{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_51117/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_51117","id":"gutenberg_51117","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51117","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - European","Category: History - Modern (1750+)","Category: History - Religious","Category: Travel Writing","Russia","Russia -- Religion"],"text":"Transcriber's Note.\n\nApparent typographical errors have been corrected. The inconsistent\nuse of hyphens has been retained.\n\nItalics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been\nreplaced by full capitals.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: CONVENT OF SOLOVETSK IN THE FROZEN SEA.]\n\n\n[Illustration: RUSSIAN INFANTRY ON EASTERN STEPPE ESCORTED BY KOZAKS\nAND KIRGHIZ.]\n\n\n\n\nFREE RUSSIA.\n\nBY\n\nWILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON.\n\nAUTHOR OF\n\n\"FREE AMERICA.\" \"HER MAJESTY'S TOWER.\" &c.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n _NEW YORK_:\n\n HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.\n FRANKLIN SQUARE.\n\n 1870.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\n_Svobodnaya_ Rossia--_Free_ Russia--is a word on every lip in that\ngreat country; at once the Name and Hope of the new empire born of the\nCrimean war. In past times Russia was free, even as Germany and France\nwere free. She fell before Asiatic hordes; and the Tartar system\nlasted, in spirit, if not in form, until the war; but since that\nconflict ended, the old Russia has been born again. This new\ncountry--hoping to be pacific, meaning to be Free--is what I have\ntried to paint.\n\nMy journeys, just completed, carried me from the Polar Sea to the Ural\nMountains, from the mouth of the Vistula to the Straits of Yeni Kale,\nincluding visits to the four holy shrines of Solovetsk, Pechersk, St.\nGeorge, and Troitsa. My object being to paint the Living People, I\nhave much to say about pilgrims, monks, and parish priests; about\nvillage justice, and patriarchal life; about beggars, tramps, and\nsectaries; about Kozaks, Kalmuks, and Kirghiz; about workmen's artels,\nburgher rights, and the division of land; about students' revolts and\nsoldiers' grievances; in short, about the Human Forces which underlie\nand shape the external politics of our time.\n\nTwo journeys made in previous years have helped me to judge the\nreforms which are opening out the Japan-like empire of Nicolas into\nthe Free Russia of the reigning prince.\n\n _February, 1870._\n _6 St. James's Terrace._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    CHAP.                                           PAGE\n\n       I.--UP NORTH                                   11\n\n      II.--THE FROZEN SEA                             16\n\n     III.--THE DVINA                                  20\n\n      IV.--ARCHANGEL                                  24\n\n       V.--RELIGIOUS LIFE                             29\n\n      VI.--PILGRIMS                                   34\n\n     VII.--FATHER JOHN                                40\n\n    VIII.--THE VLADIKA                                46\n\n      IX.--A PILGRIM-BOAT                             51\n\n       X.--THE HOLY ISLES                             57\n\n      XI.--THE LOCAL SAINTS                           62\n\n     XII.--A MONASTIC HOUSEHOLD                       68\n\n    XIII.--A PILGRIM'S DAY                            73\n\n     XIV.--PRAYER AND LABOR                           78\n\n      XV.--BLACK CLERGY                               84\n\n     XVI.--SACRIFICE                                  91\n\n    XVII.--MIRACLES                                   96\n\n   XVIII.--THE GREAT MIRACLE                         103\n\n     XIX.--A CONVENT SPECTRE                         110\n\n      XX.--STORY OF A GRAND DUKE                     114\n\n     XXI.--DUNGEONS                                  118\n\n    XXII.--NICOLAS ILYIN                             124\n\n   XXIII.--ADRIAN PUSHKIN                            130\n\n    XXIV.--DISSENT                                   135\n\n     XXV.--NEW SECTS                                 142\n\n    XXVI.--MORE NEW SECTS                            146\n\n   XXVII.--THE POPULAR CHURCH                        151\n\n  XXVIII.--OLD BELIEVERS                             158\n\n    XXIX.--A FAMILY OF OLD BELIEVERS                 161\n\n     XXX.--CEMETERY OF THE TRANSFIGURATION           167\n\n    XXXI.--RAGOSKI                                   173\n\n   XXXII.--DISSENTING POLITICS                       179\n\n  XXXIII.--CONCILIATION                              183\n\n   XXXIV.--ROADS                                     187\n\n    XXXV.--A PEASANT POET                            192\n\n   XXXVI.--FOREST SCENES                             197\n\n  XXXVII.--PATRIARCHAL LIFE                          202\n\n XXXVIII.--VILLAGE REPUBLICS                         208\n\n   XXXIX.--COMMUNISM                                 213\n\n      XL.--TOWNS                                     218\n\n     XLI.--KIEF                                      222\n\n    XLII.--PANSLAVONIA                               225\n\n   XLIII.--EXILE                                     229\n\n    XLIV.--THE SIBERIANS                             235\n\n     XLV.--ST. GEORGE                                241\n\n    XLVI.--NOVGOROD THE GREAT                        246\n\n   XLVII.--SERFAGE                                   250\n\n  XLVIII.--A TARTAR COURT                            254\n\n    XLIX.--ST. PHILIP                                257\n\n       L.--SERFS                                     262\n\n      LI.--EMANCIPATION                              267\n\n     LII.--FREEDOM                                   272\n\n    LIII.--TSEK AND ARTEL                            278\n\n     LIV.--MASTERS AND MEN                           284\n\n      LV.--THE BIBLE                                 289\n\n     LVI.--PARISH PRIESTS                            294\n\n    LVII.--A CONSERVATIVE REVOLUTION                 299\n\n   LVIII.--SECRET POLICE                             306\n\n     LIX.--PROVINCIAL RULERS                         312\n\n      LX.--OPEN COURTS                               318\n\n     LXI.--ISLAM                                     324\n\n    LXII.--THE VOLGA                                 330\n\n   LXIII.--EASTERN STEPPE                            336\n\n    LXIV.--DON KOZAKS                                341\n\n     LXV.--UNDER ARMS                                346\n\n    LXVI.--ALEXANDER                                 351\n\n\n\n\nFREE RUSSIA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nUP NORTH.\n\n\n\"White Sea!\" laughs the Danish skipper, curling his thin red lip; \"it\nis the color of English stout. The bed may be white, being bleached\nwith the bones of wrecked and sunken men; but the waves are never\nwhite, except when they are ribbed into ice and furred with snow. A\nbetter name is that which the sailors and seal-fishers give it--the\nFrozen Sea!\"\n\nRounding the North Cape, a weird and hoary mass of rock, projecting\nfar into the Arctic foam, we drive in a south-east course, lashed by\nthe wind and beaten by hail and rain, for two long days, during which\nthe sun never sets and never rises, and in which, if there is dawn at\nthe hour of midnight, there is also dusk at the time of noon.\n\nLeaving the picturesque lines of fiord and alp behind, we run along a\ndim, unbroken coast, not often to be seen through the pall of mist,\nuntil, at the end of some fifty hours, we feel, as it were, the land\nin our front; a stretch of low-lying shore in the vague and far-off\ndistance, trending away towards the south, like the trail of an\nevening cloud. We bend in a southern course, between Holy Point\n(Sviatoi Noss, called on our charts, in rough salt slang, Sweet Nose)\nand Kanin Cape, towards the Corridor; a strait some thirty miles wide,\nleading down from the Polar Ocean into that vast irregular dent in the\nnorthern shore of Great Russia known as the Frozen Sea.\n\nThe land now lying on our right, as we run through the Corridor, is\nthat of the Lapps; a country of barren downs and deep black lakes;\nover which a few trappers and fishermen roam; subjects of the Tsar and\nfollowers of the Orthodox rite; but speaking a language of their own,\nnot understood in the Winter Palace, and following a custom of their\nfathers, not yet recognized in St. Isaac's Church. Lapland is a tangle\nof rocks and pools; the rocks very big and broken, the pools very deep\nand black; with here and there a valley winding through them, on the\nslopes of which grows a little reindeer moss. Now and then you come\nupon a patch of birch and pine. No grain will grow in these Arctic\nzones, and the food of the natives is game and fish. Rye-bread, their\nonly luxury, must be fetched in boats from the towns of Onega and\nArchangel, standing on the shores of the Frozen Sea, and fed from the\nwarmer provinces in the south. These Lapps are still nomadic; cowering\nthrough the winter months in shanties; sprawling through the summer\nmonths in tents. Their shanty is a log pyramid thatched with moss to\nkeep out wind and sleet; their tent is of the Comanche type; a roll of\nreindeer skins drawn slackly round a pole, and opened at the top to\nlet out smoke.\n\nA Lapp removes his dwelling from place to place, as the seasons come\nand go; now herding game on the hill-sides, now whipping the rivers\nand creeks for fish; in the warm months, roving inland in search of\nmoss and grass; in the frozen months, drawing nearer to the shore in\nsearch of seal and cod. The men are equally expert with the bow, their\nancient weapon of defense, and with the birding-piece, the arm of\nsettlers in their midst. The women, looking any thing but lovely in\ntheir seal-skin tights and reindeer smocks, are infamous for magic and\nsecond sight. In every district of the North, a female Lapp is feared\nas a witch--an enchantress--who keeps a devil at her side, bound by\nthe powers of darkness to obey her will. She can see into the coming\nday. She can bring a man ill-luck. She can throw herself out into\nspace, and work upon ships that are sailing past her on the sea. Far\nout in the Polar brine, in waters where her countrymen fish for cod,\nstands a lump of rock, which the crews regard as a Woman and her\nChild. Such fantasies are common in these Arctic seas, where the waves\nwash in and out through the cliffs, and rend and carve them into\nwondrous shapes. A rock on the North Cape is called the Friar; a group\nof islets near that cape is known as the Mother and her Daughters.\nSeen through the veil of Polar mist, a block of stone may take a\nmysterious form; and that lump of rock in the Polar waste, which the\ncod-fishers say is like a woman with her child, has long been known to\nthem as the Golden Hag. She is rarely seen; for the clouds in summer,\nand the snows in winter, hide her charms from the fishermen's eyes;\nbut when she deigns to show her face in the clear bright sun, her\nchildren hail her with a song of joy, for on seeing her face they know\nthat their voyage will be blessed by a plentiful harvest of skins and\nfish.\n\nWoe to the mariner tossed upon their coast!\n\nThe land on our left is the Kanin peninsula; part of that region of\nheath and sand over which the Samoyed roams; a desert of ice and snow,\nstill wilder than the countries hunted by the Lapp. A land without a\nvillage, without a road, without a field, without a name; for the\nRussians who own it have no name for it save that of the Samoyeds'\nLand; this province of the great empire trends away north and east\nfrom the walls of Archangel and the waters of Kanin Cape to the\nsummits of the Ural chain and the Iron Gates of the Kara Sea. In her\nclefts and ridges snow never melts; and her shore-lines, stretching\ntowards the sunrise upwards of two thousand miles, are bound in icy\nchains for eight months in the twelve. In June, when the winter goes\naway, suddenly the slopes of a few favored valleys grow green with\nreindeer moss; slight specks of verdure in a landscape which is even\nthen dark with rock and gray with rime. On this green moss the\nreindeer feed, and on these camels of the Polar zone the wild men of\nthe country live.\n\nSamoyed means cannibal--man-eater; but whether the men who roam over\nthese sands and bogs deserve their evil fame is one of the questions\nopen to new lights. They use no fire in cooking food; and perhaps it\nis because they eat the reindeer raw that they have come to be accused\nof fondness for human flesh. In chasing the game on which they feed,\nthe Samoyeds crept over the Ural Mountains from their far-off home in\nthe north of Asia, running it down in a tract too cold and bare for\nany other race of men to dwell on. Here the Zarayny found them,\nthrashed them, set them to work.\n\nThese Zarayny, a clever and hardy people, seem connected in type and\nspeech with the Finns; and they are thought to be the remnant of an\nancient colony of trappers. Fairer than the Samoyeds, they live in log\nhuts like other Russians, and are rich in herds of reindeer, which\nthey compel the Samoyeds to tend like slaves. This service to the\nhigher race is slowly changing the savage Samoyed into a civilized\nman; since it gives him a sense of property and a respect for life. A\nred man kills the beast he hunts; kills it beyond his need, in the\nanimal wantonness of strength. A Samoyed would do the same; but the\nZarayny have taught him to rear and tend, as well as to hunt and\nsnare, his food. A savage, only one degree above the Pawnee and the\nUte, a Samoyed builds no shed; plants no field; and owns no property\nin the soil. He dwells, like the Lapp, in a tent--a roll of skins,\nsewn on to each other with gut, and twisted round a shaft, left open\nat the top, and furnished with skins to lie on like an Indian lodge.\nNo art is lavished on this roll of skin; not so much as the totem\nwhich a Cheyenne daubs on his prairie tent. Yet the Samoyed has\nnotions of village life, and even of government. A collection of tents\nhe calls a Choom; his choom is ruled by a medicine-man; the official\nname of whom in Russian society is a pope.\n\nThe reigning Emperor has sent some priests to live among these tribes,\njust as in olden times Marfa of Novgorod sent her popes and monks into\nLapland and Karelia; hoping to divert the natives from their Pagan\nhabits and bring them over to the church of Christ. Some good, it may\nbe hoped, is done by these Christian priests; but a Russ who knows the\ncountry and the people smiles when you ask him about their doings in\nthe Gulf of Obi and around the Kara Sea. One of these missionaries\nwhom I chanced to meet had pretty well ceased to be a civilized man.\nIn name, he was a pope; but he lived and dressed like a medicine-man;\nand he was growing into the likeness of a Mongol in look and gait.\nFolk said he had taken to his bosom a native witch.\n\nThrough the gateway held by these tribes we enter into Russia--Great\nRussia; that country of the old Russians, whose plains and forests the\nTartar horsemen never swept.\n\nWhy enter Russia by these northern gates? If the Great Mogul had\nconquered England in the seventeenth century; if Asiatic manners had\nbeen paramount in London for two hundred years; if Britain had\nrecovered her ancient freedom and civil life, where would a foreign\nobserver, anxious to see the English as they are, begin his studies?\nWould he not begin them in Massachusetts rather than in Middlesex,\neven though he should have to complete his observations on the Mersey\nand the Thames?\n\nA student of the Free Russia born of the Crimean War, must open his\nwork of observation in the northern zones; since it is only within\nthis region of lake and forest that he can find a Slavonic race which\nhas never been tainted by foreign influence, never been broken by\nforeign yoke. The zone from Onega to Perm--a country seven times\nlarger than France--was colonized from Novgorod the Great, while\nNovgorod was yet a free city, rich in trade, in piety, in art; a rival\nof Frankfort and Florence; and, like London and Bruges, a station of\nthe Hanseatic League. Her colonies kept the charter of their freedom\nsafe. They never bent to the Tartar yoke, nor learned to walk in the\nGerman ways. They knew no masters, and they held no serfs. \"We never\nhad amongst us,\" said to me an Archangel farmer, \"either a noble or a\nslave.\" They clung, for good and evil, to their ancient life; and when\nthe Patriarch Nikon reformed the Church in a Byzantine sense (1667),\nas the Tsar Godunof had transformed the village in a Tartar sense\n(1601), they disowned their patriarch just as they had denied their\nTsar. In spite of every force that could be brought against them by a\nline of autocrats, these free colonists have not been driven into\naccepting the reformed official liturgies in preference to their\nancient rites. They kept their native speech, when it was ceasing to\nbe spoken in the capital; and when the time was ripe, they sent out\ninto the world a boy of genius, peasant-born and reared (the poet,\nMichael Lomonosof), to impose that popular language on the college, on\nthe senate, on the court.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE FROZEN SEA\n\n\nAt Cape Intsi we pass from the narrow straits dividing the Lapp\ncountry from the Samoyed country into this northern gulf.\n\nAbout twice the size of Lake Superior in the United States, this\nFrozen Sea has something of the shape of Como; one narrow northern\nbay, extending to the town of Kandalax, in Russian Lapland; and two\nsouthern bays, divided from each other by a broad sandy peninsula, the\nhome of a few villagers employed in snaring cod and hunting seal.\nThese southern bays are known, from the rivers which fall into them,\nas Onega Bay and Dvina Bay. At the mouths of these rivers stand the\ntwo trading ports of Onega and Archangel.\n\nThe open part of this inland gulf is deep--from sixty to eighty\nfathoms; and in one place, off the entrance into Kandalax Bay, the\nline goes down no less than a hundred and sixty fathoms. Yet the shore\nis neither steep nor high. The gulf of Onega is rich in rocks and\nislets; many of them only banks of sand and mud, washed out into the\nsea from the uplands of Kargopol; but in the wide entrance of Onega\nBay, between Orlof Point and the town of Kem, stands out a notable\ngroup of islets--Solovetsk, Anzersk, Moksalma, Zaet and others; islets\nwhich play a singular part in the history of Russia, and connect\nthemselves with curious legends of the Imperial court.