The revolution in Paris of 1848, which expelled Louis Philippe from the throne, excited the hopes of the republican party all over Europe.  The Hungarians rose, under Kossuth, in the endeavor to shake off the Austrian yoke.  Francis Joseph appealed to Russia for aid.  Nicholas dispatched two hundred thousand men to crush the Hungarians, and they were crushed.  Nicholas asked no remuneration for these services.  He felt amply repaid in having arrested the progress of constitutional liberty in Europe.

Various circumstances, each one trivial in itself, conspired to lead Nicholas in 1853 to make a new and menacing demonstration of power in the direction of Constantinople.  An army was marshaled on the frontiers, and a large fleet assembled at Odessa and Sevastopol.  England and France were alarmed, and a French fleet of observation entered the waters of Greece, while the English fleet at Malta strengthened itself for any emergence.  The prominent question professedly at issue between Russia and Turkey was the protection which should be extended to members of the Greek church residing within the Turkish domains.  The sultan, strengthened by the secret support of France and England, refused to accede to the terms which Russia demanded, and the armies of Nicholas were put on the march for Constantinople.  England and France dispatched their fleets for the protection of Turkey.  In the campaign of Sevastopol, with which our readers are all familiar, Russia received a check which will, for a few years, retard her advances.

During the progress of the campaign of Sevastopol, the emperor Nicholas, in February, 1855, was suddenly seized with the influenza.  The disease made rapid progress.  He could not sleep at night, and an incessant cough racked his frame.  On the 22d, notwithstanding the intense severity of the weather, he insisted upon reviewing some troops who were about to set out for the seat of war.

“Sire,” said one of his physicians, “there is not a surgeon in the army who would permit a common soldier to leave the hospital in the state in which you are, for he would be sure that his patient would reenter it still worse.”

“’Tis well, gentlemen,” said the emperor, “you have done your duty, and I shall do mine.”

Then wrapping his cloak about him, he entered his sledge.  It was a bleak winter’s day.  Pale, languid and coughing incessantly, he rode along the lines of his troops.  He returned in a profuse perspiration, and was soon seized with a relapse, which was aggravated by the disastrous tidings he was receiving from Sevastopol.  He rapidly failed, and the empress, anxious as to the result, suggested that he should receive the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.

“No!” the emperor replied.  “I can not approach so solemn a mystery undressed and in bed.  It will be better when I can do it in a suitable manner.”

The empress, endeavoring to conceal her tears, commenced the repetition of the Lord’s prayer, in a low tone of voice.  As she uttered the words “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” he fervently added, “For ever, for ever, for ever.”  Observing that his wife was in tears he inquired, “Why do you weep?  Am I in danger?” She, afraid to utter the truth, said, “No.”  He added, “You are greatly agitated and fatigued.  You must retire and take some rest.”