Bradford Reporter

Miscellaneous.

THE KREMLIN.

Moscow, June, 1858.

If Moscow is the Mecca of the Russians, the Kremlin is its Kaaba. Within its ancient walls is gathered all that is holiest in religion or most cherished in historical tradition. Kieff and Novogorod retain but a dim halo of their former sanctity; their glory lies wholly in the past. The kingdoms of which they were the centers had ceased to exist before the foundation of Russian power. On the hill of the Kremlin was first planted that mighty tree whose branches overshadowed continents. The fact that Tartar, Swede and Frenchman have laid their axes at its very root, without being able to lop off a single bough, though the whole world awaited its fall, only endears this spot the more to the Russian people and strengthens their superstitious faith in the Divine protection vouchsafed in it. The Tartar planted his crescent on its holy spires, and there it still glitters, but under the holy cross. Napoleon housed in its ancient palace, and a thousand of his cannon are now piled in the court-yard. Its very gates are protected by miracles, and the peasant from a distant province enters them with much the same feeling as a Jewish pilgrim enters the long-lost city of Zion.

The Kremlin hill stands very nearly in the center of the city. It is triangular in form, the longest side facing the Moskva, about a mile in circumference and somewhat less than a hundred feet in height. Adjoining on the east is the Kitai Gorod, (Chinese City,) still inclosed in its ancient walls. The original walls of the city were built by Demetrius Donskoi, in the fourteenth century, and though frequently repaired, if not wholly rebuilt, since that time, they still retain their ancient character. Rising directly from the Moskva, at the foot of the hill on the southern side, they climb it at either end, and crown it on all other sides. Thus, when you stand on the opposite bank of the river, you see before you long, notched walls, interrupted with picturesque Tartar towers, like an antique frame to the green slope of the hill, whose level tops bear aloft its crown of palaces, churches and towers. This is the only general view one gets of the Kremlin, although its clustered golden domes are visible from almost every part of the city. There was formerly a lake-like moat around the northern side of the hill: but Alexander I. drained and planted it, and it is now a pleasant garden.

The main entrance is at the north-eastern angle, through a double towered portal called the Sunday Gate. As I propose acting as a valet de place for my fellow-traveler-readers, I shall describe to them the notable sights of the Kremlin, in the order in which they met us.— We shall not enter, therefore, without pausing for a moment before this gate, to inspect more closely a little chapel, or rather shrine, built against the wall, between the two arch-ways. Before the shrine is a platform thronged with a bare-headed crowd, whose heads are continually bobbing up and down as they cross themselves. Every one who passes, going in or out, does the same, and many an officer, grave citizen or resplendent lady descend from the droshky, presses through the throng and fall on their knees before the holy picture inside the sanctuary. We press in, among hackmen, beggars, merchants and high officials, all so intent on their manipulations that they do not even see us, and finally reach a niche lighted with silver lamps, before a screen dazzling with gold, silver and precious stones. A high-born lady in silk and lace and a lousy-bearded serf are kneeling side by side and kissing with passionate devotion the glass cover over a Byzantine mother and child, of dark, mulatto complexion, whose hands and faces alone are visible through their gilded and jewelled mantles. This is the "Iberian Mother of God"— a miraculous picture, which, after working wonders in Georgia and on Mount Athos, has for the last two hundred years been the protectoress of the Moscovites. Her aid is invoked by high and low, in all the circumstances of life, and I doubt whether any other shrine in the world is the witness of such general and so much real devotion.

Once within the Sunday Gate, we see before us the long Krasnoi Ploshad, or Red Square, stretching southward to the bank of the Moskva. Close on our right towers the gray wall of the Kremlin—for, although on the hill, we are not yet fairly within the sacred citadel—while on the left parallel to it, is the long, low front of the Gostinnoi Dvor, or Great Bazaar. In the center of the square is a bronze monument to Minin and Pojarski, the Russian heroes, who in 1610 aroused the people, stormed Moscow, and drove out Vladislas of Poland, who had been called to the throne by the Boyards. But for this act the relative destiny of the two powers might have been reversed. The Russians, therefore, deservedly honor the memory of the sturdy butcher of Nijni Novogorod, who, like the Roman Cincinnatus, seems to have been the master-spirit of the Revolution. He is represented as addressing Pojarski, the General, who sits before him, listening, one hand on his sword. The figures are colossal, and full of fire and vigor. A short distance beyond this monument is a small circular platform of masonry, which is said to have been a throne, or public judgment seat, of the early Czars.