\n\nIn Solovetsk, the largest of this group of islets, stands the famous\nconvent of that name; the house of Saints Savatie and Zosima; the\nrefuge of St. Philip; the shrine to which emperors and peasants go on\npilgrimage; the haunt of that Convent Spectre which one hears\ndescribed in the cod-fisher's boat and in the Kozak's tent; the scene\nof many great events, and of one event which Russians have agreed to\nsing and paint as the most splendid miracle of these latter days.\n\nOff the Dvina bar stands the new tower and lighthouse, where the\npilots live; a shaft some eighty feet high, not often to be seen above\nthe hanging drapery of fog. A pilot comes on board; a man of soft and\npatient face, with gray-blue eyes, and flow of brownish hair, who\ntells us in a bated tone--as though he feared we might be vexed with\nhim and beat him--that the tide is ebbing on the bar, and we shall\nhave to wait for the flow. \"Wait for the tide!\" snaps our Danish jarl;\n\"stand by, we'll make our course.\" The sun has just peeped out from\nbehind his veil; but the clouds droop low and dark, and every one\nfeels that a gale is coming on. Two barks near the bar--the \"Thera\"\nand the \"Olga\"--bob and reel like tipsy men; yet our pale Russ pilot,\nurged by the stronger will, gives way with a smile; and our speed\nbeing lowered by half, we push on slowly towards the line of red and\nblack signals floating in our front.\n\nThe \"Thera\" and the \"Olga\" are soon behind us, shivering in all their\nsheets, like men in the clutch of ague--left in our wake to a swift\nand terrible doom. In half an hour we pass the line of buoys, and gain\nthe outer port.\n\nLike all great rivers, the Dvina has thrown up a delta of isles and\nislets near her mouth, through which she pours her flood into the sea\nby a dozen arms. None of these dozen arms can now be laid down as her\nmain entrance; for the river is more capricious than the sea; so that\na skipper who leaves her by one outlet in August, may have to enter by\nanother when he comes back to her in June. The main passage in the old\ncharts flowed past the Convent of St. Nicolas; then came the turn of\nRose Island; afterwards the course ran past the guns of Fort Dvina:\nbut the storms which swept the Polar seas two summers since, destroyed\nthat passage as an outlet for the larger kinds of craft. The port\npolice looked on in silence. What were they to do? Archangel was cut\noff from the sea, until a Danish blacksmith, who had set up forge and\nhammer in the new port, proposed that the foreign traders should hire\na steamer and find a deliverance for their ships. \"If the water goes\ndown,\" he said, \"it must have made a way for itself. Let us try to\nfind it out.\" A hundred pounds were lodged in the bank, a steamer was\nhired, and a channel, called the Maimax arm, was found to be deep\nenough for ships to pass. The work was done, the city opened to the\nsea; but then came the question of port authorities and their rules.\nNo bark had ever left the city by this Maimax arm; no rules had been\nmade for such a course of trade; and the port police could not permit\na ship to sail unless her papers were drawn up in the usual forms. In\nvain the merchants told them the case was new, and must be governed by\na rule to match. They might as well have reasoned with a Turkish bey.\nHere rode a fleet of vessels, laden with oats and deals for the Elbe,\nthe Maas, and the Thames; there ran the abundant Maimax waters to the\nsea; but the printed rules of the port, unconscious of the freaks of\nnature and of the needs of man, forbade this fleet to sail.\n\nAppeal was made to Prince Gagarine, governor of Archangel: but\nGagarine, though he laughed at these port rules and their forms, had\nno deals and grain of his own on board the ships. Gospodin Sredine, a\nkeen-witted master of the customs, tried to open the ports and free\nthe ships by offering to put officers on the new channel; but the\npolice were--the police. In vain they heard that the goods might\nspoil, that the money they cost was idle, and that every ruble wasted\nwould be so much loss to their town.\n\nTo my question, \"How was it arranged at last?\" a skipper, who was one\nof the prisoners in the port, replies, \"I will tell you in a word. We\nsent to Petersburg; the minister spoke to the Emperor; and here is\nwhat we have heard they said. 'What's all this row in Archangel\nabout?' asks the Emperor. 'It is all about a new mouth being found in\nthe Dvina, sir, and ships that want to sail down it, sir, because the\nold channel is now shoaled up, sir.' 'In God's name,' replied the\nEmperor, 'let the ships go out by any channel they can find.'\"\n\nWhether the thing was done in this sailor-like way, or by the more\nlikely method of official report and order, the Maimax mouth was\nopened to the world in spite of the port police and their printed\nrules.\n\nA Hebrew of the olden time would have called this sea a whited\nsepulchre. Even men of science, to whom wintry storms may be summed up\nin a line of figures--so many ships in the pack, so many corpses on\nthe beach--can find in the records of this frozen deep some show of an\nexcuse for that old Lapland superstition of the Golden Hag. The year\nbefore last was a tragic time, and the memory of one dark day of wrack\nand death has not yet had time to fade away.\n\nAt the end of June, a message, flashed from the English consul at\nArchangel--a man to represent his country on these shores--alarmed our\nboard of trade by such a cry for help as rarely reaches a public\nboard. A hundred ships were perishing in the ice. These ships were\nSwedes, Danes, Dutch, and English; luggers, sloops, corvettes, and\nsmacks; all built of wood, and many of them English manned. Could any\nthing be done to help them? \"Help is coming,\" flashed the wires from\nCharing Cross; and on the first day of July, two steamers left the\nThames to assist in rescuing those ships and men from the Polar ice.\nOn the fifteenth night from home these English boats were off Cape\nGorodetsk on the Lapland coast, and when morning dawned they were\nstriving to cross the shallow Archangel bar. They could not pass; yet\nthe work of humanity was swiftly and safely done by the English crews.\n\nThat fleet of all nations, English, Swedish, Dutch, and Danish, left\nthe Dvina ports on news coming up the delta that the pack was breaking\nup in the gulf; but on reaching that Corridor through which we have\njust now come, they met the ice swaying to and fro, and crashing from\npoint to point, as the changing wind veered round from north to south.\nBy careful steering they went on, until they reached the straits\nbetween Kanin Cape and Holy Point. The ice in their front was now\nthick and high; no passage through it could be forced; and their\nvessels reeled and groaned under the blows which they suffered from\nthe floating drifts. A brisk north wind arose, and blowing three days\non without a pause, drove blocks and bergs of ice from the Polar Ocean\ndown into the gut, forcing the squadrons to fall back, and closing up\nevery means of escape into the open sea. The ships rolled to and fro,\nthe helmsmen trying to steer them in mid-channel, but the currents\nwere now too strong to stem, and the helpless craft were driven upon\nthe Lapland reefs, where the crews soon saw themselves folded and\nimprisoned in the pack of ice.\n\nLike shots from a fort, the crews on board the stronger ships could\nhear in the grim waste around them hull after hull crashing up, in\nthat fierce embrace, like fine glass trinkets in a strong man's hand.\nWhen a ship broke up and sank, the crew leaped out upon the ice and\nmade for the nearest craft, from which in a few hours more they might\nhave to fly in turn. One man was wrecked five times in a single day;\neach of the boats to which he clung for safety parting beneath his\nfeet and gurgling down into the frozen deep.\n\nWhen the tale of loss was made up by the relieving steamers, this\naccount was sent home to the Board of Trade:\n\nThe number of ships abandoned by their crews was sixty-four; of this\ngreat fleet of ships, fourteen were saved and fifty lost. Of the fifty\nships lost in those midsummer days, eighteen were English built and\nmanned; and the master mentions with a noble pride, that only one ship\nflying the English flag was in a state to be recovered from the ice\nafter being abandoned by her crew.\n\nIt would be well for our fame if the natives had no other tales to\ntell of an English squadron in the Frozen Sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE DVINA.\n\n\nBy the Maimax arm we steam through the delta for some twenty miles;\npast low, green banks and isles like those in the Missouri bed; though\nthe loam in the Dvina is not so rich and black as that on the American\nstream. Yet these small isles are bright with grass and scrub. Beyond\nthem, on the main-land, lies a fringe of pines, going back into space\nas far as the eye can pierce.\n\nThe low island lying on your right as you scrape the bar is called St.\nNicolas, after that sturdy priest, who is said to have smitten the\nheretic Arius on his cheek. No one knows where this Nicolas lived and\ndied; for it is clear from the Acta, that he had no part in the\nCouncil of Nice. The Book of Saints describes him as born in Liki and\nliving in Mira; whence they call him the Saint of Mirliki; but not a\nline of his writing is extant, and the virtues assigned to him are of\nopposing kinds. He is a patron of nobles and of children, of sailors,\nof cadgers, and of pilgrims. Yet, in spite of his doubtful birth and\ngenius, Nicolas is a popular saint. Poor people like him as one who is\ngood to the poor; a friend of beggars, fishermen and tramps. A Russian\nturns to him as the hope of starving and drowning men; so that his\nname is often heard, his image often seen, in these northern wilds;\nmore than all else, on the banks of rivers and on the margins of the\nFrozen Sea. A peasant learns with delight from his Book of Saints (his\nBible, Epos, Drama, Code, and History all in one) that Nicolas is the\nmost potent saint in heaven; sitting on the right hand of God; and\nhaving a cohort of three hundred angels, armed and ready to obey his\nnod. A mujik asked a foreign friend to tell him who will be God when\nGod dies? \"My good fellow,\" said he, smiling, \"God will never die.\" At\nfirst the peasant seemed perplexed. \"Never die!\" and then a light fell\non him. \"Yes,\" he retorted, slowly; \"I see it now. You are an\nunbeliever; you have no religion. Look you; I have been better taught.\nGod will one day die; for He is very old; and then St. Nicolas will\nget his place.\"\n\nThough he is common to all Russians--adored on the Dnieper, on the\nVolkhof, on the Moskva, no less than on the Dvina--he is worshipped\nwith peculiar zeal in these northern zones. Here he is the sailor's\nsaint, the adventurer's help; and all the paintings of him show that\nhis watchful eyes are bent in eager tenderness upon the swirl and\npassion of the Frozen Sea. This delta might be called his province;\nfor not only was the island on your right called after him, but also\nthe ancient channel, and the bay itself. The oldest cloister in the\ndistrict bears his name.\n\nOn passing into the Maimax arm, your eyes--long dimmed by the sight of\nsombre rock, dark cloud, and sullen surf--are charmed by soft, green\ngrass and scrub; but the sight goes vainly out, through reeds and\ncopse, in search of some cheery note of house and farm. One log hut\nyou pass, and only one. Two men are standing near a bank, in a little\nclearing of the wood; a lad is idling in a frail canoe, which the wash\nof your steamer lifts and laves; but no one lodges in the shed; the\nmen and boy have come from a village some miles away. Dropping down\nthe river in their boat to cut down grass for their cows, and gather\nup fuel for their winter fires, they will jump into their canoe at\nvespers, and hie them home.\n\nOn the banks of older channels the villages are thick; slight groups\nof sheds and churches, with a cloister here and there, and a scatter\nof windmills whirling against the sky; each village and mill in its\nappointed place, without the freak and medley of original thought.\nHere nothing is done by individual force; a pope, an elder, an\nimperial officer, must have his say in every case; and not a mouse can\nstir in a Russian town, except by leave of some article in a printed\ncode. Fort Dvina was erected on a certain neck of land in the ancient\nriver-bed, and nature was expected to conform herself forever to the\norder fixed by imperial rule.\n\nOn all these banks you note a forest of memorial crosses. When a\nsailor meets with bad weather, he goes on shore and sets up a cross.\nAt the foot of this symbol he kneels in prayer, and when a fair wind\nrises, he leaves his offering on the lonely coast. When the peril is\nsharp, the whole ship's crew will land, cut down and carve tall trees,\nand set up a memorial with names and dates. All round the margins of\nthe Frozen Sea these pious witnesses abound; and they are most of all\nnumerous on the rocks and banks of the Holy Isles. Each cross erected\nis the record of a storm.\n\nSome of these memorial crosses are historic marks. One tree, set up by\nPeter the Great when he escaped from the wreck of his ship in the\nfrozen deep, has been taken from the spot where he planted it, and\nplaced in the cathedral at Archangel. \"This cross was made by Captain\nPeter,\" says a tablet cut in the log by the Emperor's own knife; and\nPeter being a carver in wood and stone, the work is not without\ntouches of art and grace. Might not a word be urged in favor of this\ncustom of the sea, which leaves a picture and a blessing on every\nshore? An English mariner is apt to quit a coast on which he has been\nkept a prisoner by adverse winds with a curse in his heart and a bad\nname on his tongue. Jack is a very grand fellow in his way; but surely\nthere is a beauty, not less winning than the piety, in this habit of\nthe Russian tar.\n\nClimbing up the river, you come upon fleets of rafts and praams, on\nwhich you may observe some part of the native life. The rafts are\nfloats of timber--pine logs, lashed together with twigs of willow,\ncapped with a tent of planks, in which the owner sleeps, while his\nwoodmen lie about in the open air when they are not paddling the raft\nand guiding it down the stream. These rafts come down the Dvina and\nits feeders for a thousand miles. Cut in the great forests of Vologda\nand Nijni Konets, the pines are dragged to the waterside, and knitted\nby rude hands into these broad, floating masses. At the towns some\nsturdy helpers may be hired for nothing; many of the poor peasants\nbeing anxious to get down the river on their way to the shrines of\nSolovetsk. For a passage on the raft these pilgrims take a turn at the\noar, and help the owners to guide her through the shoals.\n\nIn the praams the life is a little less bleak and rough than it is on\nboard the rafts. In form the praam is like the toy called a Noah's\nark; a huge hull of coarse pine logs, riveted and clamped with iron,\ncovered by a peaked plank roof. A big one will cost from six to seven\nhundred rubles (the ruble may be reckoned for the moment as half a\ncrown), and will carry from six to eight hundred tons of oats and rye.\nA small section of the praam is boarded off to be used as a room. Some\nbits of pine are shaped into a stool, a table, and a shelf. From the\nroof-beam swings an iron pot, in which the boatmen cook their food\nwhile they are out in the open stream; at other times--that is to say,\nwhen they are lying in port--no fire is allowed on board, not even a\npipe is lighted, and the watermen's victuals must be cooked on shore.\nFour or five logs lashed together serve them for a launch, by means of\nwhich they can easily paddle to the bank.\n\nLike the rafts, these praams take on board a great many pilgrims from\nthe upper country; giving them a free passage down, with a supply of\ntea and black bread as rations, in return for their labor at the\npaddle and the oar. Not much labor is required, for the praam floats\ndown with the stream. Arrived at Archangel, she empties her cargo of\noats into the foreign ships (most of them bound for the Forth, the\nTyne, and the Thames), and then she is moored to the bank, cut up, and\nsold. Some of her logs may be used again for building sheds, the rest\nis of little use, except for the kitchen and the stove.\n\nThe new port of Archangel, called Solambola, is a scattered handful of\nlog houses, that would remind you of a Swiss hamlet were it not for\nthe cluster of green cupolas and spires, reminding you still more\nstrongly of a Bulgarian town. Each belfry bears a crescent, crowned by\na cross. Along the brink of the river runs a strand, some six or eight\nfeet above the level plain; beyond this strand the fields fall off, so\nthat the country might be laid under water, while the actual strand\nstood high and dry. The new port is a water-village; for in the\nspring-time, when the ice is melting up stream, the flood goes over\nall, and people have to pass from house to magazine in boats.\n\nNot a grain of this strand in front of the sheds is Russ; the whole\nline of road being built of ballast brought into the Dvina by foreign\nships, and chiefly from English ports. This ridge of pebble, marl, and\nshells comes nearly all from London, Liverpool, and Leith; the Russian\ntrade with England having this peculiarity, that it is wholly an\nexport trade. A Russian sends us every thing he has for sale; his\noats, his flax, his deals, his mats, his furs, his tar; he buys either\nnothing, or next to nothing, in return. A little salt and wine, a few\nsaw-mills--chiefly for foreign account--are what come back from\nEngland by way of barter with the North. The payment is gold, the\ncargo ballast; and the balance of account between the two countries\nis--a strand of English marl and shells.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nARCHANGEL.\n\n\nOn passing up the Dvina from the Polar Sea, your first experience\nshows that you are sailing from the West into the East.\n\nWhen scraping the bar, you notice that the pilot refuses to drop his\nlead. \"Never mind,\" he says, \"it is deep enough; we shall take no\nharm; unless it be the will of God.\" A pilot rarely throws out his\nline. The regulation height of water on the bar is so and so; and\ndropping a rope into the sea will not, he urges, increase the depth.\n\nWhen climbing through the delta, you observe that every peasant on the\nshore, both man and woman, wears a sheepskin wrap--the garment of\nnomadic tribes; not worn as a rule by any of the settled races on the\nearth.