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# Abdication of Nicholas II

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As published in The Scotsman - Monday 19 March 1917
Headquaters
To the Chief of Staff.
In the days of a great struggle against a foreign enemy, who has been endeavouring for three years to enslave our country, it pleased God to send Russia a further painful trial. Internal troubles threatened to have a fatal effect on the further progress of this obstinate war. The destinies of Russia, the honour of her heroic army, the happiness of the people, and the whole future of our beloved Fatherland demand that the war should be conducted at all costs to a victorious end. The cruel enemy is making his last efforts, and the moment is near -when our valiant army, in consort with our glorious Allies, will finally overthrow the enemy. In these decisive days in the life of Russia we have thought that we owed to our people the close union and organisation of all its forces for the realisation of rapid victory, for which reason, in agreement with the Imperial Duma, we have recognised that it is for the good of the country that we should abdicate the Crown of the Russian State and lay down the supreme power. Not wishing to separate ourself from our beloved son, we bequeath our heritage to our brother, the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch, with our blessing for the future of the Throne of the Russian State. We bequeath it to our brother to govern in full union with the national representatives sitting in the legislative institutions, and to take his inviolable oath to them. In the name of our well-beloved fatherland, we call upon all faithful sons of the fatherland to fulfil their sacred and patriotic duty in obeying the Czar at the painful moment of national trials, and to aid him, together with the representatives of the nation, to conduct the Russian State in the way of prosperity and glory. May God help Russia.
Pskov.
2 March, 15 h. 5 min. 1917 year.
Nicholas
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Abduction

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Abduction."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Abduction, a story by Rafael Sabatini
* "Abduction," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Abduction," in Catholic Encyclopedia, (ed.) by Charles G. Herbermann and others, New York: The Encyclopaedia Press (1913)
* "Abduction," in Collier's New Encyclopedia, New York: P. F. Collier & Son Co. (1921)
* "abduction," in United States Government Glossary of Interagency and Associated Terms (2017)
# Abel

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Abel."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Abel," in Collier's New Encyclopedia, New York: P. F. Collier & Son Co. (1921)
* "Abel (1)," in Catholic Encyclopedia, (ed.) by Charles G. Herbermann and others, New York: The Encyclopaedia Press (1913)
* "Abel (2)," in Catholic Encyclopedia, (ed.) by Charles G. Herbermann and others, New York: The Encyclopaedia Press (1913)
* "Abel," in Easton's Bible Dictionary (1897)
* "Abel," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Abel," in The New Student's Reference Work, Chicago: F.E. Compton and Co. (1914)
* "Abel (d.764)," in Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900, London: Smith, Elder, & Co. (1885–1900) in 63 vols.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/German Prisoners

GERMAN PRISONERS
WHEN first I saw you in the curious street Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey, My mad impulse was all to smite and slay, To spit upon you—tread you 'neath my feet. But when I saw how each sad soul did greet My gaze with no sign of defiant frown, How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down, How each face showed the pale flag of defeat, ​And doubt, despair, and disillusionment, And how were grievous wounds on many a head, And on your garb red-faced was other red; And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent, I knew that we had suffered each as other, And could have grasped your hand and cried, "My brother!"
Joseph Lee
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/For Francis Ledwidge

FOR FRANCIS LEDWIDGE
(Killed in action, July 31, 1917.)
YOU fell; and on a distant field, shell shatter'd, Soaked with blood; while, in your dying, Erin Knew naught of you, nor folded you for rest. You will not sleep beneath a mound where kings Were coffin'd long ago in carven stone And dream in peace amid an emerald land Of many memories and swift-wing'd song. And yet I think that you are not forgotten; For even in the Irish air there will be Somewhat of you; in the wide beam of sunlight Streaming athwart the mountains to the fields Furrowed and brown, where languid rooks, and gulls With their sharp crying, circle, or sit and sun Themselves. The song of birds shall speak of you; The blackbird chirping cheerily of spring, When hawthorn blows and gorse runs through the hedge; The lark lost in the morning; and the stream Sparkling, or dark with pools, where salmon leap. You will not be forgotten; for your songs Have brought the beauty of the Irish land To many dimming eyes and homesick hearts. Poet and Soldier, could your land forget? For you each morning shall her fields be wet.
Norreys Jephson O'Conor
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/From a Trench

