These were dark and awful days.  Horrible as war now is, it was then attended with woes now unknown.  Gleb, prince of Minsk, with a ferocious band, attacked the city of Sloutsk; after a terrible scene of carnage, in which most of those capable of bearing arms were slain, the city was burned to ashes, and all the survivors, men, women and children, were driven off as captives to the banks of the Dwina, where they were incorporated with the tribe of their savage conqueror.  In revenge, Monomaque sent his son Yaropolk to Droutsk, one of the cities of Gleb.  No pen can depict the horrors of the assault.  After a few hours of dismay, shriekings and blood, the city was in ashes, and the wretched victims of man’s pride and revenge were conducted to the vicinity of Kief, where they reared their huts, and in widowhood, orphanage and penury, commenced life anew.  Gleb himself in this foray was taken prisoner, conducted to Kief, and detained there a captive until he died.

Monomaque reigned thirteen years, during which time he was incessantly engaged in wars with the audacious nobles of the provinces who refused to recognize his supremacy, and many of whom were equal to him in power.  He died May 19, 1126, in the seventy-third year of his age, renowned, say the ancient annalists, for the splendor of his victories and the purity of his morals.  He was fully conscious of the approach of death, and seems to have been sustained, in that trying hour, by the consolations of religion.  He lived in an age of darkness and of tumult; but he was a man of prayer, and, according to the light he had, he walked humbly with God.  Commending his soul to the Saviour he fell asleep.  It is recorded that he was a man of such lively emotions that his voice often trembled, and his eyes were filled with tears as he implored God’s blessing upon his distracted country.  He wrote, just before his death, a long letter to his children, conceived in the most lovely spirit of piety.  We have space but for a few extracts from these Christian counsels of a dying father.  The whole letter, written on parchment, is still preserved in the archives of the monarchy.

“The foundation of all virtue,” he wrote, “is the fear of God and the love of man.  O my dear children, praise God and love your fellow-men.  It is not fasting, it is not solitude, it is not a monastic life which will secure for you the divine approval—­it is doing good to your fellow-creatures alone.  Never forget the poor.  Take care of them, and ever remember that your wealth comes from God, and that it is only intrusted to you for a short time.  Do not hoard up your riches; that is contrary to the precepts of the Saviour.  Be a father to the orphans, the protectors of widows, and never permit the powerful to oppress the weak.  Never take the name of God in vain, and never violate your oath.  Do not envy the triumph of the wicked, or the success of the impious; but abstain from everything that is wrong.  Banish from your hearts all the suggestions of pride, and remember that we are all perishable—­to-day full of life, to-morrow in the tomb.  Regard with horror, falsehood, intemperance and impurity—­vices equally dangerous to the body and to the soul.  Treat aged men with the same respect with which you would treat your parents, and love all men as your brothers.