\n\nIn catching a first glimpse of the city, you are struck by the forest\nof domes and spires; the domes all color and the spires all gold; a\ncluster of sacred buildings, you are apt to fancy, out of all\nproportion to the number of people dwelling in the town.\n\nOn feeling for the river-side, a captain finds no quay, no dock, no\nlanding-pier, no stair. He brings-to as he can; and drags his boat\ninto position with a pole, as he would have to do in the Turkish ports\nof Vidin and Rustchuk. No help is given him from the shore. Except in\nsome ports of Palestine, you will nowhere find a wealthy trade\nconducted by such simple means.\n\nWhen driving up that strand of English marl, towards the city of which\nyou see the golden lights, you hear that in Archangel, as in Aleppo,\nthere is no hotel; not even, as in Aleppo, a public khan.\n\nFull of these signs, you turn to your maps, and notice that Archangel\nlies a little to the east of Mecca and Trebizond.\n\nYet these highways of the Dvina are not those of the genuine East.\nBaksheesh is hardly known. Your pilot may sidle up, and give your hand\na squeeze (all Russians of the lower ranks are fond of squeezing!) on\nyour safe arrival in the port; and if you fail to take his hint, as\nprobably you will, he whispers meekly in your ear, as though he were\ntelling you an important secret, that very few strangers come into the\nDvina, but those few never fail to reward with na-chai (tea-money) the\nman who has brought them in from the sea of storms. But from the port\nofficials nothing can be got by giving vails in the bad old way. Among\nthe many wise things which have been done in the present reign, is\nthat of reducing the number of men employed in the customs, and of\nlargely increasing the salaries paid to them by the crown. No man is\nnow underpaid for the service he has to do, and no one in the Customs\nis allowed to accept a bribe. Prince Obolenski, chief of this great\ndepartment, is a man of high courage as well as high principles, and\nunder his eye the service has been purged of those old abuses which\ncaused it to be branded with black and red in so many books. One case\ncame under my notice, in which a foreign skipper had given to an\nofficer in the port a dozen oranges; not as a bribe, but as a treat;\noranges being rarely seen in this northern clime. Yet, when the fact\nwas found out by his local superior, the man was reduced from a high\npost in the service to a low one. \"If he will take an orange, he will\ntake a ruble,\" said his chief; and a year elapsed before the offender\nwas restored to his former grade.\n\nThe new method is not so Asiatic as the old; but in time it will lead\nthe humblest officer in Russia to feel that he is a man.\n\nArchangel is not a port and city in the sense in which Hamburg and\nHull are ports and cities; clusters of docks and sheds, with shops,\nand wagons, and a busy private trade. Archangel is a camp of shanties,\nheaped around groups of belfries, cupolas and domes. Imagine a vast\ngreen marsh along the bank of a broad brown river, with mounds of clay\ncropping here and there out of the peat and bog; put buildings on\nthese mounds of clay; adorn the buildings with frescoes, crown them\nwith cupolas and crosses; fill in the space between church and\nconvent, convent and church, with piles and planks, so as to make\nground for gardens, streets, and yards; cut two wide lanes, from the\nchurch called Smith's Wife to the monastery of St. Michael, three or\nfour miles in length; connect these lanes and the stream by a dozen\nclearings; paint the walls of church and convent white, the domes\ngreen and blue; surround the log houses with open gardens; stick a\ngeranium, a fuschia, an oleander into every window; leave the grass\ngrowing everywhere in street and clearing--and you have Archangel.\n\nHalf-way from Smith's Wife's quarter to the Monastery, stand, in\npicturesque groups, the sites determined by the mounds of clay, the\npublic buildings; fire-tower, cathedral, town-hall, court of justice,\ngovernor's house, museum; new and rough, with a glow of bright new\npaint upon them all. The collection in the museum is poor; the gilt on\nthe cathedral rich. When seen from a distance, the domes and turrets\nof Archangel give it the appearance of some sacred Eastern city rather\nthan a place of trade.\n\nThis sea-port on the Dvina is the only port in Russia proper.\nAstrachan is a Tartar port; Odessa an Italian port; Riga a Livonian\nport; Helsingfors a Finnish port. None of these outlets to the sea are\nin Russia proper, nor is the language spoken in any of them Russ. Won\nby the sword, they may be lost by the sword. As foreign conquests,\nthey must follow the fate of war; and in Russia proper their loss\nmight not be deeply felt; Great Russia being vast enough for\nindependence and rich enough for happiness, even if she had to live\nwithout that belt of lesser Russias in which for her pride and\npunishment she has lately been clasped and strained. Archangel, on the\nother side, is her one highway to the sea; the outlet of her northern\nwaters; her old and free communication with the world; an outlet given\nto her by God, and not to be taken away from her by man.\n\nSuch as they are, the port and city of Archangel owe their birth to\nEnglish adventure, their prosperity to English trade.\n\nIn the last year of King Edward the Sixth, an English ship, in\npressing her prow against the sand-banks of the Frozen Sea, hoping to\nlight on a passage to Cathay, met with a broad sheet of water, flowing\nsteadily and swiftly from the south. That ship was the \"Bonaventure;\"\nher master was Richard Challoner; who had parted from his chief, Sir\nHugh Willoughby, in a storm. The water coming down from the south was\nfresh. A low green isle lay on his port, which he laid down in his\nchart as Rose Island; afterwards to be famous as the cradle of our\nnorthern trade. Pushing up the stream in search of a town, he came\nupon a small cloister, from the monks of which he learned that he was\nnot in Cathay, but in Great Russia.\n\nGreat was a name given by old Russians, not only to the capital of\ntheir country, but to the country itself. Their capital was Great\nNovgorod; their country was Great Russia.\n\nSir Hugh Willoughby was driven by storms into \"the harbor of death,\"\nin which he and his crews all perished in the ice; while his luckier\nlieutenant pushed up the Dvina to Vologda, whence he forced his way to\nMoscow, and saw the Grand Duke, Ivan the Fourth. In that age Russia\nwas known to Europe as Moscovia, from the city of Moscow; a city which\nhad ravaged her old pre-eminence from Novgorod, and made herself\nmistress of Great Russia.\n\nChalloner was wrecked and drowned on his second voyage; but those who\nfollowed him built an English factory for trade on Rose Island, near\nthe cloister; while the Russians, on their side, built a fort and town\non the Dvina, some thirty miles from its mouth; in which position they\ncould watch the strangers in their country, and exchange with them\ntheir wax and skins for cotton shirts and pewter pans. The builder of\nthis fort and town was Ivan Vassilivitch, known to us as Ivan the\nTerrible--Ivan the Fourth.\n\nIvan called his town the New Castle of St. Michael the Archangel; an\nunwieldy name, which his raftmen and sailors soon cut down--as raftmen\nand sailors will--into the final word. On English lips the name would\nhave been St. Michael; but a Russian shrinks from using the name of\nthat prince of heaven. To him Michael is not a saint, as Nicolas and\nGeorge are saints; but a power, a virtue, and a sanctity, before whose\nlance the mightiest of rebel angels fell. No Russian speaks of this\ncelestial warrior as a saint. He is the archangel; greatest of the\nhost; selected champion of the living God. Convents and churches are\ninscribed to him by his celestial rank; but never by his personal\nname. The great cathedral of Moscow is only known as the Archangel's\nchurch. Michael is understood; for who but Michael could be meant?\nIvan Vassilivitch had such a liking for this fighting power, that on\nhis death-bed he gave orders for his body to be laid, not in that\nsplendid pile of St. Vassili, which he had spent so much time and\nmoney in building near the Holy Gate, but in a chapel of the\nArchangel's church; and there the grim old tyrant lies, in a plain\nstone coffin, covered with a velvet pall.\n\nPeter the Great rebuilt Archangel on a larger scale with more enduring\nbrick. Peter was fond of the Frozen Sea, and twice, at least, he\nsailed over it to pray in the Convent of Solovetsk; a place which he\nvalued, not only as a holy shrine, but as a frontier fortress, held by\nhis brave old Russ against the Lapps and Swedes. Archangel was made by\nPeter his peculiar care; and masons were fetched from Holland to erect\nhis lines of bastions, magazines, and quays. A castle rose from the\nground on the river bank; an island was reclaimed from the river and\ntrimmed with trees; a summer palace was designed and built for the\nTsar. A fleet of ships was sent to command the Dvina mouth. In fact,\nArchangel was one of the three sites--St. Petersburg and Taganrog\nbeing the other two--on which the Emperor designed to build cities\nthat, unlike Novgorod and Moscow, should be at once fortresses and\nports.\n\nThe city of Ivan and the city of Peter have each in turn gone by. Not\na stone of Ivan's town remains; for his new castle and monastery,\nbeing built of logs, were duly rotted by rain and consumed by fire. A\nfort and a monastery still protect and adorn the place; but these have\nboth been raised in more recent years. Of Peter's city, though it\nseemed to be solid as the earth itself, hardly a house is standing to\nshow the style. A heap of arches, riven by frost and blackened by\nsmoke, is seen on the Dvina bank; a pretty kiosk peeps out from\nbetween the birches on Moses Isle; and these are all!\n\nIn our western eyes Archangel may seem to be over-rich in domes, as\nthe delta may appear to be over-rich in crosses; but then, in our\nwestern eyes, the city is a magazine of oats and tar, of planks and\nskins; while in native eyes it is the archangel's house, the port of\nSolovetsk, and the gate of God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nRELIGIOUS LIFE.\n\n\nA friend is one day driving me from house to house in Archangel,\nmaking calls, when we observe from time to time a smart officer going\ninto courtyards.\n\n\"This man appears to be dogging our steps.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" laughs my friend; \"that fellow is an officer of police.\"\n\n\"Why is he following us?\"\n\n\"He is not following us; he is going his rounds; he is warning the\nowners of all good houses that four candles must be lighted in each\nfront window to-night at eight o'clock.\"\n\n\"Four candles! For what?\"\n\n\"The Emperor. You know it is his angel's day; you will see the streets\nall lighted--by police suggestion--at the proper time.\"\n\n\"Surely the police have no need to interfere. The Emperor is popular;\nand who can forget that this is St. Alexander's Day?\"\n\n\"There you are wrong; our people hardly know the court at all. You see\nthese shops are open, yon stalls are crowded, that mill is working, as\nthey would be on the commonest day in all the year. A mujik cares but\nlittle for kings and queens; he only knows his own angel--his peculiar\nsaint. If you would test his reverence, ask him to make a coat, repair\na tarantass, or fetch in wood, on his angel's day. He would rather die\nat your feet than sully such a day with work. In fact, a mujik is not\na courtier--he is only a religious man.\"\n\nMy friend is right in the main, though his illustration takes me as a\nstranger by surprise.\n\nThe first impulse in a Russian heart is duty to God. It is an impulse\nof observance and respect; at once moral and ceremonial; an impulse\nwith an inner force and an outer form; present in all ranks of\nsociety, and in all situations of life; in an army on the march, in a\ncrowd at a country fair, in a lecture-room full of students; showing\nitself in a princess dancing at a ball, in a huckster writing at his\ndesk, in a peasant tugging at his cart, in a burglar rioting on his\nspoil.\n\nThis duty adorns the land with fane and altar, even as it touches the\nindividual man with penitential grace. Every village must have its\nshrine, as every child must have his guardian angel and baptismal\ncross. The towns are rich in churches and convents, just as the\ncitizens are rich in spiritual gifts. I counted twenty spires in\nKargopol, a city of two thousand souls. Moscow is said to have four\nhundred and thirty churches and chapels; Kief, in proportion to her\npeople, is no less rich. All public events are celebrated by the\nbuilding of a church. In Kief, St. Andrew's Church commemorates the\nvisit of an apostle; St. Mary's, the introduction of Christianity In\nMoscow, St. Vassili's commemorates the conquest of Kazan; the Donskoi\nConvent, Fedor's victory over the Crim Tartars; St. Saviour's, the\nexpulsion of Napoleon. In Petersburg, St. Alexander's commemorates the\nfirst victory won by Russians over Swedes; St. Isaac's, the birth of\nPeter the Great; Our Lady of Kazan's, the triumphs of Russian arms\nagainst the Persian, Turk, and Frank. Where we should build a bridge,\nthe Russians raise a house of God: so that their political and social\nhistory is brightly written in their sacred piles.\n\nBy night and day, from his cradle to his grave, a Russian lives, as it\nwere, with God; giving up to His service an amount of time and money\nwhich no one ever dreams of giving in the West. Like his Arabian\nbrother, the Slavonian is a religious being; and the gulf which\nseparates such men from the Saxon and the Gaul is broader than a\nreader who has never seen an Eastern town will readily picture to his\nmind.\n\nAn Oriental is a man of prayer. He seems to live for heaven and not\nfor earth; and even in his commonest acts, he pays respect to what he\nholds to be a celestial law. One hand is clean, the other unclean. One\ncup is lawful, another cup is unlawful. If he rises from his couch a\nprayer is on his lips; if he sits down to rest a blessing is in his\nheart. When he buys and when he sells, when he eats and when he\ndrinks, he remembers that the Holy One is nigh. If poor in purse, he\nmay be rich in grace; his cabin a sanctuary, his craft a service, his\ndaily life an act of prayer.\n\nEnter into a Russian shed--you find a chapel. Every room in that shed\nis sanctified; for in every room there is a sacred image, a domestic\naltar, and a household god. The inmate steps into that room with\nreverence; standing for a moment at the threshold, baring his head,\ncrossing himself, and uttering a saintly verse. Once in the house, he\nfeels himself in the Presence, and every act of his life is dedicated\nto Him in whom we live and move. \"Slava Bogu\"--Glory to God--is a\nphrase forever on his lips; not as a phrase only, to be uttered in a\nlight vein, as a formal act, but with an inward bending and confession\nof the soul. He fasts very much, and pays a respect beyond our measure\nto sacred places and to sacred things. He thinks day and night of his\nangel; and payments are made by him at church for prayers to be\naddressed in his name to that guardian spirit. He finds a divine\nenjoyment in the sound of cloister-bells, a foretaste of heaven in\nkneeling near the bones of saints. The charm of his life is a profound\nconviction of his own unworthiness in the sight of God, and no mere\npride of rank ever robs him of the hope that some one higher in virtue\nthan himself will prove his advocate at the throne of grace. He feels\na rapture, strange to a Frank, in the cadence of a psalm, and the\ntaste of consecrated bread is to him a fearful joy. Such things are to\nhim not only things of life and death, but of the everlasting life and\nthe ever-present death.\n\nThe church is with a Russian early and late. A child is hardly\nconsidered as born into the world, until he has been blessed by the\npope and made by him a \"servant of God.\"\n\nAs the child begins, so he goes on. The cross which he receives in\nbaptism--which he receives in his cradle, and carries to his grave--is\nbut a sign. Religion goes with him to his school, his play-ground, and\nhis workshop. Every act of his life must begin with supplication and\nend with thanks. A school has a set of prayers for daily use; with\nforms to be used on commencing a term, on parting for holidays, on\nengaging a new teacher, on opening a fresh course. It is the same with\nboys who work in the mill and on the farm. Every one has his office to\nrecite and his fast to keep. The fasting is severe; and more than half\nthe days in a Russian year are days of fasting and humiliation. During\nthe seven weeks before Easter, no flesh, no fish, no milk, no eggs, no\nbutter, can be touched. For five or six weeks before St. Peter's Day,\nand for six weeks before Christmas Day, no flesh, no milk, no eggs, no\nbutter, can be used. For fifteen days in August, a fast of great\nseverity is held in honor of the Virgin's death. A man must fast on\nevery Wednesday and Friday throughout the year, eating nothing save\nfish. Besides keeping these public fasts, a man should fast the whole\nweek before making his confession and receiving his sacrament;\nabstaining from every dainty, from sugar, cigarettes, and every thing\ncooked with fire.\n\nOn the eve of Epiphany--the day for blessing the water--no one is\nsuffered to eat or drink until the blessing has been given, about four\no'clock, when the consecrated water may be sipped and dinner must be\neaten with a joyful heart. To fetch away the water, people carry into\nchurch their pots and pans, their jacks and urns; each peasant with a\ntaper in his hand, which he lights at the holy fire, and afterwards\nburns before his angel until it dies.\n\nEvery new house in which a man lives, every new shop which he opens\nfor trade, must be blessed. A man who moves from one lodging to\nanother must have his second lodging purified by religious rites. Ten\nor twelve times a year, the parish priest, attended by his reader and\nhis deacon, enters into every house in his district, sprinkles the\nrooms with holy water, cleanses them with prayer, and signs them with\nthe cross.\n\nIn his marriage, on his dying bed, the Church is with a Russ even more\nthan at his birth and baptism. Marriage, held to be a sacrament, and\npoetically called a man's coronation, is a long and intricate affair,\nconsisting of many offices, most of them perfect in symbolism as they\nare lovely in art. Prayers are recited, rings exchanged, and blessings\ninvoked; after which the ceremony is performed; an actual circling of\nthe brows with a golden rim. \"Ivan, servant of God,\" cries the pope,\nas he puts the circlet on his brows, \"is crowned with Nadia, handmaid\nof God.