Part 2

The author commences with the reign of Alexander, and gives a just panegyric to the kindliness of his disposition, the moderation of his temper, and his sincere desire to promote the happiness of his people. Nothing but this disposition could have saved him from all the vices of ambition, profligacy, and irreligion; for his tutor was La Harpe, one of the savans of the Swiss school, a man of accomplishment and talent, but a scoffer. But the English reader should be reminded, that when men of this rank of ability are pronounced hostile to religion, their hostility was not to the principles of Christianity, but to the religion of France; to the performances of the national worship, to the burlesque miracles wrought at the tomb of the Abbé Paris, and to that whole system of human inventions and monkish follies, which was as much disbelieved in France as it was disdained in England.

In fact, the religion of the gospel had never come into their thoughts; and when they talked of revelation, they thought only of the breviary. The Empress Catherine, finding no literature in Russia, afraid, or ashamed of being known as a German, and extravagantly fond of fame, attached herself to the showy pamphleteers of France, and courted every gale of French adulation in return. She even corresponded personally with some of the French _litterateurs_, and was French in every thing except living in St Petersburg, and wearing the Russian diadem. She was even so much the slave of fashion as to adopt, or pretend to adopt, the fantasies in government which the French were now beginning to mingle with their fantasies in religious.

She wrote thus to Zimmerman, the author of the dreamy and dreary work on “Solitude,” “I have been attached to philosophy, because my soul has always been singularly _republican_. I confess that this tendency stands in strange contrast with the unlimited power of my _place_.”

If the quiet times of Europe had continued, and France had exhibited the undisturbed pomps of her ancient court, Alexander would probably have been a Frenchman and _philosophe_ on the banks of the Neva; but stirring times were to give him more rational ideas, and the necessities of Russia reclaimed him from the absurdities of his education.

La Harpe himself was a man of some distinction—a Swiss, though thoroughly French and revolutionary. After leaving Russia, he became prominent, even in France, as an abettor of republican principles, and was one of the members of the Swiss Directory. La Harpe survived the Revolution, the Empire, and the Bourbons, and died in 1838.

The commencement of Alexander’s reign was singularly popular, for it began with treaties on every side. Paul, who had sent a challenge to all the sovereigns of Europe to fight him in person, had alarmed his people with the prospect of a universal war. Alexander was the universal pacificator; he made peace with England, peace with France, and a commercial treaty with Sweden. He now seemed resolved to avoid all foreign wars, to keep clear of European politics, and to devote all his thoughts to the improvement of his empire. Commencing this rational and meritorious task with zeal, he narrowed the censorship of the press, and enlarged the importation of foreign works. He broke up the system of espionage—formed a Council of State—reduced the taxes—abolished the punishment by torture—refused to make grants of peasants—constituted the Senate into a high court of justice divided into departments, in order to remedy the slowness of law proceedings—established universities and schools—allowed every subject to choose his own profession; and, as the most important and characteristic of all his reforms, allowed his nobility to sell portions of land to their serfs, with the right of personal freedom: by this last act laying the foundation of a new and free race of proprietors in Russia.

The abolition of serfdom was a great experiment, whose merits the serfs themselves scarcely appreciated, but which is absolutely necessary to any elevation of the national character. It has been always opposed by the nobles, who regard it as the actual plunder of their inheritance; but Alexander honourably exhibited his more humane and rational views on the subject, whenever the question came within his decision.

A nobleman of the highest rank had requested an estate “with its serfs,” as an imperial mark of favour. Alexander wrote to him in this style: “The peasants of Russia are for the most part _slaves_. I need not expatiate on the degradation, or on the misfortune of such a condition. Accordingly, I have made a vow not to increase the number; and to this end I have laid down the principle _not_ to give away peasants as property.”

The Emperor sometimes did striking things in his private capacity. A princess of the first rank applied to him to protect her husband from his creditors, intimating that “the emperor was above the law.”

Alexander answered, “I do not wish, madam, to put myself above the law, even if I could, for in all the world I do not recognise any authority but that which comes from the law. On the contrary, I feel more than any one else the obligation of watching over its observance, and even in cases where others may be indulgent, _I_ can only be just.”

The French war checked all those projects of improvement; and the march of his troops to the aid of Austria in 1805, commenced a series of hostilities, which, for seven years, occupied the resources of the empire, and had nearly subverted his throne. But he behaved bravely throughout the contest. When Austria was beaten and signed a treaty, Alexander refused to join in the negotiation. When Prussia, under the influence of counsels at once rash and negligent—too slow to aid Austria, and too feeble to encounter France—was preparing to resist Napoleon in 1805, Alexander, Frederic William, and his queen Louisa, made a visit by torch-light to the tomb of Frederic the Great in Potsdam; and there, on their knees, the two monarchs joined their hands over the tomb, and pledged themselves to stand by each other to the last.

