Produced by David Edwards, Chris Pinfield and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. The inconsistent use of hyphens has been retained.

Free Russia

Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been replaced by full capitals.

Free Russia

[Illustration: CONVENT OF SOLOVETSK IN THE FROZEN SEA.]

Free Russia

[Illustration: RUSSIAN INFANTRY ON EASTERN STEPPE ESCORTED BY KOZAKS AND KIRGHIZ.]

"FREE AMERICA." "HER MAJESTY'S TOWER." &c.

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE.

_Svobodnaya_ Rossia--_Free_ Russia--is a word on every lip in that great country; at once the Name and Hope of the new empire born of the Crimean war. In past times Russia was free, even as Germany and France were free. She fell before Asiatic hordes; and the Tartar system lasted, in spirit, if not in form, until the war; but since that conflict ended, the old Russia has been born again. This new country--hoping to be pacific, meaning to be Free--is what I have tried to paint.

My journeys, just completed, carried me from the Polar Sea to the Ural Mountains, from the mouth of the Vistula to the Straits of Yeni Kale, including visits to the four holy shrines of Solovetsk, Pechersk, St. George, and Troitsa. My object being to paint the Living People, I have much to say about pilgrims, monks, and parish priests; about village justice, and patriarchal life; about beggars, tramps, and sectaries; about Kozaks, Kalmuks, and Kirghiz; about workmen's artels, burgher rights, and the division of land; about students' revolts and soldiers' grievances; in short, about the Human Forces which underlie and shape the external politics of our time.

Two journeys made in previous years have helped me to judge the reforms which are opening out the Japan-like empire of Nicolas into the Free Russia of the reigning prince.

_February, 1870._ _6 St. James's Terrace._

XXX.--CEMETERY OF THE TRANSFIGURATION 167

"White Sea!" laughs the Danish skipper, curling his thin red lip; "it is the color of English stout. The bed may be white, being bleached with the bones of wrecked and sunken men; but the waves are never white, except when they are ribbed into ice and furred with snow. A better name is that which the sailors and seal-fishers give it--the Frozen Sea!"