\" The bride is crowned with Ivan, servant of God.\n\nSome people wear their bridal crowns for a week, then put them back\ninto the sacristy, and obtain a blessing in exchange. Religion touches\nthe lowliest life with a passing ornament. The bride is always a\nqueen, the groom is always a king, on their wedding-day.\n\nA man's angel is with him early and late; a spirit with whom he dares\nnot trifle; one whom he can never deceive. He puts a picture of this\nangel in his bedroom, over the pillow on which he sleeps. A light\nshould burn before that picture day and night. The angel has to be\npropitiated by prayers, recited by a consecrated priest. His day must\nbe strictly kept, and no work done, except works of charity, from dawn\nto dusk. A feast must be spread, the family and kindred called under\none roof, presents made to domestics, and alms dispensed to the poor.\nOn his angel's day a man must not only go to church, but buy from the\npriests some consecrated loaves, which he must give to servants,\nvisitors, and guests. On that day he should send for his parish\npriest, who will bring his gospel and cross, and say a prayer to the\nangel, for which he must be paid a fee according to your means. A\nchild receives his angel's name in baptism, and this angelic name he\ncan never change. A peasant who was tried in the district court of\nMoscow on a charge of having forged a passport and changed his name,\nin order to pass for another man, replied that such a thing could not\nbe done. \"How,\" he asked in wonder, \"could I change my name? I should\nlose my angel. I only forged my place of birth.\"\n\nSo closely have religious passions passed into social life, that civil\nrights are made to depend in no slight degree on the performance of\nreligious duties. Every man is supposed to attend a weekly mass, and\nto confess his sins, and take a sacrament once a year. A man who\nneglects these offices forfeits his civil rights; unless, as sometimes\nhappens in the best of cities, he can persuade his pope to give him a\ncertificate of his exemplary attendance in the parish church!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nPILGRIMS.\n\n\nNext to his religious energy, the mastering passion of a Russ is the\nuntamable craving of his heart for a wandering life.\n\nAll Slavonic tribes are more or less fond of roving to and fro; of\npeddling, and tramping, and seeing the world; of living, as it were,\nin tents, as the patriarchs lived; but the propensity to ramble from\nplace to place is keener in the Russ than it is in the Bohemian and\nthe Serb.\n\nA while ago the whole of these Slavonic tribes were still nomadic; a\npeople of herdsmen, driving their flocks from plain to plain, in\nsearch of grass and water; camping either in tents of skin, or in\nframes of wood not much more solid than tents of skin; carrying with\nthem their wives and children, their weapons of war, and their\nhousehold gods. They chased the wild game of their country, and when\nthe wild game failed them, they ate their flocks. Some few among them\ntilled the soil, but only in a crude and fitful way--as an Adonan\ntends his patch of desert, as a Pawnee trifles with his stretch of\nplain; for the Slavonic husbandman was nearly as wild a wanderer as\nthe driver of kine and goats. His fields were so vast, his kin so\nscattered, that the soil which he cropped was of no more value to him\nthan the water he crossed, the air he breathed. He never dreamt of\noccupying his piece of ground after it had ceased to yield him, in the\nunbought bounty of nature, his easy harvest of oats and rye.\n\nSome trace of these wandering habits may still be found, especially in\nthe pilgrim bands.\n\nThese pilgrim bands are not a rabble of children and women, gay and\nempty folk, like those you meet when the vintage is gathered in Sicily\nand the south of France; mummers who take to the pilgrim's staff in\nwantonness of heart, and end a week of devotion by a feast in the\nauberge and a dance under the plaintain leaves. At best that French or\nSicilian rabble is but a spent tradition and a decaying force. But\nthese Northern pilgrims are grave and sad in their doings, even as the\nNorth is grave and sad. You never hear them laugh; you rarely see them\nsmile; their movements are sedate; the only radiance on their life is\nthe light of prayer and praise. Seeing these worshippers in many\nplaces and at many times--before the tomb of Sergie near Moscow, and\nbefore the manger at Bethlehem, I have everywhere found them the same,\nin reverence, in humility, in steadfastness of soul. One of these\nlowly Russ surprised me on the Jordan at Bethabara; and only yesterday\nI helped his brother to cross the Dvina on his march from Solovetsk.\nThe first pilgrim had visited the tombs of Palestine, from Nazareth to\nMarsaba; the second, after toiling through a thousand miles of road\nand river to Solovetsk, is now on his way to the shrines at Kief. As\nmy horses rattled down the Dvina bluffs I saw this humble pilgrim on\nhis knees, his little pack laid by, and his forehead bent upon the\nground in prayer. He was waiting at the ford for some one to come\nby--some one who could pay the boatman, and would give him a passage\non the raft. The day had not yet dawned; the wind came up the river in\ngusts and chills; yet the face of that lowly man was good to see; a\nsoft and tender countenance, shining with an inward light, and glad\nwith unearthly peace. The world was not much with him, if one might\njudge from his sackcloth garb, his broken jar, his crust of black\nbread; but one could not help thinking, as he bowed in thanks, that it\nmight be well for some of us who wear fine linen and dine off dainty\nfood to be even as that poor pilgrim was.\n\nThis pilgrimage to the tombs and shrines of Russian saints, so far\nfrom being a holiday adventure, made when the year is spent and the\nseason of labor past, is to the pilgrim a thing of life and death. He\nhas degrees. A pilgrim perfect in his calling will go from shrine to\nshrine for several years. If God is good to him, he will strive, after\nmaking the round of his native shrines, to reach the valley of\nNazareth, and the heights of Bethlehem and Zion. Some hundreds of\nthese Russian pilgrims annually achieve this highest effort of the\nChristian life on earth; making their peace with heaven by kissing the\nstones in front of the Redeemer's tomb. Of course the poorer and\nweaker man can never expect to reach this point of grace; but his\nnative soil is holy. Russia is a land of saints; and his map is dotted\nwith sacred tombs, to which it is better for him to toil than rest at\nhome in his sloth and sin.\n\nThese pilgrims go on foot, in bands of fifty or sixty persons, men,\nwomen, children, each with a staff in his hand, a water-bottle hanging\nfrom his belt; edifying the country as they march along, kneeling at\nthe wayside chapel, and singing their canticles by day and night. The\nchildren whine a plaintive little song, of which the burden runs:\n\n  \"Fatherkins and motherkins,\n  Give us bread to eat;\"\n\nand this appeal of the children is always heard, since all poor people\nfancy that the knock of a pilgrim at their window may be that of an\nangel, and will bring them luck.\n\nA part--a very large part--of these rovers are simple tramps, who make\na trade of piety; carrying about with them relics and rags which they\nvend at high rates to servant-girls and superstitious crones.\n\nA man who in other days would have followed his sheep and kine, now\nseeks a wild sort of freedom as a pilgrim, hugging himself on his\nimmunity from tax and rent, from wife and brat; migrating from\nprovince to province; a beggar, an impostor, and a tramp; tickled by\nthe greeting of young and old as he passes their door, \"Whither, oh\nfriend, is the Lord leading thee?\" Sooner or later such a man falls in\nwith a band of pilgrims, which he finds it his good to join. The\nRussian Autolycus slings a water-bottle at his belt, and his female\ncompanion limps along the forest road on her wooden staff. You meet\nthem on every track; you find them in the yard of every house. They\ncreep in at back-doors, and have an assortment of articles for sale,\nwhich are often as precious in the eyes of a mistress as in those of\nher maid; a bit of rock from Nazareth, a drop of water from Jordan, a\nthread from the seamless coat, a chip of the genuine cross. These are\nthe bolder spirits: but thousands of such vagrants roam about the\ncountry, telling crowds of gapers what they have seen in some holy\nplace, where miracles are daily performed by the bones of saints. They\nshow you a cross from Troitsa; they give you a morsel of consecrated\nbread from St. George. They can describe to you the defense of\nSolovetsk, and tell you of the incorruptible corpses of Pechersk.\n\nThese are the impostors--rank and racy impostors--yet some of these\nmen and women who pass you on the roads are pious and devoted souls,\nwandering about the earth in search of what they fancy is a higher\ngood. A few may be rich; but riches are dust in the eyes of God; and\nin seeking after His glory they dare not trust to an arm of flesh.\nEqually with his meekest brother, the rich pilgrim must take his\nstaff, and march on foot, joining his brethren in their devotions and\nconfessions, in their matins and their evening song.\n\nMost of these pilgrim bands have to beg their crust of black bread,\ntheir sup of sour quass, from people as poor as themselves in money\nand almost as rich in the gifts of faith. Like the hadji going to\nMecca, a pilgrim coming to Archangel, on his way to the shrines, is a\nholy man, with something of the character of a pope. The peasant, who\nthinks the crossing of his door-step by the stranger brings him\nblessings, not only lodges him by night, but helps him on the road by\nday. A pilgrim is a sacred being in rustic eyes. If his elder would\nlet him go, he would join the band; but if he may not wend in person,\nhe will go in spirit, to the shrine. A prayer shall be said in his\nname by the monks, and he will send his last kopeck in payment for\nthat prayer by the hand of this ragged pilgrim, confident that the\nfellow would rather die than abuse his trust.\n\nThe men who escape from Siberian mines put on the pilgrim frock and\nseize the pilgrim staff. Thus robed and armed, a man may get from Perm\nto Archangel with little risk, even though his flesh may be burnt and\nhis papers forged. Pietrowski has told the story of his flight, and\nmany such tales may be heard on the Dvina praams.\n\nA peasant living in a village near Archangel killed his father in a\nquarrel, but in such a way that he was not suspected of the crime; and\nhe would never have been brought to justice had not Vanka, a friend\nand neighbor, been a witness of the deed. Now Vanka was weak and\nsuperstitious, and every day as he passed the image of his angel in\nthe street, he felt an inner yearning to tell what he had seen. The\nmurderer, watching him day and night, observed that he prayed very\nmuch, and crossed himself very often, as though he were deeply\ntroubled in his mind. On asking what ailed him, he heard to his alarm\nthat Vanka could neither eat nor sleep while that terrible secret lay\nupon his soul. But what could he do? Nothing; absolutely nothing? Yes;\nhe could threaten to do for him what he had done by accident for a\nbetter man. \"Listen to me, Vanka,\" he said, in a resolute tone; \"you\nare a fool; but you would not like to have a knife in your throat,\nwould you?\" \"God take care of me!\" cried Vanka. \"Mind me, then,\" said\nthe murderer: \"if you prate, I will have your blood.\" Vanka was so\nmuch frightened that he went to the police that very night and told\nthem all he knew; on which his friend was arrested, brought to trial\nin Archangel, and condemned to labor on the public works for life.\nVanka was the main witness, and on his evidence the judge pronounced\nhis sentence. Then a scene arose in court which those who saw it say\nthey shall not forget. The man in the dock was bold and calm, while\nVanka, his accuser, trembled from crown to sole; and when the sentence\nof perpetual exile to the mines was read, the murderer turned to his\nfriend and said, in a clear, firm voice, \"Vanka! remember my words.\nTo-day is yours: I am going to Siberia; but I shall come to your house\nagain, and then I shall take your life. You know!\" Years went by, and\nthe threat, forgotten by every one else, was only remembered by Vanka,\nwho, knowing his old friend too well, expected each passing night\nwould be his last on earth. At length the tragedy came in a ghastly\nform. Vanka was found dead in his bed; his throat was cut from ear to\near; and in a drinking-den close by lay his murderer, snoring in his\ncups. He had made his escape from the mines; he had traversed the\nwhole length of Asiatic Russia; he had climbed the Ural chain, and\nwalked through the snow and ice of Perm, travelling in a pilgrim's\ngarb, and singing the pilgrim's song, until he came to the suburbs of\nArchangel, where he slipped away from his raft, hid himself in the\nwood until nightfall, crept to the familiar shed and drew his knife\nacross Vanka's throat.\n\nNo one suspects a pilgrim. With a staff in his hand, a sheepskin on\nhis back, a water-bottle at his belt, and a clot of bass tied loosely\nround his feet, a peasant of the Ural Mountains quits his home, and\nmakes no merit of trudging his two or three thousand miles. On the\nriver he takes an oar, on the wayside he endures with incredible\nfortitude the burning sun by day, the biting frost at night. In Moscow\nI heard the history of three sisters, born in that city, who have\ntaken up the pilgrim's staff for life. They are clever women,\nmilliners by trade, and much employed by ladies of high rank. If they\ncould only rest in their shop, they might live in comfort, and end\ntheir days in peace. But the religious and nomadic passions of their\nrace are strong upon them. Every year they go to Kief, Solovetsk, and\nJerusalem; and the journey occupies them forty-nine weeks. Every year\nthey spend three weeks at home, and then set out again--alone, on\nfoot--to seek, in winter snow and summer heat, salvation for their\nsouls. No force on earth, save that which drives an Arab across the\ndesert, and a Mormon across the prairie, is like this force.\n\nIn the hope of seeing these pilgrim bands, of going with them to\nSolovetsk, and studying them on the spot, as also of inquiring about\nthe convent spectre, and solving the mystery which for many years past\nconnected that spectre with the Romanof family, I rounded the North\nCape, and my regret is deep, when landing at Archangel, to hear that\nthe last pilgrim band has sailed, and that no more boats will cross\nthe Frozen Sea until the ice breaks up in May next year.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\n\nStung by this news of the pilgrim-boat having sailed, and haunting,\nunquietly, the Pilgrim's Court in the upper town, I notice a good many\nsheepskin garbs, with wearers of the burnt and hungry sort you meet in\nall seasons on the Syrian roads. They are exceedingly devout, and even\nin their rags and filth they have a certain grace of aspect and of\nmien. A pious purpose seems to inform their gestures and their speech.\nYon poor old man going home with his morsel of dried fish has the air\nof an Arab sheikh. These pilgrims, like myself, have been detained by\nstorms; and a hope shoots up into my heart that as the monks must\neither send away all these thirsty souls unslaked, or lodge and feed\nthem for several months, they may yet contrive to send a boat.\n\nA very small monk, not five feet high, with girl-like hair and\nrippling beard, which parts and flows out wildly in the wind, is\nstanding in the gateway of the Pilgrim's Court; and hardly knowing how\nit might be best to put the matter in my feeble Russ, I ask him in\nthat tongue where a man should look for the Solovetsk boat.\n\n\"English?\" inquires the girl-like monk.\n\n\"Yes, English,\" I reply, in some surprise; having never before seen a\nmonk in Russia who could speak in any other tongue than Russ. \"The\nboat,\" he adds, \"has ceased to run, and is now at Solovetsk laid up in\ndock.\"\n\nIn dock! This dwarf must be a wag; for such a conjunction as monks and\ndocks in a country where you find a quay like that of Solambola is, of\ncourse, a joke. \"In dock!\"\n\n\"Oh yes, in dock.\"\n\n\"Then have you a dock in the Holy Isle?\"\n\n\"A dock--why not? The merchants of Archangel have no docks, you say?\nWell, that is true; but merchants are not monks. You see, the monks of\nSolovetsk labor while the merchants of Archangel trade. Slava Bogu! A\ngood monk does his work; no shuffling, and no waste. In London you\nhave docks?\"\n\n\"Yes, many: but they were not built by monks.\"\n\n\"In England you have no monks; once you had them; and then they built\nthings--eh?\"\n\nThis dwarf is certainly a wag. What, monks who work, and docks in the\nFrozen Sea! After telling me where he learned his English (which is of\nnautical and naughty pattern), the manikin comforts me with news that\nalthough the pilgrim-boat has gone back to Solovetsk (where her\nengines are to be taken out, and put by in warm boxes near a stove for\nthe winter months), a provision-boat may sail for the monastery in\nabout a week.\n\n\"Can you tell me where to find the captain of that boat?\"\n\n\"Hum!\" says the dwarf, slowly, crossing himself the while, and lipping\nhis silent prayer, \"_I_ am the skipper!\"\n\nMy surprise is great. This dwarf, in a monk's gown and cap, with a\nwoman's auburn curls, the captain of a sea-going ship! On a second\nglance at his slight figure, I notice that his eyes are bright, that\nhis cheek is bronze, that his teeth, though small, are bony and well\nset. In spite of his serge gown and his girl-like face, there _is_\nabout the tiny monk that look of mastery which becomes the captain of\na ship.\n\n\"And can you give me a passage in your boat?\"\n\n\"You! English, and you wish to see the holy tombs? Well, that is\nsomething new. No men of your nation ever sail to Solovetsk. They come\nover here to buy, and not to pray. Sometimes they come to fight.\"\n\nThe last five words, spoken in a low key, come out from between his\nteeth with a snap which is highly comic in a man so lowly and so\nsmall. A lady living at Onega told me some days ago that once, when\nshe was staying for a week at Solovetsk with a Russian party, she was\ncompelled to hide her English birth, from fear lest the monks should\nkill her. A woman's fancy, doubtless; but her words came back upon my\nmind with a very odd sort of start as the manikin knits his brow and\nhisses at the English fleet.