The Tarters of the Crimea, burrowing
like rabbits amid the ruins of Cher
sonesus or in the caverns of the Inker
man valley, will tell you, as they told
Mr. Kinglake in October, 1854, that
they are content because their race
has lived happily under the czars for
three generations. It is not from such
material as this that great nations are
wrought. The sheepskin - frocked
philosopher of the steppes, a conserva
tive by nature id a fatalist by creed,
accepts without urmur the coarse
fare and log built novel which served
his ancestors in. the middle ages, con
tent to remain as his father was before
him, and as his son will be after him.
To offer civilization to such a race is
like reading poetry to an oyster.
But, however morally backward she
may be, the great empire has visibly
advanced in a material sense since the
day when I saw all Moscow mourning
for “the good czarina” four years ago.
