his
own internal troubles, Alexander II. was surrounded by European
difficulties. England, his steady, deadly enemy, despite a declaration
of neutrality, was secretly helping Turkey. Austria, as usual, the
dog waiting on the threshold, was ready to side with the winner--for a
consideration. No wonder this man was always weary. It is said that all
through his reign he received and despatched telegrams at any hour of
the night.

No wonder that his heart was hardened towards Poland. The most
liberal-minded Czar had his mean point, as every man must have. There
are many great and good men who will write a check readily enough and
look twice at a penny. There are many who will give generously with one
hand while grasping with the other that which is really the property of
their neighbor. Alexander's mean point was Poland.

On the occasion of his first imperial visit to Warsaw he said, in the
cold, calm voice which was so hated and feared: "Gentlemen, let us
have no more dreams." Eleven years later he reminded an influential
deputation of Polish nobles of the unforgiven and unforgotten words,
commending the caution to their attention again. He paid frequent visits
to Warsaw on one excuse or another. This drea