\n\n\"Where is your boat, and what is she called?\"\n\n\"She lies in the lower port, by the Pilgrim's Wharf; her name is the\n'Vera;' as you would say, the 'Faith.'\"\n\n\"How do you call your captain?\" I inquire of a second monk, who is\nevidently a sailor also; in fact, he is the first mate, serving on\nboard the \"Faith.\"\n\n\"Ivan,\" says the monk; a huge fellow, with hasty eyes and audacious\nfront; \"but we mostly call him Vanoushka, because he is little, and\nbecause we like him.\" Vanoushka is one of the affectionate forms of\nIvan: Little Ivan, Little John. The skipper, then, is properly Father\nJohn.\n\nAs for the next ten days and nights we are to keep company, it may be\nbest for me to say at once what I came to know of the queer little\nskipper in the long gown and with the woman's curls.\n\nFather John is an infant of the soil. Born in a Lapland village, he\nhad before him from his cradle the hard and hopeless life of a woodman\nand cod-fisher--the two trades carried on by all poor people in these\ncountries, where the modes of life are fixed by the climate and the\nsoil. In the summer he would cut logs and grass; in the winter he\nwould hunt the sea in search of seal and cod. But the lad was smart\nand lively. He wished to see the world, and hoped in some future time\nto sail a boat of his own. In order to rise, he must learn; in order\nto become a skipper, he must study the art of guiding ships at sea.\nSome thirty miles from the hamlet where he lived stood Kem, an ancient\ntown established on the Lapland coast by colonists from Novgorod the\nGreat, in which town there was a school of navigation; rude and simple\nas became so poor a place, but better than none at all; and to this\nprovincial school Father John contrived to go. That movement was his\nfirst great step in life.\n\nFrom Kem you can see a group of high and wooded islands towards the\nrising sun, the shores of which shine with a peculiar light in the\nearly dawn. They seem to call you, as it were, by a spell, into some\nparadise of the north. Every view is green, and every height is\ncrowned by a church with a golden cross. These islands are the\nSolovetsk group; and once, at least, the lad went over from Kem in a\nboat to pray in that holy place. The lights, the music, and the ample\ncheer appealed to his fancy and his stomach; leaving on his mind an\nimpression of peace and fullness never to be effaced.\n\nHe got his pass as a seaman, came over to Archangel, fell into loose\nways, and meeting with some German sailors from the Baltic, listened\nto their lusty songs and merry tales, until he felt a desire to leave\nhis own country and go with them on a voyage. Now sailors are scarce\nin the Russian ports; the Emperor Nicolas was in those days drafting\nhis seamen into the Black Sea fleets; and for a man to quit Russia\nwithout a pass from the police was a great offense. Such a pass the\nlad felt sure he could never get; and when the German vessel was about\nto sail he crept on board her in the night, and got away to sea\nwithout being found out by the port police.\n\nThe vessel in which he escaped from his country was the \"Hero,\" of\nPassenburg, in Hanover, plying as a rule between German and Danish\nports, but sometimes running over to the Tyne and the Thames. Entered\non the ship's books in a foreign name, Father John adopted the tastes\nof his new comrades; learned to eat English beef, to drink German\nbeer, and to carry himself like a man of the world. But the teaching\nof his father and his pope was not lost upon him, even in the slums of\nWapping and on the quays of Rotterdam. He began to pine for religion,\nas a Switzer pines for his Alp and an Egyptian for his Nile. What\ncould he do? The thought of going home to Kem was a fearful dream. The\nlash, the jail, the mine awaited him--he thought--in his native land.\n\nCut off from access to a priest of his own religion, he talked to his\nfellows before the mast about their faith. Some laughed at him; some\ncursed him; but one old sailor took him to the house of a Catholic\npriest. For four or five weeks Father John received a lesson every day\nin the creed of Rome; but his mind misgave him as to what he heard;\nand when his vessel left the port he was still without a church. In\nthe Levant, he met with creeds of all nations--Greek, Italian,\nLutheran, Armenian--but he could not choose between them, and his mind\nwas troubled with continual longings for a better life.\n\nThen he was wrecked in the Gulf of Venice, and having nearly lost his\nlife, he grew more and more uneasy about his soul. A few months later\nhe was wrecked on the coast of Norway; and for the second time in one\nyear he found himself at the gates of death. He could not live without\nreligion; and the only religion to whisper peace to his soul was that\nof his early and better days. But then the service of his country is\none of strict observance, and a man who can not go to church can not\nexercise his faith. How was he to seek for God in a foreign port?\n\nA chance of coming back to Russia threw itself in his path. The ship\nin which he served--a German ship--was chartered by an English firm\nfor Archangel; and as Father John was the only Russ on board, the\nskipper saw that his man would be useful in such a voyage. But the\nnews was to John a fearful joy. He longed to see his country once\nmore, to kneel at his native shrines, to give his mother some money he\nhad saved; but he had now been twelve years absent without leave, and\nhe knew that for such an offense he could be sent to Siberia, as he\nphrased it, \"like a slave.\" His fear overcame his love, and he\nanswered the skipper that he would not go, and must quit the ship.\n\nBut the skipper understood his trade. Owing John some sixteen pounds\nfor pay, he told him that he had no money where he lay, and could not\nsettle accounts until they arrived in Archangel, where he would\nreceive his freight. \"Money,\" says the Russ proverb, \"likes to be\ncounted,\" and when Father John thrust his hands into empty pockets, he\nbegan to think, after all, it might be better to go home, to get his\nwages, and see what would be done.\n\nWith a shaven chin and foreign name, he might have kept his secret and\ngot away from Archangel undiscovered by the port police, had he not\nyielded the night before he should have sailed, and gone with some\nGermans of the crew to a drinking-den. Twelve years of abstinence from\nvodka had caused him to forget the power of that evil spirit; he drank\ntoo much, he lost his senses; and when he woke next day he found that\nhis mates had left him, that his ship had sailed. What could he do? If\nhe spoke to the German consul, he would be treated as a deserter from\nhis post. If he went to the Russian police, he fancied they would\nknout him to death. Not knowing what to say or how to act, he was\nmooning in the port, when he met an old schoolfellow from Kem, one\nJacob Kollownoff (whom I afterwards came to know). Like most of the\nhardy men of Kem, Jacob was prospering in the world; he was a skipper,\nwith a boat of his own, in which he made distant and daring voyages.\nAt the moment when he met Father John he was preparing for a run to\nSpitzbergen in search of cod, to be salted at sea, and carried to the\nmarkets of Cronstadt. Jacob saw no harm in a sailor drinking a glass\ntoo much, and knowing that John was a good hand, he gave him a place\nin his boat and took him out on his voyage. The cod was caught, and\nCronstadt reached; but the return was luckless; and John was cast away\nfor a third time in his life. A wrecked and broken man, he now made up\nhis mind to quit the sea, and even to take his chance of what his\npeople might do with him at home.\n\nReturning to Kem with the skipper, he was seized by the police on the\nground of his papers being out of order, and cast into the common jail\nof the town, where he lay for twelve months untried. The life in jail\nwas not harder than his life on deck; for the Government paid him, as\na prisoner, six kopecks a day; enough to supply his wants. He was\nnever brought before a court. Once, if not more than once, the elder\nhinted that a little money would make things straight, and he might go\nhis way. The sum suggested as enough for the purpose was seventy-five\nrubles--nearly ten pounds in English coin. \"Tell him,\" said John to\nhis brother, who brought this message to the jail, \"he shall not get\nfrom me so much as one kopeck.\"\n\nA week later he was sent in a boat from Kem to Archangel, under\nsentence, he was told, of two years' hard labor in the fort; but\neither the elder talked too big, or his message was misread; for on\ngoing up to the police-office in that city, the prisoner was examined\nand discharged.\n\nA dream of the summer isles and golden pinnacles came back to him; he\nhad lived his worldly life, and longed for rest. Who can wonder that\nhe wished to become a monk of Solovetsk!\n\nTo the convent his skill in seamanship was of instant use. A steamer\nhad just been bought in Glasgow for the carriage of pilgrims to and\nfro; and on her arrival in Archangel, Feofan, Archimandrite of\nSolovetsk, discharged her Scottish crew and manned her with his monks.\nAt first these holy men felt strange on deck; they crossed themselves;\nthey sang a hymn; and as the pistons would not move, they begged the\nScottish engineer to return; since the machine--being made by\nheretics--had not grace enough to obey the voice of a holy man. They\nmade two or three midsummer trips across the gulf, getting hints from\nthe native skippers, and gradually warming to their work. A priest was\nappointed captain, and monks were sent into the kitchen and the\nengine-room. All went well for a time; Savatie and Zosima--the local\nsaints of Solovetsk--taking care of their followers in the fashion of\nSt. Nicolas and St. George.\n\nYet Father John was a real God's gift to the convent, for the voyage\nis not often to be described as a summer trip; and even so good a\nperson as an Archimandrite likes to know, when he goes down into the\nFrozen Sea, that his saints are acting through a man who has sailed in\nthe roughest waters of the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nTHE VLADIKA.\n\n\n\"You have a letter of introduction to the Archimandrite of Solovetsk?\"\nasks Father John, as we are shaking hands under the pilgrim's lamp.\n\"No! Then you must get one.\"\n\n\"Why? Are you so formal when a pilgrim comes to the holy shrine?\"\n\n\"You are not quite a pilgrim. You will need a room in the guest-house\nfor yourself. You may wish to have horses, boats, and people to go\nabout. You will want to see the sacristy, the jewels, and the books.\nYou may like to eat at the Archimandrite's board.\"\n\n\"But how are these things to be done?\"\n\n\"You know the Most Sacred Vladika of Archangel, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, a little. One of the Vladika's closest friends has been\ntalking to me of that sacred personage, and has promised to present me\nthis very day.\"\n\n\"Get from him a line to the Archimandrite. That will make all things\nsmooth,\" says Father John.\n\n\"Are they great friends?\"\n\n\"Ha! who can tell? You see, the Most Sacred Vladika used to be master\nof every one in the Holy Isles; and now ... but then the Vladika of\nArchangel and the Archimandrite of Solovetsk are holy men, not likely\nto fall out. You'll get a line?\"\n\n\"Yes, if he will give me one; good-bye.\"\n\n\"Count on a week for the voyage, and bring white bread,\" adds the\ndwarf. \"Prostet\u00e9--Pardon me.\"\n\nOf course, the Vladika (bishop or archbishop) is a monk; for every\nhigh-priest in the Orthodox Church, whether his rank be that of vicar,\narchimandrite, bishop, or metropolite, must wear the hood, and must\nhave taken vows. The rule that a bishop must be \"the husband of one\nwife,\" is set aside so far as regards the clergy of higher grades. A\nparish priest is a married man; must, in fact, be a married man; and\nno young deacon can obtain a church until he has first obtained a\nbride. The social offices of the Church are done by these family men;\nbaptism, purifying, marriage, confession, burial; yet the higher seats\nin the hierarchy are all reserved (as yet) for celibates who are under\nvows.\n\nThe Holy Governing Synod--highest court of the Orthodox Church--consists\nof monks, with one lay member to assist them by his knowledge of the\nworld. No married priest has ever had a seat on that governing board.\nThe metropolites are monks; and not only monks, but actual rulers of\nmonastic houses, Isidore, metropolite of Novgorod, is archimandrite of\nthe great Convent of St. George. Arseny, metropolite of Kief, is\narchimandrite of the great Convent of Pechersk. Innocent, metropolite\nof Moscow, is archimandrite of the great Convent of Troitsa. All the\nvicars of these high-priests are monks. The case of Archangel and\nSolovetsk is, therefore, the exception to a general rule. St. George,\nPechersk, and Troitsa, are governed by the nearest prince of the\nChurch; and in former times this was also the case with Solovetsk; but\nPeter the Great, in one of his fits of reverence, broke this old\nconnection of the convent and the see of Archangel; endowing the\nArchimandrite of Solovetsk with a separate standing and an independent\npower. Some people think the Archbishop of Archangel nurses a grudge\nagainst the civil power for this infringement of his ancient rights;\nand this idea was probably present in the mind of Father John.\n\nActing on Father John's advice, I put on my clothes of state--a plain\ndress suit; the only attire in which you can wait on a man of\nrank--and drive to my friend's abode, and finding him ready to go with\nme, gallop through a gust of freezing rain to the palace-door.\n\nThe archbishop is at home, though it is not yet twelve o'clock. It is\nsaid of him that he seldom goes abroad; affecting the airs of an exile\nand a martyr; but doing--in a sad, submissive way, as if the weapon\nwere unworthy of its work--a great deal of good; watching over his\nchurch, admonishing his clergy, both white and black, and thinking,\nlike a father, for the poor.\n\nLeaving our wraps in an outer hall (the proper etiquette of guests),\nwe send in our cards by an usher, and are received at once.\n\nThe Most Sacred Vladika, pale as a ghost, dressed in a black gown, on\nwhich hangs a sapphire cross, and wearing his hood of serge, rises to\ngreet us; and coming forward with a sweet and vanishing smile, first\nblesses his penitent, and then shakes hands with his English guest.\n\nThis Most Sacred Father Nathaniel is now an aged, shadowy man, with\nlong white beard, and a failing light in his meek blue eyes. But in\nhis prime he is said to have been handsome in person, eager in gait,\ncaressing in style. In his youth he was a village pastor--one of the\nWhite Clergy--married, and a family man; but his wife died early; and\nas a pastor in his church can not marry a second time, he followed a\nfashion long ago set by his aspiring brethren--he took the vows of\nchastity, became a monk, and began to rise. His fine face, his courtly\nwit, his graceful bearing, brought him hosts of fair penitents, and\nthese fair penitents made for him high friends at court. He was\nappointed Vicar of St. Petersburg--a post not higher in actual rank\nthan that of a Dean of St. Paul's, but one which a popular and\nambitious man prefers to most of the Russian sees. Father Nathaniel\nwas an idol of the city. Fine ladies sought his advice, and women of\nall classes came to confess to him their sins. Princes fell beneath\nhis sway; princesses adored him; and no rank in the Church, however\nhigh, appeared to stand beyond his reach. But these court triumphs\nwere his ruin. He was such a favorite with ladies that his brethren\nbegan to smile with malicious leer when his back was turned, and drop\ntheir poisonous hints about the ways in which he walked. They said he\nwas too fond of power; they said he spent more time with his female\npenitents than became a monk. It is the misery of these vicars and\nbishops that they can not be married men, with wives of their own to\nturn the edges of such shafts. Men's tongues kept wagging against\nNathaniel's fame; and even those who knew him to be earnest in his\nfaith began to think it might be well for the Church if this\nfascinating father could be honorably sent to some distant see.\n\nWhither was he to go?\n\nWhile a place was being sought for him, he happened to give deep\noffense in high quarters; and as Father Alexander, Vladika of\nArchangel (hero of Solovetsk), was eager to go south and be near the\ncourt, Father Nathaniel was promoted to that hero's place.\n\nHe left St. Petersburg amidst the tears of fair women, who could not\nprotect their idol against the malice of envious monks. Taking his\npromotion meekly as became his robe, he sighed to think that his day\nwas come, and in the future he would count in his church as a fallen\nman. Arriving in Archangel, he shut himself up in his palace near the\nmonastery of St. Michael; a house which he found too big for his\nsimple wants. Soon after his coming he abandoned this palace for a\nsmaller house; giving up his more princely pile to the monks of St.\nMichael for a public school.\n\nA spirit of sacrifice is the pre-eminent virtue of the Russian Church.\n\nThe shadowy old man compels me to sit on the sofa by his side; talks\nof my voyage round the North Cape; shows me a copy in Russian of my\nbook on the Holy Land; inquires whether I know the Pastor Xatli in\nLondon. Fancying that he means the Russian pope in Welbeck Street, I\nanswer yes; on which we get into much confusion of tongues; until it\nflashes upon me that he is talking of Mr. Hatherley of Wolverhampton,\nthe gentleman who has gone over from the English to the Russian rite,\nand is said to have carried some twenty souls of the Black Country\nwith him. What little there is to tell of this Oriental Church in our\nBlack Country is told; and in return for my scanty supply of facts,\nthe Vladika is good enough to show me the pictures hanging on his\nwall. These pictures are of two classes, holy and loyal; first the\nsacred images--those heads of our Saviour and of the Virgin Mother\nwhich hang in the corners of every Russian room, the tutelary\npresence, to be adored with reverence at the dawn of day and the hour\nof rest; then the loyal and local pictures--portraits of the reigning\nhouse, and of former archbishops--which you would expect to find in\nsuch a house; a first Alexander, with flat and dreamy face; a Nicolas,\nwith stiff and haughty figure; a second Alexander, hung in the place\nof honor, and wearing a pensive and benignant smile. More to my mind,\nas less familiar than these great ones of the hour, is the fading\nimage of a lady, thoroughly Russ in garb and aspect--Marfa, boyarine\nof Novgorod and colonizer of the North.