The Russians are a warm-hearted, enthusiastic people, with an element of poetry in them, which derives perhaps, from the memory of subjection undergone in old times, and the days of the Tartar yoke; for, if Shelley speaks truly

'Most wretched men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong,

They learn in sorrow what they teach in song.'

With but little in their own condition of life that can well provoke envy, the peasants love to believe that there are others more ill-fated than themselves, to whom they owe pity and help,-love to think that the conscript they see torn away from his village is going-going off in close custody-to be the liberator of syn-orthodox brethren oppressed by Mahometan tyrants; and being curiously prone to 'fraternity,' they can be honestly, and beyond measure vehement in favour of an idealised cause which demands their active sympathy. That the voice of the nation when eagerly expressing these feelings is commonly genuine and spontaneous, there seems no reason to doubt. Far from having been inspired by the rulers, an outburst of the fraternising enthusiasm, which tends towards State quarrels and war, is often unwelcome at first in the precincts of the Government offices; but it brings, nevertheless, a new force which Policy may afterwards guide, and pervert to worldly uses.

This volume shows how a war-in the midst of what seemed trading times-owed its origin to a

gentle, poetic impulsion-to love, fond, worshipping love of the Holy Shrines in Palestine; and now, as it happens, sheer chance-for indeed I sought no such knowledge-makes me able to say that it is sentiment -romantic, wild sentiment-which has once more been throwing the spark. When Servia in the month of July invaded her Suzerain's dominions, the new leverage of Russian Democracy had already so acted upon Opinion, that the Czar, although not at that time under anything like hard compulsion, was still so far moved as to be induced to let some of his people go out and take part in the rising—a rising against the Government of a State with which he professed to be at peace; but this armed emigration at first was upon a small scale, and the Servian cause stood in peril of suffering a not distant collapse, when the incident I am going to mention began to exert its strange sway over the course of events.

The young Colonel Nicholai Kiréeff was a noble, whose birth and possessions connected him with the districts affected by Moscow's fiery aspirations; and being by nature a man of an enthusiastic disposition, with a romantic example before him in the life of his father, he had accustomed himself to the idea of self-sacrifice. Upon the outbreak of Prince Milan's insurrection, he went off to Servia with the design of acting simply under the banner of the Red Cross, and had already entered upon his humane task, when he found himself called upon by General Tchernaieff to accept the command of what we may call a brigade

-a force of some five thousand infantry, consisting of volunteers and militiamen, supported, it seems, by five guns; and before long, he not only had to take his brigade into action, but to use it as the means of assailing an entrenched position at Rokowitz. Young Kiréeff very well understood that the irregular force entrusted to him was far from being one that could be commanded in the hour of battle by taking a look with a field-glass and uttering a few words to an aide-de-camp; so he determined to carry forward his men by the simple and primitive expedient of personally advancing in front of them. He was a man of great stature, with extraordinary beauty of features; and, whether owing to the midsummer heat, or from any wild, martyr - like, or dare - devil impulse, he chose, as he had done from the first, to be clothed altogether in white. Whilst advancing in front of his troops against the Turkish battery he was struck -first by a shot passing through his left arm, then presently by another one which struck him in the neck, and then again by yet another one which shattered his right hand and forced him to drop his sword; but, despite all these wounds, he was still continuing his resolute advance, when a fourth shot passed through his lungs, and brought him, at length, to the ground, yet did not prevent him from uttering-although with great effort―the cry of 'Forward! For'ward!' A fifth shot, however, fired low, passed through the fallen chief's heart and quenched his gallant spirit. The brigade he had commanded fell

back, and his body-vainly asked for soon afterwards by General Tchernaieff-remained in the hands of the Turks.

These are the bare facts upon which a huge superstructure was speedily raised. It may be that the grandeur of the young colonel's form and stature, and the sight of the blood, showing vividly on his white attire, added something extraneous and weird to the sentiment which might well be inspired by witnessing his personal heroism; and few people, understanding 'Young Muscovy,' will be slow to believe that designing men, enchanted with the bright opportunity, took good care to seize and use it by putting in motion all the democratic and ecclesiastical machinery they had at their command. But, be that as it may, the actual result was that accounts of the incident accounts growing every day more and more marvellous-flew so swiftly from city to city, from village to village, that before seven days had passed, the smouldering fire of Russian enthusiasm leapt up into a dangerous flame. Under countless green domes, big and small, priests fiercely chanting the 'Requiem' for a young hero's soul, and setting forth the glory of dying in defence of 'syn-ortho'dox' brethren, drew warlike responses from men who whilst still in cathedral or church- cried aloud that they, too, would go where the young Kiréeff had gone; and so many of them hastened to keep their word, that before long a flood of volunteers from many parts of Russia was pouring fast into

Belgrade.

To sustain the once kindled enthusiasm apt means were taken. The simple photograph, representing the young Kiréeff's noble features, soon expanded to large-sized portraits; and Fable then springing forward in the path of Truth, but transcending it with the swiftness of our modern appliances, there was constituted, in a strangely short time, one of those stirring legends which used to be the growth of long years—a legend half-warlike, half-superstitious, which exalted its really tall hero to the dimensions of a giant, and showed him piling up hecatombs by a mighty slaughter of Turks.*

The mine the charged mine of enthusiasm upon which this kindling spark fell-was the same in many respects that we saw giving warlike impulsion to the Russia of 1853; but to the enthusiasm of a sensitive Church for the cause of its syn-orthodox brethren-to the passion of a northern and predatory State for conquest in sunny climes-to that kind of religious fervour which mainly yearned after masses under the dome of St Sophia-to that longing for a guardian-angelship which, however fraternal ostensibly, might perhaps carry with it the priceless key

* The able correspondents of our English newspapers lately acting in Servia took care to mention the exploit and death of Colonel Kiréeff with more or less of detail, and the information they furnished is for the most part consistent with the scrutinised accounts on which I found the above narrative; but it was only, of course, from the interior of Russia that a knowledge of the effect there produced by the incident could be directly obtained. The corps in which the Colonel formerly served was that of the Cavalry of the Guards, but he had quitted the army long before the beginning of this year.