Proceeding down the square to its southern extremity, we halt at last before the most astonishing structure our eyes ever beheld. What is it?—a church, a pavilion, or an immense toy? All the colors of a rainbow, all the forms and combinations which straight and curved lines can produce, are here compounded. It seems to be the product of some architectural kaleidoscope, in which the most incongruous things assume a certain order and system, for surely such another bewildering pile does not exist. It is not beautiful, for beauty requires at least a suggestion of symmetry, and here the idea of proportion or adaptation is wholly lost. Neither is the effect offensive, because the maze of colors, in which red, green and gold predominate, attracts and cajoles the eye. The purposed incongruity of the building is seen in the minutest details, and where there is accidental resemblance in form, it is balanced by a difference in color.

This is the cathedral of St. Basil, built during the reign of Ivan the Terrible, who is said to have been so charmed with the work, that he caused the eyes of the architect to be blinded, to prevent him from ever building another such. The same story, however, is told of various buildings, clocks and various pieces of mechanism, in Europe, and is doubtless false. Examining the cathedral more closely, we find it to be an agglomeration of towers, no two of which are alike, either in height, shape, or any other particular. Some are round, some square, some hexagonal: one ends in a pyramidal spire, another in a cone, and others bulging domes of the most fantastical pattern—twisted in spiral bands of yellow and green like an ancient Moslem turban, vertically ribbed with green and silver, checkered with squares of blue and gold, covered with knobbed scales, like a pine cone, or with overlapping leaves of crimson, purple, gold and green. Between the bases of these towers galleries are introduced, which, again, differ in style and ornament as the towers themselves. The interior walls are covered with a grotesque maze of painting, consisting of flower-pots, thistles, roses, vines, birds, beasts and scrollwork, twined together in an inextricable confusion as we often see in Byzantine capitals and friezes. The interior of the cathedral is no less curious than the outside. Every tower encloses a chapel, so twelve or fifteen saints here have their shrines under one roof, yet enjoy the tapers, the incense and prayers of their worshippers in private, no one interfering with the other. The chapels, owing to their narrow bases and great height, resemble flues. Their sides are covered with sacred frescoes and all manner of ornamental painting on a golden ground, and as you look up the diminishing shaft, the colossal face of Christ, the Virgin, or the protecting Saint, stares down upon you from the hollow of the capping dome. The central tower is 120 feet high, while the diameter of the chapel inside it cannot be more than thirty feet at the base. I cannot better describe this singular structure than by calling it the Apotheosis of Chimneys.

Let us now turn back a few steps, and pass through the Kremlin wall by the Spass Vorata, or Gate of the Redeemer. This is even more peculiarly sacred than the chapel of the Iberian Mother. Over the hollow arch hangs a picture of the Saviour, which looks with benignity upon the Russians, but breathes fire and thunder upon their foes. The Tartars, so says tradition, have been driven back again and again from this gate by miraculous resistance, and, though the French entered at last, all their attempts to blow it up were in vain. The other entrance, the Gate of St. Nicholas has also its picture, but of less sanctity. Here the French succeeded in cracking the arch, as far as the picture-frame, where the rent suddenly stopped. No man dare pass through the Gate of the Redeemer without uncovering his head—not even the Emperor. The common Russians commence at twenty paces off, and very few of them pass through the Red Square, on their way to and from the Moskva, without turning toward the gate, bowing and crossing themselves. This is not the only shrine in Moscow whose holiness irradiates a wide circle around it. I have frequently seen men performing their devotions in the market-place or the middle of the street, and, by following the direction of their eyes, have discovered at a considerable distance, the object of their reverence.

At last we tread the paved court of the Kremlin. Before us rises the tower of Ivan Veliki, whose massive, sturdy walls seem to groan under its load of monster bells. Beyond it are the cathedral of St. Michael, the church of the Assumption, and the ancient church of the Czars, all covered with tiaras of gilded domes. To the right rises another cluster of dark-blue, pear-shaped domes, over the house of the Holy Synod, while the new palace (Granovitaya Palata) with its heavy French front and wings, above which
"The light aerial gallery, golden-railed,
Burns like a fringe of fire."

fills up the back-ground. The Tartar towers of the Kremlin wall shoot up, on our left, from under the edge of the platform whereon we stand, and away and beyond them glitters the southern part of the wonderful city—a vast semicircle of red, green and gold. I know not when this picture is most beautiful—when it blinds you in the glare of sunshine, when the shadows of clouds soften its piercing colors and extinguish half its reflecting fires, when evening wraps it in a violet mist, re-painting it with sober tints, or when it lies pale and gray, yet sprinkled with points of silver light, under the midnight moon.