\n\nNathaniel marks with kindling eyes my interest in this grand old\ncreature--builder alike of convents and of towns--who sent out from\nNovgorod two of her sons, and hundreds of her people, to the bleak\nnorth country, then inhabited by pagan Lapps and Karels, worshippers\nof the thunder-cloud, and children of the Golden Hag. Her story is the\nepic of these northern shores.\n\nWhile Red and White Rose were wasting our English counties with sword\nand fire, this energetic princess sent her sons and her people down\nthe Volkhoff, into Lake Ladoga, whence they crept up the Swir into\nLake Onega; from the banks of which lake they marched upward, through\nthe forests of birch and pine, into the frozen north. She sent them to\nexplore the woods, to lay down rivers and lakes, to tell the natives\nof a living God. They came to Holmogory, on the Dvina, then a poor\nfishing-village occupied by Karels, a tribe not higher in type than\nthe Samoyeds of the present day. They founded Suma, Soroka, and Kem.\nThey took possession of the Frozen Sea and its clustering isles. In\ndropping down a main arm of the river, Marfa's two sons were pitched\nfrom their boat and drowned. Their bodies being washed on shore and\nburied in the sand, she caused a cloister to be raised on the spot,\nwhich she called the Monastery of St. Nicolas, after the patron of\ndrowning men.\n\nThat cloister of St. Nicolas was the point first made by Challoner\nwhen he entered the Dvina from the Frozen Sea.\n\n\"You are going over to Solovetsk?\" says the Vladika, coming back to\nhis sofa. \"We have no authority in the isles, although they lie within\nour See. It pleased the Emperor Peter, on his return from a stormy\nvoyage, to raise the Convent of Savatie to independent rank, to give\nit the title of Lavra--making it the equal, in our ecclesiastical\nsystem, with Troitsa, Pechersk, and St. George. From that day\nSolovetsk became a separate province of the Church, dependent on the\nHoly Governing Synod and the Tsar. Still I can give you a line to\nFeofan, the Archimandrite.\"\n\nSlipping into an inner room for five minutes, he composes a mandate in\nmy favor, in the highest Oriental style.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nA PILGRIM-BOAT.\n\n\nA lady, who knows the country, puts up in a crate such things as a\npilgrim may chance to need in a monastic cell--good tea, calf's\ntongue, fresh butter, cheese, roast beef, and indispensable white\nbread. These dainties being piled on a drojki, propped on pillows and\ncovered with quilts--my bedding in the convent and the boat--we rattle\naway to the Pilgrim's Wharf.\n\nYes, there it is, an actual wharf--the only wharf in Archangel along\nwhich boats can lie, and land their passengers by a common sea-side\nplank!\n\nMoored to the capstan by a rope, lies the pretty craft; a gilt cross\non her foremast, a saintly pennant on her main. Four large gold\nletters tell her name:\n\n  \u0412 \u0462 \u0420 \u0410\n\n(pronounced Verra), and meaning Faith. Father John is standing on his\nbridge, giving orders in a low voice to his officers and crew, many of\nwhom are monks--mate, steward, cook, and engineer--each and all\narrayed in the cowl and frock.\n\nOn the Pilgrim's Wharf, which lies in a yard cut off by gates from the\nstreet, and paved with chips and shavings to form a dry approach,\nstands a new pile of monastic buildings; chapels, cells, store-rooms,\noffices, stalls, dormitories; in fact, a new Pilgrim's Court. A\nsteamer can not reach the port in the upper town, where the original\nPilgrim's Court was built; and the fathers, keeping pace with the\ntimes, have let their ancient lodgings in the town, and built a new\nhouse lower down the stream.\n\nCrowds of men and women--pilgrims, tramps, and soldiers--strew the\nwharf with a litter of baskets, tea-pots, beds, dried-fish, felt\nboots, old rugs and furs, salt-girkins, black bread; through which the\nmonks step softly and sadly; helping a child to trot on board, getting\na free pass for a beggar, buying rye-loaves for a lame wretch, and\notherwise aiding the poorest of these poor creatures in their need.\nFor, even though the season is now far spent, nearly two hundred\npilgrims are in waiting on the Pilgrim's Wharf; all hoping to get over\nto the Holy Isles. Most of these men have money to pay their fare; and\nsome among the groups are said to be rich. A dozen of the better sort,\nnatives of Archangel, too busy to pass over the sea in June, when\ntheir river was full of ships, are taking advantage of the lull in\ntrade, and of the extra boat. Each man brings with him a basket of\nbread and fish, a box of tea, a thick quilt, and a pair of felt\nleggings, to be worn over his boots at night. These local pilgrims\ncarry a staff; but in place of the leathern belt and water-bottle,\nthey carry a teapot and a cup. One man wears a cowl and gown, who is\nnot of the crew; a jolly, riotous monk, going back to his convent as a\nprisoner. \"What has he been doing?\" \"Women and drink,\" says Father\nJohn. The fares are low: first-class, six rubles (fifteen shillings);\nsecond-class, four rubles. Third-class, three rubles. This tariff\ncovers the cost of going out and coming back--a voyage of four hundred\nmiles--with lodgings in the guest-house, and rations at the common\ntables, during a stay of five or six days. A dozen of these poor\npilgrims have no rubles in their purse, and the question rises on the\nwharf, whether these paupers shall be left behind. Father John and his\nfellow-skipper have a general rule; they must refuse no man, however\npoor, who asks them for a passage to Solovetsk in the name of God.\n\nA bell tolls, a plank is drawn, and we are off. As we back from the\nwharf, getting clear, a hundred heads bow down, a hundred hands sign\nthe cross, and every soul commends itself to God. Every time that, in\ndropping down the river, we pass a church, the work of bowing and\ncrossing begins afresh. Each head uncovers; each back is bent; each\nlip is moved by prayer. Some kneel on deck; some kiss the planks. The\nmen look contrite, and the women are sedate. The crews on\nfishing-craft salute us, oftentimes kneeling and bowing as we glide\npast, and always crossing themselves with uncovered heads. Some beg\nthat we will pray for them; and the most worldly sailors pause in\ntheir work and hope that the Lord will give us a prosperous wind.\n\nA gale is blowing from west and north. In the river it is not much\nfelt, excepting for the chill, which bites into your bone. Father\nJohn, with a monk's contempt for caution, gives the Maimax Channel a\nfree berth, and having a boat in hand of very light draught, drops\ndown the ancient arm as a shorter passage into the gulf.\n\nBefore we quit the river, our provident worshippers have begun to brew\ntheir tea and eat their supper of girkin and black bread.\n\nThe distribution on board is simple. Only one passenger has paid the\nfirst-class fare. He has the whole state cabin to himself; a room some\nnine feet square, with bench and mat to sleep on; a cabin in which he\nmight live very well, had it not pleased the monks to stow their\nwinter supply of tallow in the boxes beneath his couch. Two persons\nhave paid the second-class fare--a skipper and his wife, who have been\nsailing about the world for years, have made their fortunes, and are\nnow going home to Kem. \"Ah!\" says the fair, fat woman, \"you English\nhave a nice country to live in, and you get very good tea; but....\"\nThe man is like his wife. \"Prefer to live in Kem? Why not? In London\nyou have beef and stout; but you have no summer and no winter; all\nyour seasons are the same; never hot, never cold. If you want to enjoy\nlife, you should drive in a reindeer sledge over a Lapland plain, in\nthirty degrees of frost.\"\n\nThe rest of our fellow-pilgrims are on deck and in the hold; rich and\npoor, lame and blind, merchant and beggar, charlatan and saint; a\nmotley group, in which a painter might find models for a Cantwell, a\nTorquemada, a St. John. You see by their garb, and hear in their\nspeech, that they have come from every province of the Empire; from\nthe Ukraine and from Georgia, from the Crimea and from the Ural\nheights, from the Gulf of Finland and from the shores of the Yellow\nSea. Some of these men have been on foot, trudging through summer\nsands and winter snows, for more than a year.\n\nThe lives of many of my fellow-passengers are like an old wife's\ntales.\n\nOne poor fellow, having no feet, has to be lifted on board the boat.\nHe is clothed in rags; yet this poor pilgrim's face has such a patient\nlook that one can hardly help feeling he has made his peace. He tells\nme that he lives beyond Viatka, in the province of Perm; that he lost\nhis feet by frost-bite years ago; that he lay sick a long time; that\nwhile he was lying in his pain he called on Savatie to help him,\npromising that saint, on his recovery, to make a pilgrimage to his\nshrine in the Frozen Sea. By losing his legs he saved his life; and\nthen, in his poverty and rags, he set forth on his journey, crawling\non his stumps, around which he has twisted a coarse leather splinth,\nover fifteen hundred miles of broken road.\n\nAnother pilgrim, wearing a felt boot on one leg, a bass shoe on the\nother, has a most abject look. He is a drunkard, sailing to Solovetsk\nto redeem a vow. Lying tipsy on the canal bank at Vietegra, he rolled\ninto the water, and narrowly escaped being drowned. As he lay on his\nface, the foam oozing slowly from his mouth, he called on his saints\nto save him, promising them to do a good work in return for such help.\nTo keep that vow he is going to the holy shrines.\n\nA woman is carrying her child, a fine little lad of six or seven\nyears, to be offered to the monks and educated for the cowl. She has\npassed through trouble, having lost her husband, and her fortune, and\nshe is bent on sacrificing the only gift now left to her on earth. To\nput her son in the monastery of Solovetsk is to secure him, she\nbelieves, against all temporal and all spiritual harm. Poor creature!\nIt is sad to think of her lot when the sacrifice is made; and the\nlonely woman, turning back from the incense and glory of Solovetsk,\nhas to go once more into the world, and without her child.\n\nAn aged man, with flowing beard and priestly mien, though he is\nwrapped in rags, is noticeable in the groups among which he moves. He\nis a vowed pilgrim; that is to say, a pilgrim for life, as another man\nwould be a monk for life; his whole time being spent in walking from\nshrine to shrine. He has the highest rank of a pilgrim; for he has\nbeen to Nazareth and Bethlehem, as well as to Novgorod and Kief. This\nis the third time he has come to Solovetsk; and it is his hope, if God\nshould spare him for the work, to make yet another round of the four\nmost potent shrines, and then lay up his dust in these holy isles.\n\nSome of these pilgrims, even those in rags, are bringing gifts of no\nsmall value to the convent fund. Each pilgrim drops his offering into\nthe box: some more, some less, according to his means. Many bear gifts\nfrom neighbors and friends who can not afford the time for so long and\nperilous a voyage, but who wish to walk with God, and lay up their\nportion with His saints.\n\nOn reaching the river mouth we find a fleet of fishing-boats in dire\ndistress; and the two ships that we passed a week since, bobbing and\nreeling on the bar like tipsy men, are completely gone. The \"Thera\" is\na Norwegian clipper, carrying deals; the \"Olga\" a Prussian bark,\ncarrying oats; they are now aground, and raked by the wash from stem\nto stern. We pass these hulls in prayer; for the gale blows dead in\nour teeth; and we are only too well aware that before daylight comes\nagain we shall need to be helped by all the spirits that wait on\nmortal men.\n\nWith hood and gown wrapped up in a storm-cape, made for such nights,\nFather John is standing on his bridge, directing the course of his\nboat like an English tar. His monks meet the wind with a psalm, in the\nsinging of which the pilgrims and soldiers join. The passenger comes\nfor a moment from his cabin into the sleet and rain; for the voices of\nthese enthusiasts, pealing to the heavens through rack and roar, are\nlike no sounds he has ever yet heard at sea. Many of the singers lie\nbelow in the hold; penned up between sacks of rye and casks of grease;\nsome of them deadly sick, some groaning as though their hearts would\nbreak; yet more than half these sufferers follow with lifted eyes and\nstrenuous lungs the swelling of that beautiful monkish chant. It is\ntheir even-song, and they could not let the sun go down into the surge\nuntil that duty to their Maker was said and sung.\n\nNext day there comes no dawn. A man on the bridge declares that the\nsun is up; but no one else can see it; for a veil of mist droops\neverywhere about us, out of which comes nothing but a roar of wind and\na flood of rain.\n\nThe \"Faith\" is bound to arrive in the Bay of Solovetsk by twelve\no'clock; but early in the day Father John comes to tell me (apart)\nthat he shall not be able to reach his port until five o'clock; and\nwhen five is long since past, he returns to tell me, with a patient\nshrug, that we want more room, and must change our course. The\nentrance to Solovetsk is through a reef of rocks.\n\n\"Must we lie out all night?\"\n\n\"We must.\" Two hours are spent in feeling for the shore; Father John\nhaving no objection to use his lead. When anchorage is found, we let\nthe chain go, and swinging round, under a lee shore, in eight fathoms\nof water, find ourselves lying out no more than a mile from land.\n\nThen we drink tea; the pilgrims sing their even-song; and, with a\nthousand crossings and bendings, we commit our souls to heaven. Lying\nclose in shore, under cover of a ridge of pines, we swing and lurch at\nour ease; but the storm howls angrily in our wake; and we know that\nmany a poor crew, on their frail northern barks, are struggling all\nnight with the powers of life and death. A Dutch clipper, called the\n\"Ena,\" runs aground; her crew is saved, and her cargo lost. Two\nRussian sloops are shattered and riven in our track; one of them\nparting amidships and going down in a trough of sea with every soul on\nboard.\n\nIn the early watch the wind goes down; sunlight streaks the\nnorth-eastern sky; and, in the pink dawn, we catch, in our front, a\nlittle to the west, a glimpse of the green cupolas and golden crosses\nof Solovetsk--a joy and wonder to all eyes; not more to pilgrims, who\nhave walked a thousand miles to greet them, than they are to their\nEnglish guest.\n\nSaluting the holy place with prayer, and steaming by a coast-line\nbroken by rocks and beautified by verdure, we pass, in a flood of soft\nwarm sunshine, up a short inland reach, in which seals are plashing,\nover which doves are darting, each in their happy sport, and, by eight\no'clock of a lovely August morning, swing ourselves round in a\nsecluded bay under the convent walls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nTHE HOLY ISLES.\n\n\nChief in a group of rocks and banks lying off the Karel coast--a group\nnot yet surveyed, and badly laid down in charts--Solovetsk is a small,\ngreen island, ten or twelve miles long, by eight or nine miles wide.\nThe waters raging round her in this stormy sea have torn a way into\nthe mass of stones and peat; forming many little coves and creeks; and\nnear the middle, where the convent stands, these waters have almost\nmet. Hardly a mile of land divides the eastern bay from the western\nbay.\n\nSolovetsk stands a little farther north than Vatna J\u00f6kull; the\nsixty-fifth degree of latitude passing close to the monastic pile. The\nrocks and islets lying round her are numerous and lovely, for the sea\nruns in and out among them, crisp with motion and light with foam; and\ntheir shores are everywhere green with mosses and fringed with forests\nof birch and pine. The lines are not tame, as on the Karel and Lapland\ncoasts, for the ground swells upward into bluffs and downs, and one at\nleast of these ridges may be called a hill. Each height is crowned by\na white church, a green cupola, and a golden cross. On the down which\nmay be called a hill stands a larger church, the belfry of which\ncontains a light. Land, sea, and sky are all in keeping; each a wonder\nand a beauty in the eyes of pilgrims of the stormy night.\n\nRunning alongside the wharf, on to which we step as easily as on to\nDover Pier, we notice that beyond this beauty of nature, which man has\ndone so much to point and gild, there is a bright and even a busy look\nabout the commonest things. Groups of strange men dot the quays;\nLopars, Karels, what not; but we soon perceive that Solovetsk is a\ncivilized no less than an enchanted isle. The quay is spacious, the\nport is sweet and fresh. On our right lies that dock of which Father\nJohn was speaking with such pride. The \"Hope,\" a more commodious\npilgrim-boat than the \"Faith,\" is lying on her stays. On our left\nstands a guest-house, looking so airy, light, and clean, that no\nhostelry on Italian lake could wear a more cheerful and inviting face.\nWe notice a lift and crane, as things not seen in the trading ports;\nand one has hardly time to mark these signs of science ere noticing an\niron tramway, running from the wharf to a great magazine of stores and\ngoods.\n\nA line of wall, with gates and towers, extends along the upper quay;\nand high above this line of wall, spring convent, palace, dome, and\ncross. A stair leads up from the water to the Sacred Gates; and near\nthe pathway from this stair we see two votive chapels; marking the\nspots on which the Imperial pilgrims, Peter the Great and Alexander\nthe Beneficent, landed from their boats.\n\nEvery thing looks solid, many things look old. Not to speak of the\nfortress walls and turrets, built of vast boulders torn up from the\nsea-bed in the days of our own Queen Bess, the groups of palace,\nchurch, and belfry rising within those walls are of older date than\nany other work of man in this far-away corner of the globe. One\ncathedral--that of the Transfiguration--is older than the fortress\nwalls. A second cathedral--that of the Ascension--dates from the time\nwhen St. Philip was prior of Solovetsk. Besides having this air of\nantiquity, the place is alive with color, and instinct with a sense of\nart. The votive chapels which peep out here and there from among the\ntrees are so many pictures; and these red crosses by the water-margin\nhave been so arranged as to add a motive and a moral to the scene.