FROM A TRENCH
OUT here the dogs of war run loose, Their whipper-in is Death; Across the spoilt and battered fields We hear their sobbing breath. The fields where grew the living corn Are heavy with our dead; Yet still the fields at home are green And I have heard it said:
That— There are crocuses at Nottingham! Wild crocuses at Nottingham! Blue crocuses at Nottingham! Though here the grass is red.
There are little girls at Nottingham Who do not dread the Boche, Young girls at school at Nottingham (Lord! how I need a wash!). ​There are little boys at Nottingham Who never heard a gun; There are silly fools at Nottingham Who think we're here for fun.
When— There are crocuses at Nottingham! Young crocus buds at Nottingham! Thousands of buds at Nottingham Ungathered by the Hun.
But here we trample down the grass Into a purple slime; There lives no tree to give the birds House room in pairing-time. We live in holes, like cellar rats, But through the noise and smell I often see those crocuses Of which the people tell.
Why! There are crocuses at Nottingham! Bright crocuses at Nottingham! Real crocuses at Nottingham! Because we're here in Hell.
Maud Anna Bell
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Front Line

FRONT LINE
STANDING on the fire-step, Harking into the dark, The black was filled with figures His comrade could not mark. Because it was softly snowing, Because it was Christmastide, He saw three figures passing, Glittering in their pride.
One rode a cream-white camel, One was a blackamoor, One a bearded Persian; They all rode up to the door. They all rode up to the stable-door, Dismounted, and bent the knee. The door flamed open like a rose, But more he could not see.
Standing on the fire-step In softly falling snow, It came to him—the carol— Out of the long ago. ​He heard the glorious organ Fill transept, loft, and nave. He faintly heard the pulpit words: "Himself He could not save."
And all the wires in No-man's-land Seemed thrummed by ghostly thumbs; There woke then such a harping As when a hero comes, As when a hero homeward comes— And then his thought was back: He leaned against the parapet And peered into the black.
William Rose Benet
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Fulfilment (Nichols)

FULFILMENT
WAS there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine. Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, Lined by the wind, burned by the sun; Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, As whose children we are brethren: one.
And any moment may descend hot death To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast Belovèd soldiers who love rough life and breath Not less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, Oped mouth gushing, fallen head, Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony! O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine. O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
Robert Nichols
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Fulfilment (Warren)

FULFILMENT
"When all the mysteries of life had been fulfilled in them . . ."
WHEN wars are done, And when the splendour of the setting sun Goes down serenely on a quiet shore, Whose faithful tides for evermore Bring in the memory Of those who died that life might be: When we are grown so tender and so brave, That on a bitter grave We lay forgiveness, garlanded With love and pity, for the alien dead, Grieving, that they were cruel once and blind, Praying that in Thy Light their eyes may find The vision of a world that still can be, A kinship such as neither they nor we Dreamed in the old unshriven days. Yea, when divided ways Are one, A grander world begun: When love and tears and laughter are grown deep As sacraments, and Mercies never sleep But watch and mourn the dead Where they lie comforted: And when the heart's warm rain Falls on the blessed grain Of Brotherhood, when eager sowers fling It lavishly and far, that it may spring In harvests sweet and wide Whose thrilling sheaves are tied By hands once enemied: When all of this shall be, Then, then a second Calvary Shall rise; the Mount whereon the price Of deathless peace is laid, Man's love and sacrifice, A Hill immense, resplendent, high, Whence all the ruined earth, the darkened sky Shall kindle, and shall burn with phoenix-fire, The flame of purged desire.
G. O. Warren
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Gassed