At the foot of this tower stands on a granite pedestal the Tzar Kolokol, or Emperor of Bells, whose renown is world-wide. It was cast by order of the Empress Anna in 1730, but was broken seven years afterwards, through the burning of the wooden tower in which it hung. It is a little over twenty-one feet in height, twenty two feet in diameter at the bottom, weighs 120 tons, and the estimated value of silver, copper and gold contained in it is $2,500,000. In one of the upper stories of the tower hangs another bell cast more than a century before the Tzar Kolokol, and weighing sixty-four tons. Its iron tongue is swung from side to side by the united exertion of three men. It is only rung thrice a year, and when it speaks all other bells are silent. To those who stand near the tower, the vibration of the air is said to be like that which follows the simultaneous discharge of a hundred cannon. In the other story hangs at least forty or fifty bells, varying in weight from thirty-six tons to a thousand pounds; some of them are one-third silver.— When they all sound at once, as on Easter morn, the very tower must rock on its foundation. In those parts of Russia where the Eastern Church is predominant, no other sect is allowed to possess bells. In Austria the same prohibition is extended to the Protestant churches. The sound of the bell is a part of the act of worship, and therefore no heterodox tongue, though of iron, must be permitted to preach false doctrine to half the city.

The Empress Anna seems to have had a fondness for monster castings. Turning to the right, into an adjoining court-yard, we behold a tremendous piece of artillery, familiarly known as the "pocket-piece" of the Czarina. The diameter of the bore is three feet, but it is evident that the gun never could have been used. It was no doubt made for show, from the bronze of captured cannon. In the same court are arranged the spoils of 1812, consisting of nearly one thousand cannon, French and German. They are mostly small field pieces, and hence make but little display and Persian guns, some of which are highly ornamented, occupy the opposite side of the court, and are much finest of all the trophies here.

We will now enter the churches in the palace court. They are but of moderate dimensions, and very plain, outwardly, except in their crowns of fair-shining golden domes.— Undoubtedly they were once painted in the style of the Cathedral of St. Basil, but the rainbow frescoes are now covered with a uniform coat of whitewash. One is therefore all the more puzzled by the pomp and glare of the interior. The walls, the five domes, resting on tall pillars at their intersections, the pillars themselves, everything but the floor, is covered with a coating of flashing gold; the ikonostas, or screen before the Holy of Holies, is of gilded silver, and rises to the roof; the altars are of massive silver, and the shrine-pictures are set in a blaze of diamonds, emeralds and rubies. A multitude of saints are painted on the walls, and seem to float in a golden sky. And not saints alone, but—strange to say classic philosophers and historians. Thucydides and Plutarch, in company with Sts. Anthony and Jerome! There are said to be 2,300 figures in this church, which is much more than the number of worshipers who can find place within it. I have been there on Sunday when it was thronged, and really there was less diversity of visage, costume and character among the pictures above than among the human beings below. It was a wonderful crowd! I could have picked out the representatives of fifty nations, and facial stamp of three centuries. The singing was sublime. The choir was unseen, behind the silver screen, and the sweetness and purity of the boy sopranos swelled and sank like a chorus of angels heard through the fitful gusts of a storm. Devotional music nowhere receives such glorious expression as in the Russian churches.

The Cathedral of the Archangel Michael, but a few paces distant from that of the Assumption, resembles it in its internal structure. It is more dimly lighted, however, the gold is not so glaring, and, in place of the army of saints, there are large frescoes of Heaven, Hell, Judgment, &c. On the floor, arranged in rows, are the sarcophagi of the early Czars, from Ivan I, to Alexis, father of Peter the Great. They are covered with dusty, mouldering palls of cloth or velvet, each one inscribed with his name. In the middle of the church, in a splendid silver coffin, is the body of a boy seven or eight years of age, which is universally believed to be that of young Demetrius, the last prince of the race of Rurik, who was put to death by Boris Godunoff. The lid of this coffin is open, and on the inner side is a portrait of the boy, in a frame of massive gold, studded with jewels. The body is wrapped in a cloth of gold, and a cushion covers the face. The attendant priest was about to remove this cushion, when our guides whispered to me, "You are expected to kiss the forehead," and I turned away. These relics are ranked among the holiest in Moscow, and are most devoutly worshiped, although it is by no means certain that they belong to the true Demetrius.

Close at hand is the House of the Holy Synod, and as we are accompanied by our obliging Consul, Col. Claxton, to whom all doors are open, we are admitted into the Sanctuary where are preserved the robes worn by Russian Patriarchs during the last six hundred years, as well as the silver jars containing the sacred oil, used for solemn sacraments throughout the whole Empire. The robes are of the heaviest silk, interwoven with gold and silver thread, and so sown with jewels that they would stand stiff upright with their own richness. The Patriarchs seem to have had an especial fondness for pearls, of which, in some instances, the embroidered figures are entirely composed. In strong contrast to these dazzling vestments are the coarse brown hat and mantle of the Patriarch Nicon. The holy oil is preserved in thirty-three jars, which, as well as the larger vessels used in preparing it, are of massive silver. About two gallons a year are necessary to supply Russia. The council Hall of the Holy Synod is in the same building. It is evidently the ancient place of assembly—a long low room, with sacred frescoes on a golden ground, and raised seats along the wall for the principal personages.