\nSome broad but not unsightly frescoes brighten the main front of the\nold cathedral, and similar pictures light the spandrel of the Sacred\nGates; while turrets and cupolas of church and chapel are everywhere\ngay with green and gold.\n\nOne dome, much noticed, and of rarest value in a pilgrim's eye, is\npainted azure, fretted with golden stars. That dome is the crown of a\nnew cathedral built in commemoration of 1854--that year of\nwonders--when an English fleet was vanquished by the Mother of God.\nWithin, the convent looks more durable and splendid than without.\nWall, rampart, guest-house, prison, tower, and church, are all of\nbrick and stone. Every lobby is painted; often in a rude and early\nstyle; but these rough passages from Holy Writ have a sense and\nkeeping higher than the morals conveyed by a coat of lime. The screens\nand columns in the churches glow with a nobler art; though here,\nagain, an eye accustomed to admire no other than the highest of\nItalian work will be only too ready to slight and scorn. The drawing\nis often weak, the pigment raw, the metal tawdry; yet these great\nbreadths of gold and color impress both eye and brain, especially when\nthe lamps are lit, the psalm is raised, the incense burning, and the\nmonks, attired in their long black hoods and robes, are ranged in\nfront of the royal gates.\n\nThis pretty white house under the convent wall, near the Sacred Gates,\nwas built in witness of a miracle, and is known as the Miracle Church.\nA pilgrim, eating a bit of white bread, which a pope had given him,\nlet a crumb of it fall to the ground, when a strange dog tried to\nsnatch it up. The crumb seemed to rise into the dog's mouth and then\nslip away from him, as though it were alive. That dog was the devil.\nMany persons saw this victory of the holy bread, and the monks of\nSolovetsk built a shrine on the spot to keep the memory of that\nmiracle alive; and here it stands on the bay, between the chapels\nerected on the spots where Peter the Great and Alexander the Second\nlanded from their ships.\n\nWhen we come to drive, and sail, and walk into the recesses of this\ngroup of isles, we find them not less lovely than the first sweet\npromise of the bay in which we land. Forests surround, and lakelets\npursue us, at every step. The wood is birch and pine; birch of the\nsort called silver, pine of the alpine stock. The trees are big enough\nfor beauty, and the undergrowths are red with berries and bright with\nArctic flowers. Here and there we come upon a clearing, with a dip\ninto some green valley, in the bed of which slumbers a lovely lake. A\nscent of hay is in the air, and a perfume new to my nostrils, which my\ncompanions tell me breathes from the cotton-grass growing on the\nmargin of every pool. At every turn of the road we find a cross, well\nshaped and carved, and stained dark red; while the end of every forest\nlane is closed by a painted chapel, a lonely father's cell. A deep,\nsoft silence reigns through earth and sky.\n\nBut the beauty of beauties lies in the lakes. More than a hundred of\nthese lovely sheets of water nestle in the depths of pine-wood and\nbirch-wood. Most famous of all these sheets is the Holy Lake, lying\nclose behind the convent wall; most beautiful of all, to my poor\ntaste, is the White Lake, on the road to St. Savatie's Cell and\nStriking Hill.\n\nHoly Lake, a sheet of black water, deep and fresh, though it is not a\nhundred yards from the sea, has a function in the pilgrim's course.\nArriving at Solovetsk, the bands of pilgrims march to this lake and\nstrip to bathe. The waters are holy, and refresh the spirit while they\npurify the flesh. Without a word, the pilgrims enter a shed, throw off\ntheir rags, and leap into the flood; except some six or seven\ncity-folk, who shiver in their shoes at the thought of that wholesome\nplunge. Their bath being finished, the pilgrims go to dinner and to\nprayers.\n\nWhite Lake lies seven or eight miles from the convent, sunk in a green\nhollow, with wooded banks, and a number of islets, stopping the lovely\nview with a yet more lovely pause. If St. Savatie had been an artist,\none need not have wondered at his wandering into such a spot.\n\nYet the chief islet in this paradise of the Frozen Sea has one defect.\nWhen looking down from the belfry of Striking Hill on the intricate\nmaze of sea and land, of lake and ridge, of copse and brake, of lawn\nand dell; each tender breadth of bright green grass, each sombre belt\nof dark-green pine, being marked by a white memorial church; you gaze\nand wonder, conscious of some hunger of the sense; it may be of the\neye, it may be of the ear; your heart declaring all the while that,\nwealthy as the landscape seems, it lacks some last poetic charm. It is\nthe want of animal life. No flock is in the meadow, and no herd is on\nthe slope. No bark of dog comes on the air; no low of kine is on the\nlake. Neither cow nor calf, neither sheep nor lamb, neither goat nor\nkid, is seen in all the length of country from Striking Hill to the\nconvent gate. Man is here alone, and feels that he is alone.\n\nThis defect in the landscape is radical; not to be denied, and never\nto be cured. Not that cattle would not graze on these slopes and\nthrive in these woods. Three miles in front of Solovetsk stands the\nisle called Zaet, on which sheep and cattle browse; and five or six\nmiles in the rear lies Moksalma, a large grassy isle, on which the\npoultry cackle, the horses feed, and the cows give milk. These animals\nwould thrive on the holy isle, if they were not driven away by\nmonastic rule; but Solovetsk has been sworn of the celibate order; and\nlove is banished from the saintly soil. No mother is here permitted to\nfondle and protect her young; a great defect in landscapes otherwise\nlovely to eye and heart--a denial of nature in her tenderest forms.\n\nThe law is uniform, and kept with a rigor to which the imperial power\nitself must bend. No creature of the female sex may dwell on the isle.\nThe peasants from the Karel coast are said to be so strongly impressed\nwith the sin of breaking this rule, that they would rather leap into\nthe sea than bring over a female cat. A woman may come in the pilgrim\nseason to say her prayers, but that duty done she must go her way.\nSummer is a time of license--a sort of carnival season, during which\nthe letter of a golden rule is suspended for the good of souls. A\nwoman may lodge in the guest-house, feed in the refectory; but she\nmust quit the wards before nine at night. Some of the more holy\nchapels she may not enter: and her day of privilege is always short. A\nmale pilgrim can reside at Solovetsk for a year; a female must be gone\nwith the boats that bring her to the shrine. By an act of imperial\ngrace, the commander of his majesty's forces in the island--an army\nsome sixty strong--is allowed to have his wife and children with him\nduring the pilgrim's year; that is to say, from June to August; but\nwhen the last boat returns to Archangel with the men of prayer, the\nlady and her little folk must leave their home in this holy place. A\nreign of piety and order is supposed to come with the early snows, and\nit is a question whether the empress herself would be allowed to set\nher foot on the island in that better time.\n\nThe rule is easily enforced in the bay of Solovetsk, under the convent\nwalls; not so easily enforced at Zaet, Moksalma, and the still more\ndistant isles, where tiny little convents have been built on spots\ninhabited by famous saints. In these more distant settlements it is\nhard to protect the holy men from female intrusion; for the Karel\ngirls are fond of mischief, and they paddle about these isles in their\nlight summer craft by day and night. The aged fathers only are allowed\nto live in such perilous spots.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE LOCAL SAINTS.\n\n\nThis exclusion of women from the Holy Isle was the doing of Savatie,\nfirst of the Local Saints.\n\nSavatie, the original anchoret of Solovetsk, was one day praying near\na lake, when he heard a cry, as of a woman in pain. His comrade said\nit must have been a dream: for no woman was living nearer to their\n\"desert\" than the Karel coast. The saint went forth again to pray; but\nonce again his devotions were disturbed by cries and sobs. Going round\nby the banks of the lake to see, he found a young woman lying on the\nground, with her flesh all bruised, her back all bleeding from recent\nblows. She was a fisherman's wife. On being asked who had done her\nthis harm, she said that two young men, with bright faces and dressed\nin white raiment, came to her hut while her husband was away, and\ntelling her she must go after him, as the land belonged to God, and no\nwoman must sleep on it a single night, they threw her on the ground,\nstruck her with rods, and made her cry with pain.\n\nWhen she could walk, the poor creature got into her boat, and St.\nSavatie saw her no more. The fisherman came to fish, but his wife\nremained at home; and in this way woman was driven by angels from the\nHoly Isle. No monk, no layman, ever doubts this story. How can he?\nHere, to this day, stands the log house in which Savatie dwelt, and\ntwenty paces from it lies the mossy bank on which he knelt. Across the\nwater there, beside yon clump of pines, rose the fisherman's shed. The\nsharp ascent on which the church and lighthouse glisten, is still\ncalled Striking Hill.\n\nThis St. Savatie was a monk from Novgorod living at the old convent of\nBelozersk, in which he served the office of tonsurer--shaver of heads;\nbut longing for a life of greater solitude than his convent gave him,\nhe persuaded one of his brethren, named Valaam, to go up with him into\nthe deserts near the Polar Sea. Boyars from his country-side were then\ngoing up into the north; and why should holy men not bear as much for\nChrist as boyars and traders bore for pelf? On praying all night in\ntheir chapels, these boyars and traders ran to their archbishop with\nthe cry: \"Oh, give us leave, Vladika, to go forth, man and horse, and\nwin new lands for St. Sophia.\" Settling in Kem, in Suma, in Soroka,\nand at other points, these men were adding a region larger than the\nmother-country to the territories ruled by Novgorod the Great. The\nstory of these boyars stirred up Savatie to follow in their wake, and\nlabor in the desolate land which they were opening up.\n\nToiling through the virgin woods and sandy plains, Savatie and his\ncompanion Valaam arrived on the Vieg (in 1429), and found a pious\nmonk, named German, who had also come from the south country. Looking\ntowards the east, these monks perceived, in the watery waste, a group\nof isles; and trimming a light skiff, Savatie and German crossed the\nsea. Landing on the largest isle, they made a \"desert\" on the shore of\na lakelet, lying at the foot of a hill on which birch and pine trees\ngrew to the top. Their lake was sheltered, the knoll was high; and\nfrom the summit they could see the sprinkle of isles and their\nembracing waves, as far as Orloff Cape to the south, the downs of Kem\non the west.\n\nSavatie brought with him a picture of the Virgin, not then known to\npossess miraculous virtues, which he hung up in a chapel built of\nlogs. Near to this chapel he made for himself and his companion a hut\nof reeds and sticks, in which they lived in peace and prayer until the\nrigor of the climate wore them out. After six years spent in solitude,\nGerman sailed back to the Vieg; and Savatie, finding himself alone on\nthe rock, in that desert from which he had banished woman and love,\nbecame afraid of dying without a priest being at hand to shrive and\nput him beneath the grass. Getting into his skiff, he also crossed to\nSoroka, where he obtained from Father Nathaniel, a prior who chanced\nto visit that town, the bread and cup; and then, his work on earth\nbeing done, he passed away to his eternal rest.\n\nLaying him in the sands at Soroka, Nathaniel raised a chapel of pine\nlogs, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, above his grave; and there\nSavatie would have lain forever, his name unknown, his saintly rank\nunrecognized on earth, had he not fallen in the path of a man of\nstronger and more enduring spirit.\n\nOne of the bold adventurers from Novgorod, named Gabriel, settling\nwith his wife Barbara in the new village of Tolvui, on the banks of\nLake Onega, had a son, whom he called Zosima, and devoted to God.\nZosima, a monk while he was yet a child, took his vows in the\nmonastery of Palaostrofsk, near his father's home; and on reaching the\nage when he could act for himself, he divided his inheritance among\nhis kin, and taking up his pilgrim's staff departed for the north. At\nSuma he fell in with German, who told him of the life he had lived six\nyears in his desert on the lonely rock. Zosima, taken by this tale,\npersuaded German to show him the spot where he and Savatie had dwelt\nso long. They crossed the sea. A lucky breeze bore them past Zaet,\ninto a small and quiet bay; and when they leaped on shore--then strewn\nwith boulders, and green with forest trees--they found themselves not\nonly on the salt sea, but close to a deep and lustrous lake, the\nwaters of which were sweet to the taste, and swarming with fish, the\nnecessary food of monks.\n\nKneeling on the sand in prayer, Zosima was nerved by a miraculous\nvision to found a religious colony in that lonely island, even as\nMarfa's people were founding secular colonies at Suma, Soroka, and\nKem. He saw, as in a dream, a bright and comely monastic pile, with\nswelling domes and lofty turrets, standing on the brink of that lovely\nsheet of water--henceforth to be known as the Holy Lake. Starting from\nhis knees, he told his companion, German, of the vision he had seen;\ndescribed the walls, the Sacred Gates, the clusters of spires and\ndomes; in a word, the convent in the splendor of its present form.\nThey cut down a pine, and framed it into a cross, which they planted\nin the ground; in token that this island in the frozen deep belonged\nto God and to His saints. This act of consecrating the isle took place\n(in 1436) a year after St. Savatie died.\n\nThe monks erected cabins near this cross; in which cabins they dwelt,\nabout a mile apart, so as not to crowd upon each other in their desert\nhome. The sites are marked by chapels erected to perpetuate their\nfame.\n\nThe tale of these young hermits living in their desert on the Frozen\nSea being noised abroad in cloisters, monks from all sides of the\nnorth country came to join them; bringing strong thews and eager souls\nto aid in their task of raising up in that wild region, and among\nthose savage tribes, a temple of the living God. In time a church grew\nround and above the original cross; and as none of the hermits were in\nholy orders, they sent a messenger to Yon, then archbishop of\nNovgorod, asking him for a blessing on their work, and praying him to\nsend them a prior who could celebrate mass. Yon gave them his\nbenediction and his servant Pavel. Pavel travelled into the north, and\nconsecrated their humble church; but the climate was too hard for him\nto bear. A second prior came out in Feodosie; a third prior in Yon;\nboth of whom staid some time in the Frozen Sea, and only went back to\nNovgorod when they were broken in health and advanced in years.\n\nWhen Yon, the third prior, left them, the fathers held a meeting to\nconsider their future course. Sixteen years had now passed by since\nZosima and German crossed the sea from Suma; ten or twelve years since\nPavel consecrated their humble church. In less than a dozen years\nthree priors had come and gone; and every one saw that monks who had\ngrown old in the Volkhoff district could not live in the Frozen Sea.\nThe brethren asked their archbishop to give them a prior from their\nown more hardy ranks; and all these brethren joined in the prayer that\nZosima, leader of the colony from first to last, would take this\noffice of prior upon himself. His poor opinion of himself gave place\nto a sense of the public good.\n\nMarching on foot to Novgorod, a journey of more than a thousand miles,\nthrough a country without a road, Zosima went up to the great city,\nwhere he was received by the Vladika, and was ordained a priest. From\nthe mayor and chief boyars he obtained a more definite cession of the\nisles than Prior Yon had been able to secure; and thus he came back to\nhis convent as pope and prior, with the fame of a holy man, to whom\nnothing might be denied. Getting leave to remove the bones of Savatie\nfrom Soroka to Solovetsk, he took up his body from the earth, and\nfinding it pure and fresh, he laid the incorruptible relics in the\ncrypt of his infant church.\n\nMore and more monks arrived in the lonely isles; and pilgrims from far\nand near began to cross the sea; for the tomb of Savatie was said to\nwork miraculous cures. But as the monastery grew in fame and wealth,\nthe troubles of the world came down upon the prior and his monks. The\nmen of Kem began to see that this bank in the Frozen Sea was a\nvaluable prize; and the lords of Anzersk and Moksalma quarrelled with\nthe monks; disputing their right over the foreshores, and pressing\nthem with claims about the waifs and strays. At length, in his green\nold age, Zosima girded up his loins, and taking his pastoral staff in\nhand, set out for Novgorod, in the hope of seeing Marfa in person, and\nof settling, once and forever, the question of his claim to these\nrocks by asking for the lordship of Kem itself to be vested in the\nprior of Solovetsk!\n\nOn a column of the great cathedral of St. Sophia, in the Kremlin of\nNovgorod, a series of frescoes tells the story of this visit of St.\nZosima to the parent state. One picture takes the eye with a singular\nand abiding force--a banquet in a noble hall, in which the table is\nsurrounded by headless guests.\n\nPassing through the city from house to house, Zosima was received in\nnearly all with honor, as became his years and fame; but not in all.\nThe boyars of Kem had friends in the city; and the Marfa's ear had\nbeen filled with tales against his monkish guile and monkish greed.\nFrom her door he was driven with scorn; and her house was that in\nwhich he was most desirous of being received in peace. Knowing that he\ncould do nothing without her aid, Zosima set himself, by patient\nwaiting on events, to overcome her fury against the cause which he was\nthere to plead. At length, her feeling being subdued, she granted him\na new charter (dated 1470, and still preserved at Solovetsk),\nconfirming his right over all the lands, lakes, forests and\nfore-shores of the Holy Isles, together with the lordship of Kem, made\nover, then and for all coming time, to the service of God.