When Prussia was defeated, Alexander still fought two desperate battles; and it was not until the advance of the French made him dread the rising of Poland in his rear, that he made peace in 1802.

At this peace, he was charged with bartering his principles for the extension of his dominions by the seizure of Turkey, and even of the extravagance of dividing the world with Napoleon. But these charges were never proved.

We, too, have our theory, and it is, that the fear of seeing Poland in insurrection alone compelled Alexander to submit to the treaty of Tilsit; but that he felt all the insolence of the French Emperor, in demanding the closing of the Russian ports against England; and felt the treaty as a chain, which he was determined to break on the first provocation. We think it probable that the knowledge of the “secret articles” of that treaty was conveyed from the Russian Court to England; and, without pretending to know from what direct hand it came, we believe that the seizure of the Danish fleet, which was the immediate result of that knowledge, was as gratifying to Alexander as it was to the English cabinet, notwithstanding the diplomatic wrath which it pleased him to affect on that memorable occasion.

But other times were ripening. It has been justly observed, that the Spanish war was the true origin of Napoleon’s ruin. He perished by his own perfidy. The resistance of Spain awoke the resistance of Europe. All Germany, impoverished by French plunder, and indignant at French insults, longed to rise in arms. The Russians then boldly demanded the emancipation of their commerce, and issued a relaxed tariff in 1811. British vessels then began to crowd the Russian ports. Napoleon was indignant and threatened. Alexander was offended, and remonstrated. The French Emperor instantly launched one of his fiery proclamations; declared that the House of Romanoff was undone; and, on the 24th of June 1812, threw his mighty army across the Niemen.

We pass over the events of that memorable war as universally known; but justice is not done to the Russian emperor, unless we recollect how large a portion of the liberation of Europe was due to his magnanimity. To refuse obedience to the commercial tyranny of Napoleon, where it menaced the ruin of his people, was an act of personal magnanimity, for it inevitably exposed his throne and life to the hazards of war with a universal conqueror. On the declaration of war, he determined to join his armies in the field, another act of magnanimity, which was prevented only by the remonstrance of his generals, who represented to him the obstacles which must be produced by the presence of the emperor. But, when the invasion of France was resolved on, and negotiations might require his presence, he was instantly in the camp, and was of the highest importance to the final success of the campaign. He threw vigour into the councils of the Austrian generalissimo, and, with the aid of the British ambassador, actually urged and effected the “March to Paris.”

In Paris, however, his magnanimity was unfortunate, his generosity was misplaced, his chivalric feelings had to deal with craft, and his reliance on the pledges of Napoleon ultimately cost Europe one of the bloodiest of its campaigns. A wiser policy would have given Napoleon over to the dungeon, or sent him before a military tribunal, as he had sent the unfortunate Duc d’Enghien, with not the thousandth part of the reason or the necessity, and the peace of the Continent would thus have been secured at once. But a more theatric policy prevailed. The promises of a man who had never kept a promise were taken; the stimulant of an imperial title was kept up, when he ought to have been stripped of all honours; an independent revenue was issued to him, which was sure to be expended in bribing the officials and soldiery of France; and, by the last folly of a series of generous absurdities, Napoleon was placed in the very spot which he himself would have chosen, and probably _did_ choose, for the centre of a correspondence, between the corruption of Italy and the corruption of France.

The result was predicted by every politician of Europe, except the politicians of the Tuileries. France was speedily prepared for revolt; the army had their tricoloured cockades in their knapsacks. The Bourbons, who thought that the world was to be governed by going to mass, were forced to flee at midnight. Napoleon drove into the capital, with all the traitors of the army and the councils clinging to his wheels, cost France another “March to Paris,” the loss of another veteran army, and himself another exile, where he was sent to linger out his few wretched and humiliated years in the African Ocean.

The Holy Alliance was the first conception of Alexander on the return of peace. It died too suddenly to exhibit either its good or its evil. It has been calumniated, because it has been misunderstood. But it seems to have been a noble conception. France which laughs at every thing, laughed at the idea of ruling Europe on principles of honour. Germany, which is always wrapped in a republican doze, reprobated a project which seemed to secure the safety of thrones by establishing honour as a principle. And England, then governed by a cabinet doubtful of public feeling, and not less doubtful of foreign integrity, shrank from all junction with projects which she could not control, and with governments in which she would not confide. Thus the Holy Alliance perished. Still, the conception was noble. Its only fault was, that it was applied to men before men had become angels.