GASSED
HE is blind and nevermore Shall the shining earth entrance Him, whose life once lay before Ardour like a bright romance; But another world is given Youth thus robbed of half a heaven.
His companions do not speak When they would accost him: they Need but touch his hand or cheek, Then the sightless eyes survey Love with love, which apprehends Instantly compassionate friends.
In each several kindly hand Lies a warm identity: Blind folk see and understand Those whom they may never see, And the deaf may hear Love's word Uttered, though it be unheard.
​When he walks about the streets Every house means much to him; Every wayfarer he meets Modest-faced or proudly prim— He divines: each rolling wheel's Movement in the town he feels.
Eden's gates to him are closed, Yet new portals open wide, Whence rare prospects are exposed; These he visions open eyed, When imagination thrills As he faces woods and hills.
Every breath of air that stirs Has a meaning: every leaf, Touched by him, responds; the firs Breathe a recompense for grief, And the grasses whisper, too, Words he does not misconstrue.
Few can hear the clover's voice As he hears it: few are those Who so thrillingly rejoice When the gillyflowers disclose Secrets that mean life to one Robbed of stars, though not of sun.
Touch becomes his very soul, Giving sense of sound with sight: He is ravaged yet made whole Even in black fate's despite: Look! He carries sad renown As an emperor wears a crown!
Deaf and blind! Yet he will know When old enemies cross his path; For the devil-prompted foe, Who inspired his quenchless wrath, With incredible torment, gave Gifts that make him more than brave.
Rowland Thirlmere
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Gervais

GERVAIS
(Killed at the Dardanelles.)
BEES hummed and rooks called hoarsely outside the quiet room Where by an open window Gervais, the restless boy, Fretting the while for cricket, read of Patroclos' doom And flower of youth a-dying by far-off windy Troy.
​Do the old tales, half-remembered, come back to haunt him now Who leaving his glad school-days and putting boyhood by Joined England's bitter Iliad? Greek beauty on the brow That frowns with dying wonder up to Hissarlik's sky!
Margaret Adelaide Wilson
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/For the Fallen

FOR THE FALLEN
WITH proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.
​They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted: They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.
Laurence Binyon
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/France

FRANCE
FRANCE
BECAUSE for once the sword broke in her hand, The words she spoke seemed perished for a space; All wrong was brazen, and in every land The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.
The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star Of evil Fate denying all release. The rulers smote, the feeble crying "War!" The usurers robbed, the naked crying "Peace!"
And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold Her honour to the vulture and the worm.
And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, The Overmen, so brave against the weak. Has your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.
Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, As once again her hands in high surprise Take hold upon the battlements of Hell.
Cecil Chesterton
# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 232

Chap. CCXXXII.—Of lively and beautiful Colours.
For those colours which you mean should appear beautiful, prepare a ground of pure white. This is meant only for transparent colours: as for ​those that have a body, and are opake, it matters not what ground they have, and a white one is of no use. This is exemplified by painted glasses; when placed between the eye and clear air, they exhibit most excellent and beautiful colours, which is not the case, when they have thick air, or some opake body behind them.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 235

Chap. CCXXXV.—How any Colour without Gloss, is more beautiful in the Lights than in the Shades.
All objects which have no gloss, shew their colours better in the light than in the shadow, because the light vivifies and gives a true knowledge of the nature of the colour, while the shadows lower, and destroy its beauty, preventing the discovery of its nature. If, on the contrary, black be more beautiful in the shadows, it is because black is not a colour.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 237

Chap. CCXXXVII.—What Part of a Colour is to be the most beautiful.
If A be the light, and B the object receiving it in a direct line, E cannot receive that light, but only the reflexion from B, which we shall suppose to be red. In that case, the light it produces being red, it will tinge with red the object E; and if E happen to be also red before, you will see that colour increase in beauty, and appear redder than B; but if E were ​yellow, you will see a new colour, participating of the red and the yellow.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 238

Chap. CCXXXVIII.—That the Beauty of a Colour is to be found in the Lights.
As the quality of colours is discovered to the eye by the light, it is natural to conclude, that where there is most light, there also the true quality of the colour is to be seen; and where there is most shadow the colour will participate of, and be tinged with the colour of that shadow. Remember then to shew the true quality of the colour in the light parts only.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 23

Chap. XXIII.—The Method of retaining in the Memory the Likeness of a Man, so as to draw his Profile, after having seen him only once.
Youmust observe and remember well the variations of the four principal features in the profile; the nose, mouth, chin, and forehead. And first of the nose, of which there are three different sorts, straight, concave, and convex. Of the straight there are but four variations, short or long, high at the end, or low. Of the concave there are three sorts; some have the concavity above, some in the middle, and some at the end. The convex noses also vary three ways; some project in the upper part, some in the middle, and others at the bottom. Nature, which seems to delight in infinite variety, gives again three changes to those noses which have a projection in the middle; for some have it straight, some concave, and some convex.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 231