Let us now turn from the sacred to the secular sights of the Kremlin, although some of the latter are not less sacred to Russian eyes. The palace doors open to the special permit presented by Col. Claxton, and we ascend the broad, noble staircase. The plain exterior of the building gives no hint of the splendors within. I have seen all the palaces of Europe (with the exception of the Escurial,) but I cannot now recall one in which the highest possible magnificence is so subservient to good taste as here. Inlaid floors, of such beautiful design and such precious wood, that you tread upon them with regret; capitals, cornices and ceiling-soffits of gold; walls overlaid with fluted silk; giant candelabra of silver and malachite, and the soft gleam of many-tinted marbles, combine to make this a truly Imperial residence. The grand hall of St. George, all in white and gold, is literally incrusted with ornamental carved-work; that of St. Alexander Nevsky is sumptuous in blue and gold: while in that of St. Elizabeth, the walls are not only overlaid with gold, and the furniture of massive silver, but in the center of every door is a Maltese cross, formed of the largest diamonds! The eye does not tire of this unwonted splendor, nor does it seem difficult to dwell even in such dazzling halls. In a lower story is the banqueting-hall, hung with crimson velvet, studded with golden eagles. Here the Emperor feasts with his nobles on the day of coronation—the only occasion on which it is used.

The dwelling rooms are fitted up with equal magnificence, except those occupied by the Emperor himself, in which the furniture is very plain and serviceable. In some of these rooms we found everything topsy-turvy. Officers were busy in taking an inventory of the furniture, even to the smallest article, in order that a stop may be put to the wholesale plunder which has been carried on in the imperial household, since the death of Peter the Great. The dishonesty of Russian officials is a matter of universal notoriety, and Alexander II. is doing his part to check and punish it. He has not been the slightest sufferer. During the coronation, 40,000 lamps were brought for the illumination of the Kremlin, and now, not one is to be found! Thousands of yards of crimson cloth, furnished on the same occasion, have disappeared, and enormous charges appear in the bills, for articles which were never bought at all. All Moscow is now laughing over one of these discoveries, which is too amusing not to tell, although I may offend strict ideas of propriety in relating it. In the suite of the Empress were fifty chosen Ladies of Honor, who of course were lodged and entertained at the imperial expense. When the bills came to be settled it was found that, in furnishing the bed-chambers of these fifty ladies, 4,500 utensils of a useful character had been purchased, or no less than ninety apiece.

A part of the ancient Palace of the Czars—all that was left by fire and Frenchmen—forms the rear wing of the building. It is very much in style of the Cathedral of St. Basil: irregular, fantastic, and covered with a painted tangle of scrolls, vines, flowers and birds. The apartments of the Czarina and children, the private chapel, audience-room, and terema or inclosed balcony, are still quite perfect. From the latter, it is said, Napoleon watched the progress of the fire, the night after his arrival in Moscow. On the ancient tables stand the treasure chests of Czar Alexis—five large boxes of massive gold, covered with inscriptions in the Slavonian character.— If such were the chests, what must have been the treasure? But really, before one gets through with the Kremlin, gold and jewels become drugs. You still delight in their blaze and beauty, but you cease to be impressed by their value.

This warns me that the words, too, in which I have been endeavoring to describe these things, may at last lose their color and force from sheer repetition. I shall therefore barely mention the last and perhaps the most interesting sights of all—the Treasury. I know no historical museum in Europe of such magnificence, although there may be others more technically complete. Here, crowns and thrones are as plenty as mineralogical specimens elsewhere. In one hall are the jeweled thrones of Ivan III., Boris Godunoff, Michael Romanoff, Peter the Great and his brother, and of Poland while between them, each resting on a crimson cushion, on its separate pillar, are the crowns of those monarchs, and of the subject kingdoms of Siberia, Poland, Kazan, Novgorod and the Crimea. In another case is the sceptre of Poland, broken in the center, and the Constitution of that ill-fated country lies in a box at the feet of Alexander I.'s portrait. There are also, the litter of Charles XII. taken at Pultava the heavy jack-boots of Peter the Great; the jeweled horse-trappings of Catherine II., her equestrian portrait in male attire (and a gallant, dashing, strapping cavalier she is!) the helmet of Michael Romanoff—curiously enough with an Arabic sentence over the brow—and a superb collection of arms, armor, military trappings, golden and silver vessels, and antique jewelry. A lower room contains the imperial coaches and sleighs, for two centuries back.

Can you wonder now, even after the little I have found room to say, that the Kremlin is looked upon by the Russian people with fond and faithful veneration?—Bayard Taylor to the N. Y. Tribune.