The author of the volumes now before us is evidently a republican one—of the “Movement”—one of that class who would first stimulate mankind into restlessness, and then pronounce the restlessness to be a law of nature. Metternich is of course his bugbear, and the policy of Austria is to him the policy of the “kingdom of darkness.” But, if there is no wiser maxim than “to judge of the tree by its fruits,” how much wiser has that great statesman been than all the bustling innovators of his day, and how much more substantial is that policy by which he has kept the Austrian empire in happy and grateful tranquillity, while the Continent has been convulsed around him!

No man knows better than Prince Metternich, the shallowness, and even the shabbiness, of the partisans of overthrow, their utter incapacity for rational freedom, the utter perfidy of their intentions, and the selfish villany of their objects. He knows, as every man of sense knows, that those Solons and Catos of revolution are composed of lawyers without practice, traders without business, ruined gamblers, and the whole swarm of characterless and contemptible idlers, who infest all the cities of Europe. He knows from full experience that the object of such men is, not to procure rights for the people, but to compel governments to buy their silence; that their only idea of liberty, is liberty of pillage; and that, with them, revolution is only an expedient for rapine and a license for revenge. Therefore he puts them down; he stifles their declamation by the scourge, he curbs their theories by the dungeon, he cools their political fever by banishing them from the land; and thus governing Austria for nearly the last forty years, he has kept it free from popular violence, from republican ferocity, from revolutionary bloodshed, and from the infinite wretchedness, poverty, and shame, which smites a people exposed to the swindling of political impostors.

Thus, Austria is peaceful and powerful, while Spain is shattered by conspiracy; while Portugal lives, protected from herself only under the guns of the British fleet; while Italy is committing its feeble mischiefs, and frightening its opera-hunting potentates out of their senses; while every petty province of Germany has its beer-drinking conspirators; and while the French king guards himself by bastions and batteries, and cannot take an evening’s drive without fear of the blunderbuss, or lay his head on his pillow without the chance of being wakened by the roar of insurrection. These are the “fruits of the tree;” but it is only to be lamented that the same sagacity and vigour, the same determination of character, and the same perseverance in principle, are not to be found in every cabinet of Europe. We should then hear no more of revolutions.

The life of the Russian emperor was a cloudy one. The external splendour of royalty naturally captivates the eye, but the realities of the diadem are often melancholy. It would be scarcely possible to conceive a loftier preparative for human happiness than that which surrounds the throne of the Russias. Alexander married early. A princess of Baden was chosen for him, by the irresistible will of Catherine, at a period when he himself was incapable of forming any choice. He was married at sixteen, his wife being one year younger. He never had a son, but he had two daughters, who died. And the distractions of the campaign of Moscow, which must have been a source of anxiety to any man in Russia, were naturally felt by the emperor in proportion to the immense stake which he had in the safety of the country.

For some years after the fall of Napoleon, Alexander was deeply engaged in a variety of anxious negotiations in Germany, and subsequently, he was still more deeply agitated by the failing constitution of the empress. The physicians had declared that her case was hopeless if she remained in Russia, and advised her return to her native air. But she, in the spirit of romance, replied, that the wife of the Emperor of Russia must not die but within his dominions. The Crimea was then proposed, as the most genial climate. But the emperor decided on Taganrog, a small town on the sea of Azof, but at the tremendous distance of nearly fifteen hundred miles from St Petersburg.

The present empress has been wiser, for, abandoning the romance, she spent her winter in Naples, where she seems to have recovered her health. The climate of Taganrog, though so far to the south, is unfavorable, and in winter it is exposed to the terrible winds which sweep across the desert, unobstructed from the pole. But Alexander determined to attend to her health there himself, and preceded her by some days to make preparations. A strange and singularly depressing ceremony preceded his departure. For some years he had been liable to melancholy impressions on the subject of religion. The Greek church, which differs little from the Romish, except in refusing allegiance to the bishop of Rome, abounds in formalities, some stately, and some severe. Alexander, educated under the Swiss, who could not have taught him more of Christianity than was known by a French _philosophe_, and having only the dangerous morals of the Russian court for his practical guide, suffered himself, when in Paris, to listen to the mystical absurdities of the well-known Madame de Krudener, and from that time became a mystic. He had the distorted dreams and the heavy reveries, and talked the unintelligible theories which the Germans talk by the fumes of their meerschaums, and propagate by the vapours of their swamps. He lost his activity of mind; and if he had lived a few years longer, he would probably have finished his career in a cell, and died, like Charles V., an idiot, in the “odour of sanctity.”

The preparation for his journey had the colouring of that superstition which already began to cloud his mind.

It was his custom, in his journeys from St Petersburg, to start from the cathedral of “Our Lady of Kasan.” But on this occasion, he gave notice to the Greek bishop, that he should require him to chant a service at four o’clock in the morning, at the monastery of St Alexander Newski, in the full assembly of ecclesiastics, at which he would be present.

