The picture which the author gives of life in Russia could hardly be painted in darker colors. No man’s house is safe from domiciliary visits, and the least word of indignation or protest is likely to cause one to be thrown into a prison to rot, or to be exiled for life to the mines of Siberia. Even if found guiltless in court he may be sent into exile by the order of the chief of police. This dread official seems to have almost absolute power. Even a man against whom no charge has been made may be banished to a distant province and compelled to live under police supervision. Any anonymous denunciation is considered sufficient for the police tribunals to act on, and the accused has not even the privilege of confronting his accuser. The action of this terrible and implacable power has paralyzed all healthy intellectual life in Russia, and men who dare to think, either quit Russia, as did Turguenieff, or enroll themselves in the ranks of the revolutionists to plot and work in secrecy like moles, biding their time for open and resolute action. The culmination of the crime of imperialism against the life of the empire is found in its dealing with education in all its branches, from the universities down to the most primitive schools. Under the management of Count Tolstoi—the most base and unscrupulous of the imperial advisers—the universities are watched and governed by _manchards_, who now usurp the place of once learned professors, and discipline is enforced by the prick of the bayonet and the crack of the Cossack whip. Every student is watched as closely as the condemned wretch on the eve of execution, and no social intercourse is allowed. History, science, and literature are sedulously discouraged as studies, because they are “dangerous” guides, and the dead bones of Latin and Greek taught in the most pedagogic fashion are regarded as the only proper food. Even primary schools are watched by spies and soldiers, and babies are made to feel the weight of the police lash. Everywhere is found the iron, inflexible hand of official power, and bureauocracy crushes out the life of the land. The press, both in the provinces and in the great centres, has been completely extinguished, and only those papers which slavishly reflect the opinions of the Government are allowed to exist. Reviews and magazines are placed under an equally rigorous _surveillance_, and Count Tolstoi’s _Index Purgatorius_ puts a ban on the printing or sale of every book calculated to stimulate thought or arouse ambition. All that is worthy in science, art, and literature is tabooed, and prurient French novels are nearly the only foreign books permitted an unrestricted circulation. The Greek Church is thoroughly allied with the Government, and a tool more useful in a country where the majority of the ecclesiastics are knaves and parasites, and the majority of the people, ignorant and superstitious, can hardly be imagined. It is in the hands of this power that all the