May the 9th.—I suppose that there could hardly be a more magnificent military spectacle than that of the Spring Parade held on the Champ de Mars. The Empress and all the great people of St. Petersburg were present in a grand stand, by which a little ragged cur had taken up his position and, sitting upright on his tail, watched the proceedings as a rather captious critic from beginning to end, moving his head from side to side with unflagging interest. When the Emperor rode on to the ground surrounded by his brilliant staff of generals and aides-de-camp, he passed in front of each corps and to each he addressed the question, “Are you well, my children?” and the men thundered out, “We wish you health!” When the march past began, the Tsar signified his approbation of each squadron or battalion, and the men roared with one voice, “Glad to do our best.” There were thirty-two thousand men in all, under the orders of the Grand Duke Nicholas[47]—a noble-looking host, as gorgeous as glittering uniforms could make them. At the head of the other troops, the mail-clad Circassian body-guard, dashing past at a gallop, some of them throwing down their scimitars in front of them and heeling over to pick them up again at the saluting-point, made a gallant and fantastic show, with just a touch of Asian mystery to add a glamour of the East to the picture. The cavalry of the Guard, splendidly mounted, with their cuirasses and helmets flaming in the sunshine; the pennons of the lancers; the infantry; the artillery; all spick and span, showed off the panoply of war in its most attractive shape—altogether a dazzling pageant. Whether it was anything more than that one witness seemed to doubt, for when the last man had marched past and the Emperor turned to leave the ground, the little dog got up, stretched himself, yawned and proceeded to mark his contempt of the whole proceedings in the most accentuated fashion. One Russian gentleman, a statesman in a very high position, told me that it had been his custom for years to attend this annual review, wondering at its stateliness, and that his pride used to rise in hero-worship when he thought of the invincibility of these glorious warriors. The Alma and Inkermann shook him in his faith, and since then he had left off his yearly visit to the Champ de Mars; there was “trop de clinquant et trop peu de réalité.” He agreed with the little dog. One thing struck even my unskilled civilian eye: as the artillery came rattling under a window in the British Embassy, which looked on to the parade ground, I noticed that no two batteries were armed with the same pattern of gun. I could not help wondering what would be the effect of this in action; whether there was not great risk of mistakes in the serving out of ammunition, and other conceivable causes of confusion.