Tuesday, the 24th of April 1877, a scene of the utmost
animation and excitement prevailed. The Emperor of "all the Russias"
was about to review his troops previous to the declaration of war on
Turkey. Up to that time, of course, war had been expected--as regards
the army, eagerly desired; but no declaration had absolutely been made.

Ungheni, where the railway crosses the Pruth, and not far from
Kischeneff, the capital of Bessarabia, was fixed on as the spot where
the grand review should take place.

Great were the preparations for the reception of his Majesty, for
whether "majesty" be right or wrong, majesty must be honoured and
cheered. Majesty, male or female, represents _power_, and power _must_
be treated with respect, nay, ought to be so treated--when it behaves
itself!

There is something overwhelmingly grand in multitude. Humanity cannot
resist the influence. It is quite clear that the human race were meant
to be gregarious. What were the orator without his multitude? I might
go further, and ask, What were the multitude without its orator? Flags
and banners waved, and ribbons rippled that day in Bessarabia, for the
serried legions of Russia marched in almost unending columns towards
Ungheni, on the Roumanian frontier, and, after they had passed, the
Emperor himself made for the same point with the Grand Duke Nicholas,
and the Czarewitch, and General Ignatieff, and the Minister of War, and
many other dignitaries of the empire, with a numerous and gorgeous
staff.

The day was magnificent. The people who streamed out to see the review
were enthusiastic. Perhaps, if they had been Bulgarian peasantry, and
had been able to foresee the future, their enthusiasm would not have
been so great. Yet I do not say that their enthusiasm was misplaced.
They saw a nation's chivalry assembled to fight and die, if need be, in
the nation's cause, with its Emperor to patronise, and its nobles to
lead the legions on, in all of which there was ground for real
enthusiasm.

Among the regiments that marched that day to Ungheni was one to which I
would draw special attention. It was not much better, perhaps, than the
others, but it was a good typical Russian regiment, and had a commander
at its head who looked as if he could do it justice. They marched at a
smart pace, four miles an hour, with a long, dogged, steady tramp that
was clumsy to look at, but seemed likely to last. Few of the men were
tall, but they were bur