Passing between these, and beneath the richly decorated portal, I found myself before the throne of the Tsar.

It is a seat worthy of an imperial potentate. The wall behind it is of light blue silk.

The steps which lead to it are of marble. Beautiful curtains hang on either side.

The framework is a mass of gold, encrusted with rare gems, and on the summit of the splendid canopy is a golden crown.

Within, is the richly gilded chair, outlined against a background of red velvet, in which are wrought, in precious stones, the double-headed eagles of the empire. Yet, notwithstanding all this splendor, I recollected the words of Napoleon: "What is a throne, a few boards covered with gold and velvet ? No, the real throne is the man."

The Tsar's Throne.

The Treasury.

A Moscow Street Scene.

Words are almost powerless to describe the Treasury of the Kremlin; for it contains so marvelous a collection of historic relics and souvenirs of conquest that it would be folly to attempt to enumerate them. In fact, from her connection with Asia, Persia, and India, Russia has had unusual opportunities to secure a multitude of precious objects; and, certainly, with the exception of the Sultan's Treasury at Constantinople, I have never seen such a display as this. Here are preserved the coronation robes of many of the Empresses, and the jewels and insignia of former Tsars. As we walked along these glittering corridors, we saw at every turn crowns radiant with resplendent colors, and sceptres scintillating waves of brilliancy. If this statement seems extravagant, remember that one of these sceptres contains no less than two hundred and eighty-six diamonds and three hundred and sixty rubies. Here also is a throne from Persia, still sparkling with three thousand precious stones; and under a protecting canopy of velvet and gold is the magnificent imperial chair, upon which sat as joint sovereigns of Russia the two brothers, one of whom was destined soon to rule alone under the well-earned title of Peter the Great.

I observed with interest, also, the elegant canopy under which every Tsar walks in solemn procession to and from his coronation, and a chair containing, it is said, a piece of the true Cross. Here, too, in striking contrast to this dazzling wealth, I saw the simple camp bedstead of Napoleon, captured by the Russians during the retreat of the French across the Beresina.

A Corridor In The Kremlin Palace.

Aside from the memories of Russian sovereigns, evoked by this old palace, another epoch in its history was continually present, reminding me that less than a century ago a foreign sovereign and conqueror walked through these halls, and for a time resided here, sending meantime decrees and orders to his own capital, two thousand miles away; among them being the rules which, to-day, still govern the Comedie Francaise at Paris. There was something sublime in the way in which the Russians here opposed the hitherto invincible Napoleon. To thwart him, they gave to the devouring element their ancient, beautiful, and holy city, although it was the idol of every Russian heart, and though her shrines were to them the holiest in the world, hallowed by centuries of historical association. This fearful sea of flame spoke, therefore, in a million fiery tongues of the grandest sacrifice ever made to national feeling, and threw a lurid glare on the descending path that ended in the lonely grave at St. Helena.

The Burning Of Moscow.