On this occasion every thing took an ominous shape, in the opinion of the people. They said that the service chanted was the service for the dead, though the official report stated that it was the _Te Deum_. The monastery of St Alexander Newski is surrounded by the chief cemetery of St Petersburg, where various members of the reigning family, who had not worn the crown, were interred, and among them the two infant daughters of the emperor. The popular report was, that the ecclesiastics wore mourning robes; but this is contradicted, whether truly or not, by the official report, which states that they wore vestures of crimson worked with gold.

Just at dawn the emperor came alone in his calèche, not even attended by a servant. The outer gates were then carefully reclosed, the mass was said, the old prelate gave him a crucifix to accompany him on his journey, the priests once more chanted their anthem, they then conducted him to the gate, and the ceremonial closed.

But the more curious feature of the scene was to follow.

Seraphim, the old prelate, invited the emperor to his cell, where, when they were alone, he said, “I know your Majesty feels a particular interest in the _Schimnik_.” (These are monks who live in the interior of the convents in the deepest solitude, following strictly all the austerities prescribed to their order, and are venerated as saints.) “We for some time have had a Schimnik within the walls of the Holy Lavra. Would it be the pleasure of your majesty that he should be summoned?”—“Be it so,” was the reply, and a venerable man, with an emaciated face and figure, entered. Alexander received his blessing, and the monk asked him to visit his cell. Black cloth covered the floor, the walls were painted black, a colossal crucifix occupied a considerable portion of the cell. Benches painted black were ranged around, and the only light was given by the glimmer of a lamp, which burned night and day before the pictures of saints! When the emperor entered, the monk prostrated himself before the crucifix, and said, “Let us pray.” The three then knelt and engaged in silent prayer. The emperor whispered to the bishop, “Is this his only cell? where is his bed?” The answer was, “He sleeps upon this floor, stretched before the crucifix.”—“No, sire,” said the monk, “I have the same bed with every other man; approach, and you shall see.” He then led the emperor into a small recess, screened off from the cell, where, placed upon a table, was a black coffin, half open, containing a shroud, and surrounded by tapers. “Here is _my_ bed,” said the monk, “a bed common to man; there, sire, we shall all rest in our last long sleep.”

The emperor gazed upon the coffin, and the monk gave him an exhortation on the crimes of the people, which, he said, had been restrained by the pestilence, and the war of 1812, but when those two plagues had passed by, had grown worse than ever.

But we must abridge this pious pantomime, which seems evidently to have been _got up_ for the occasion, and which would have been enough to dispirit any one who had left his bed at four in the morning in the chill of a Russian September.

The emperor at length left the convent, evidently dejected and depressed by this sort of theatrical anticipation of death and burial, and drove off with his eyes filled with tears.

On his journey he was unattended. He took with him but two aides-de-camp, and his physician, Sir James Wylie, a clever Scotsman, who had been thirty years in the imperial service. The journey was rapid, and without accident, but his mind was still full of omens. A comet had appeared. “It presages misfortune,” said the emperor; “but the will of Heaven be done.”

The change of air was beneficial to the empress, who reached Taganrog after a journey of three weeks; and the emperor remained with her, paying her great attention, and constantly accompanying her in her rides and drives. The season happened to be mild, and Alexander proposed to visit the Crimea, at the suggestion of Count Woronzoff, governor of the province. This excursion, with all its agreeabilities, was evidently a trying one to a frame already shaken, and a mind harassed by its own feelings. He rode a considerable part of the journey, visited Sebastopol, inspected fortifications in all quarters, received officers, dined with governors, visited places where endemics made their haunt; ate the delicious, but dangerous fruits of the country, received Muftis and Tartar princes; in short did every thing that he ought not to have done, and finally found himself ill.

He remarked to Sir James Wylie, that his stomach was disordered, and that he had had but little sleep for several nights. The physician recommended immediate medicine, but Alexander was obstinate. “I have no confidence,” said he, “in potions; my life is in the hands of Heaven; nothing can stand against its will.” But the illness continued, and the emperor began to grow lethargic, and slept much in his carriage. With a rashness which seems to be the prevalent misfortune of sovereigns, he still persisted in defying disease, and suffered himself to be driven every where, visiting all the remarkable points of the Crimea, yet growing day by day more incapable of feeling an interest in any thing. He was at length shivering under intermittent fever, and he hurried back to the empress. On being asked by Prince Volkonski, whom he had left as the manager of his household, what was the state of his health,—“Well enough,” was the answer, “except that I have got a touch of the fever of the Crimea.” The prince entreated him to take care of his health, and not to treat it as he “would have done when he was twenty years old.” On the next day his illness had assumed a determined character, and was declared to be dangerous, and a typhus.