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.