Chap. CCXXXI.—The Mode of painting on Canvass, or Linen Cloth.
Stretch your canvass upon a frame, then give it a coat of weak size, let it dry, and draw your outlines upon it. Paint the flesh colours first; and while it is still fresh or moist, paint also the shadows, well softened and blended together. The flesh colour may be made with white, lake, and Naples yellow. The shades with black, umber, and a little lake; you may, if you please, use black chalk. After you have softened this first coat, or dead colour, and let it dry, you may retouch over it with lake and other colours, and gum water that has been a long while made and kept liquid, because in that state it becomes better, and does not leave any gloss. Again, to make the shades darker, take the lake and gum as above, and ink; and with this you may shade or glaze many colours, because it is transparent; such as azure, lake, and several others. As for the lights, you may retouch or glaze them slightly with gum water and pure lake, particularly vermilion.
* ↑ It is evident that distemper or size painting is here meant.
* ↑ Indian ink.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 233

Chap. CCXXXIII.—Of transparent Colours.
When a transparent colour is laid upon another of a different nature, it produces a mixed colour, different from either of the simple ones which compose it. This is observed in the smoke coming out of a chimney, which, when passing before the black soot, appears blueish, but as it ascends against the blue of the sky, it changes its appearance into a reddish brown. So the colour lake laid on blue will turn it to a violet colour; yellow upon blue turns to green; saffron upon white becomes yellow; white scumbled upon a dark ground appears blue, and is more or less beautiful, as the white and the ground are more or less pure.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 230

Chap. CCXXX.—How to paint a Picture that will last almost for ever.
After you have made a drawing of your intended picture, prepare a good and thick priming with pitch and brickdust well pounded; after which give it a second coat of white lead and Naples yellow; then, having traced your drawing upon it, and painted your picture, varnish it with clear and thick old oil, and stick it to a flat glass, or crystal, with a clear varnish. Another method, which may be better, is, instead of the priming of pitch and brickdust, take a flat tile well vitrified, then apply the coat of white and Naples yellow, and all the rest as before. But before the glass is applied to it, the painting must be perfectly dried in a stove, and varnished with nut oil and amber, or else with purified nut oil alone, thickened in the sun.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 234

Chap. CCXXXIV.—In what Part a Colour will appear in its greatest Beauty.
We are to consider here in what part any colour will shew itself in its most perfect purity; whether in the strongest light or deepest shadow, in the demi-tint, or in the reflex. It would be necessary to determine first, of what colour we mean to treat, because different colours differ materially in that re​spect. Black is most beautiful in the shades; white in the strongest light; blue and green in the half-tint; yellow and red in the principal light; gold in the reflexes; and lake in the half-tint.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 236

Chap. CCXXXVI.—Of the Appearance of Colours.
The lighter a colour is in its nature, the more so it will appear when removed to some distance; but with dark colours it is quite the reverse.
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# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Headquarters

HEADQUARTERS
A LEAGUE and a league from the trenches—from the traversed maze of the lines, Where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines, And the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines—
Here, where haply some woman dreamed (are those her roses that bloom In the garden beyond the windows of my littered working-room?), We have decked the map for our masters as a bride is decked for the groom.
Fair, on each lettered numbered square—cross-road and mound and wire, Loophole, redoubt and emplacement—lie the targets their mouths desire; Gay with purples and browns and blues, have we traced them their arcs of fire.
And ever the type-keys chatter; and ever our keen wires bring Word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from the watchers a-wing: ever we hear the distant growl of our hid guns thundering;
Hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench lines crawl, Red on the grey and each with a sign for the ranging shrapnel's fall— Snakes that our masters shall scotch at dawn, as is written here on the wall.
​For the weeks of our waiting draw to a close. . . . There is scarcely a leaf astir In the garden beyond my windows, where the twilight shadows blur The blaze of some woman's roses. . . . "Bombardment orders, sir."
Gilbert Frankau