\n\nBefore Zosima left the great city, Marfa invited him to her table,\nwhere he was to take his leave, not only of herself, but of the chief\nboyars. As the prior sat at meat, the company noticed that his face\nwas sad, that his eyes were fixed on space, that his soul seemed moved\nby some unseen cause. \"What is the matter?\" cried the guests. He would\nnot speak; and when they pressed around him closely, they perceived\nthat burning drops were rolling down his cheeks. More eagerly than\never, they demanded to know what he saw in his fixed and terrible\nstare. \"I see,\" said the monk, \"six boyars at a feast, all seated at a\ntable without their heads!\"\n\nThat dinner-party is the subject painted on the column in St. Sophia;\nand the legend says that every man who sat with him that day at\nMarfa's table had his head sliced off by Ivan the Third, when the\nproud and ancient republic fell before the destroyer of the Golden\nHorde.\n\nStrengthened by his new titles, Zosima came back to Solovetsk a\nprince; and the pile which he governed took the style, which it has\never since borne, of\n\n The Convent that Endureth Forever.\n\nZosima ruled his convent as prior for twenty-six years; and after a\nhermitage of forty-two years on his lowly rock he passed away into his\nrest.\n\nOn his dying couch he told his disciples that he was about to quit\nthem in the flesh, but only in the flesh. He promised to be with them\nin the spirit; watching in the same cells, and kneeling at the same\ngraves. He bade them thank God daily for the promise that their\nconvent should endure forever; safe as a rock, and sacred as a\nshrine--even though it stood in the centre of a raging sea--in the\nreach of pitiless foes. And then he passed away--the second of these\nlocal saints--leaving, as his legacy to mankind, the temporal and\nspiritual germs of this great sanctuary in the Frozen Sea.\n\nAbout that time the third monk also died--German, the companion of\nSavatie, in his cabin near Striking Hill; afterwards of Zosima, in his\nhut by the Holy Lake. He died at Novgorod, to which city he had again\nreturned from the north. His bones were begged from the monks in whose\ngrounds they lay, and being carried to Solovetsk, were laid in a\nshrine near the graves of his ancient and more famous friends.\n\nSuch was the origin of the convent over which the Archimandrite Feofan\nnow rules and reigns.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nA MONASTIC HOUSEHOLD.\n\n\nMy letter from his Sanctity of Archangel having been sent in to\nFeofan, Archimandrite of Solovetsk, an invitation to the palace\narrives in due form by the mouth of Father Hilarion; who may be\ndescribed to the lay world as the Archimandrite's minister for secular\naffairs. Father Hilarion is attended by Father John, who seems to have\ntaken upon himself the office of my companion-in-chief. Attiring\nmyself in befitting robes, we pass through the Sacred Gates, and after\npausing for a moment to glance at the models of Peter's yacht and\nfrigate, there laid up, and to notice some ancient frescoes which line\nthe passage, we mount a flight of steps, and find ourselves standing\nat the Archimandrite's door.\n\nThe chief of this monastery is a great man; one of the greatest men in\nthe Russian Church; higher, as some folks say, than many a man who\ncalls himself bishop, and even metropolite. Since the days of Peter\nthe Great, the monastery of Solovetsk has been an independent\nspiritual power; owning no master in the Church, and answering to no\nauthority save that of the Holy Governing Synod.\n\nLike an archbishop, the Archimandrite of Solovetsk has the right to\nbless his congregation by waving three tapers in his right hand over\ntwo tapers in his left. He lives in a palace; he receives four\nthousand rubles a year in money; and the cost of his house, his table,\nhis vestments, and his boats, comes out of the monastic fund. He has a\ngarden, a vineyard, and a country-house; and his choice of a cell in\nthe sunniest nooks of these sacred isles. His personal rank is that of\na prince, with a dignity which no secular rank can give; since he\nreigns alike over the bodies and the souls of men.\n\nDressed in his cowl and frock, on which hangs a splendid sapphire\ncross, Feofan, a small, slight man--with the ascetic face, the\nwomanlike curls, and vanishing figure, which you note in nearly all\nthese celibate priests--advances to meet us near the door, and after\nblessing Father John, and shaking me by the hand, he leads us to an\ninner room, hung with choice prints, and warmed by carpets and rugs,\nwhere he places me on the sofa by his side, while the two fathers\nstand apart, in respectful attitude, as though they were in church.\n\n\"You are not English?\" he inquires, in a tender tone, just marked by a\ntouch--a very light touch--of humor.\n\n\"Yes, English, certainly.\"\n\nA turn of his eye, made slowly, and by design, directs my attention to\nhis finger, which reclines on an object hardly to have been expected\non an Archimandrite's table; an iron shell! The Tower-mark proves that\nit must have been fired from an English gun. A faint smile flits\nacross the Archimandrite's face. There it stands; an English shell,\nunburst; the stopper drawn; and two plugs near it on a tray. That\nmissile, it is clear, must have fallen into some soft bed of sand or\npeat.\n\n\"You are the first pilgrim who ever came from your country to\nSolovetsk,\" says Feofan, smiling. \"One man came before you in a\nsteamship; he was an engineer--one Anderson; you know him, maybe? No!\nHe was a good man--he minded his engines well; but he could not live\non fish and quass--he asked for beef and beer; and when we told him we\nhad none to give him, he went away. No other English ever came.\"\n\nHe passes on to talk of the Holy Sepulchre and the Russian convent\nnear the Jaffa Gate.\n\n\"You are welcome to Solovetsk,\" he says at parting; \"see what you wish\nto see, go where you wish to go, and come to me when you like.\"\nNothing could be sweeter than his voice, nothing softer than his\nsmile, as he spake these words; and seeing the twinkle in his eye, as\nwe stand near the English shell, I also smile and add: \"On the\nmantel-piece of my writing-room in London there lies just such another\nshell, a trifle thinner in the girth.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" he asks, a little curious--for a monk.\n\n\"My shell has the Russian mark; it was fired from Sebastopol, and\npicked up by a friend of my own in his trench before the Russian\nlines.\"\n\nFeofan laughs, so far as an Archimandrite ever laughs--in the eyes and\nabout the mouth. From this hour his house and household are at my\ndisposal--his boat, his carriage, and his driver; every thing is done\nto make my residence in the convent pleasant; and every night my host\nis good enough to receive from his officers a full report of what I\nhave seen and what I have said during the day!\n\nThree hundred monks of all classes reside on the Holy Isle. The chief\nis, of course, the Archimandrite; next to him come forty monks, who\nare also popes; then come seventy or eighty monks who wear the hood\nand have taken the final vows; after these orders come the postulants,\nacolytes, singers, servants. Lodgers, scholars, and hired laymen fall\ninto a second class.\n\nThese brethren are of all ages and conditions, from the pretty child\nwho serves at table to the decrepit father who can not leave his cell;\nfrom the monk of noble birth and ample fortune to the brother who\nlanded on these islands as a tramp. They wear the same habit, eat at\nthe same board, listen to the same chants, and live the same life.\nEach brother has his separate cell, in which he sleeps and works; but\nevery one, unless infirm with years and sickness, must appear in\nchapel at the hour of prayer, in refectory at the hour of meals. Hood\nand gown, made of the same serge, and cut in the same style, must be\nworn by all, excepting only by the priest who reads the service for\nthe day. They suffer their beards and locks to grow, and spend much\ntime in combing and smoothing these abundant growths. A flowing beard\nis the pride of monks and men; but while the beard is coming, a young\nfellow combs and parts his hair with all the coquetry of a girl. When\nlooking at a bevy of boys in a church, their heads uncovered, their\nlocks, shed down the centre, hanging about their shoulders, you might\neasily mistake them for singers of the sweeter sex.\n\nNot many of these fathers could be truly described as ordinary men. A\nfew are pure fanatics, who fear to lose their souls; still more are\nmen with a natural calling for religious life. A goodly list are\nprisoners of the church, sent up from convents in the south and west.\nThese last are the salt and wine of Solovetsk; the men who keep it\nsweet and make it strong. The offense for which they suffer is too\nmuch zeal: a learned and critical spirit, a disposition to find fault,\na craving for reform, a wish to fall back on the purity of ancient\ntimes. For such disorders of the mind an ordinary monk has no\ncompassion; and a journey to the desert of Solovetsk is thought to be\nfor such diseases the only cure.\n\nAn Archimandrite, appointed to his office by the Holy Governing Synod,\nmust be a man of learning and ability, able to instruct his brethren\nand to rule his house. He is expected to burn like a shining light, to\nfast very often, to pray very much, to rise very early, and to live\nlike a saint. The brethren keep an eye upon their chief. If he is hard\nwith himself he may be hard with them; but woe to him if he is weak in\nthe flesh--if he wears fine linen about his throat, if savory dishes\nsteam upon his board, if the riumka--that tiny glass out of which\nwhisky is drunk--goes often to his lips. In every monk about his\nchamber he finds a critic; in nearly every one he fears a spy. It is\nnot easy to satisfy them all. One father wishes for a sterner life,\nanother thinks the discipline too strict. By every post some letters\nof complaint go out, and every member of the Holy Governing Synod may\nbe told in secret of the Archimandrite's sins. If he fails to win his\ncritics, the appeals against his rule increase in number and in\nboldness, till at length inquiry is begun, bad feeling is provoked on\nevery side, and the offending chieftain is promoted--for the sake of\npeace--to some other place.\n\nThe Archimandrite of Solovetsk has the assistance of three great\nofficers, who may be called his manager, his treasurer, and his\ncustodian; officers who must be not only monks but popes.\n\nFather Hilarion is the manager, with the duty of conducting the more\nworldly business of his convent. It is he who lodges the guests when\nthey arrive, who looks after the ships and docks, who employs the\nlaborers and conducts the farms, who sends out smacks to fish, who\ndeals with skippers, who buys and sells stores, who keeps the\nworkshops in order, and who regulates the coming and going of the\npilgrim's boat. It is he who keeps church and tomb in repair, who sees\nthat the fathers are warmly clad, who takes charge of the buildings\nand furniture, who superintends the kitchen, who keeps an eye on\ncorridor and yard, who orders books and prints, who manages the\npainting-room and the photographer's office, who inspects the cells,\nand provides that every one has a bench, a press, a looking-glass, and\na comb.\n\nFather Michael is the treasurer, with the duty of receiving all gifts\nand paying all accounts. The income of the monastery is derived from\ntwo sources: from the sale of what is made in the monkish workshops,\nand from the gifts of pilgrims and of those who send offerings by\npilgrims. No one can learn how much they receive from either source;\nfor the receiving-boxes are placed in corners, and the contributor is\nencouraged to conceal from his left hand what his right hand drops in.\nForty thousand rubles a year has been mentioned to me as the sum\nreceived in gifts; but five thousand pounds must be far below the\namount of money passing in a year under Father Michael's eye. It is\nprobably eight or ten. The charities of these monks are bounded only\nby the power of the people to come near them; and in the harder class\nof winters the peasants and fishermen push through the floes of ice\nfrom beyond Orloff Cape and Kandalax Bay in search of a basket of\nconvent bread. These folks are always fed when they arrive, are always\nsupplied with loaves when they depart. The schools, too, cost no\nlittle; for the monks receive all boys who come to them--sent as they\nhold, by the Father whom they serve.\n\nFather Alexander is the custodian, with the duty of keeping the\nmonastic wardrobe, together with the ritual books, the charters and\npapers, the jewels and the altar plate. His office is in the sacristy,\nwith the treasures of which he is perfectly familiar, from the letter,\nin Cyrilian character and Slavonic phrase, by which Marfa of Novgorod\ngave this islet to the monks, down to that pious reliquary in which\nare kept some fragments of English shells; kept with as much\nveneration as bones of saints and chips from the genuine cross!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nA PILGRIM'S DAY.\n\n\nA pilgrim's day begins in the early morning, and lengthens late into\nthe night.\n\nAt two o'clock, when it has hardly yet grown dark in our cells, a monk\ncomes down the passage, tinkling his bell and droning out, \"Rise and\ncome to prayer.\" Starting at his cry, we huddle on our clothes, and\nrush from our hot rooms, heated by stoves, into the open air; men and\nwomen, boys and girls, boatmen and woodmen, hurrying through the night\ntowards the Sacred Gates.\n\nAt half-past two the first matins commence in the new church--the\nMiracle Church--dedicated to the Victress, Mother of God; in which lie\nthe bones of St. Savatie and St. Zosima, in the corner, as the highest\nplace. A hundred lamps are lit, and the wall-screen of pictured saints\nglows richly in our sleepy eyes. Men and women, soldiers and peasants,\nturn into that sacred corner where the saints repose, cross themselves\nseven times, bow their foreheads to the ground, and kiss the pavement\nbefore the shrine.\n\nFalling into our places near the altar-screen; arranging ourselves in\nfiles, rank behind rank, in open order, so that each can kneel and\nkiss the ground without pushing against his neighbor; we stand erect,\nuncovered, while the pope recites his office, and the monks respond\ntheir chant. These matins are not over until four o'clock.\n\nA second service opens in the old cathedral at half-past three, and\nlasts until half-past five; and when the first pope has given his\nblessing, some of the more ardent pilgrims rush from the Virgin's\nchurch to the cathedral, where they stand in prayer, and kneel to kiss\nthe stones for ninety minutes more; at the end of which time they\nreceive a second benediction from a second pope.\n\nAn hour is now spent by the pilgrims in either praying at the tombs of\nsaints, or pacing a long gallery, so contrived as to connect the\nseveral churches and other monastic buildings by a covered way. Along\nthe walls of this gallery rude and early Russian artists have painted\nthe joys of heaven, the pains of purgatory, and the pangs of hell.\nThese pictures seize the eyes of my fellow-pilgrims, though in quaint\nand dramatic terror they sink below the level of such old work in the\nGothic cloisters of the Rhine. A Russian painter has no variety of\ninvention; a devil is to him a monkey with a spiked tail and a tongue\nof flame; and hell itself is only a hot place in which sinners are\neither fried by a fiend, or chawed up, flesh and bone, by a monstrous\nbear. Yet, children sometimes swoon, and women go mad from fright, on\nseeing these threats of a future state. My own poor time is given to\nscanning a miraculous picture of Jerusalem, said to have been painted\non the staircase by a monk of Solovetsk, as a vision of the Holy City,\nseen by him in a dream. After studying the details for a while, I\nrecognize in this vision of the holy man a plan of Olivet and Zion\ncopied from an old Greek print!\n\nAll this time the pilgrims are bound to fast.\n\nAt seven o'clock the bells announce early mass, and we repair to the\nMiracle Church, where, after due crossings and prostration before the\ntomb, we fall into rank as before, and listen for an hour and a half\nto the sacred ritual, chanted with increasing fire.\n\nWhen this first mass is over, the time being nearly nine o'clock, the\nweaker brethren may indulge themselves with a cup of tea; but the\nbetter pilgrim denies himself this solace, as a temptation of the Evil\nSpirit; and even his weaker brother has not much time to dally with\nthe fumes of his darling herb. The great bell in the convent yard, a\ngift of the reigning Emperor, and one more witness to the year of\nwonders, warns us that the highest service of the day is close at\nhand.\n\nPrecisely at nine o'clock the monks assemble in the cathedral to\ncelebrate high mass; and the congregation being already met, the\ntapers are lit, the deacon begins to read, the clergy take up the\nresponses, and the officiating priest, arrayed in his shining cope and\ncap, recites the old and mystical forms of Slavonic prayer and praise.\nTwo hours by the clock we stand in front of that golden shrine; stand\non the granite pavement--all uncovered, many unshod--listening with\nravished ears to what is certainly the noblest ceremonial music of the\nRussian Church.\n\nHigh mass being sung and said, we ebb back slowly from the cathedral\ninto the long gallery, where we have a few minutes more of purgatorial\nfire, and then a monk announces dinner, and the devoutest pilgrim in\nthe band accepts his signal with a thankful look.\n\nThe dining-hall to which we adjourn with some irregular haste is a\nvaulted chamber below the cathedral, and in any other country than\nRussia would be called a crypt. But men must build according to their\nclime. The same church would not serve for winter and summer, on\naccount of the cold and heat; and hence a sacred edifice is nearly\nalways divided into an upper and a lower church; the upper tier being\nused in summer, the lower tier in winter. Our dining-hall at Solovetsk\nis the winter church.\n\nLong tables run down the room, and curl round the circular shaft which\nsustains the cathedral floor. On these tables the first course is\nalready laid; a tin plate for each guest, in which lies a wooden\nspoon, a knife and fork; and by the side of this tin platter a pound\nof rye bread. The pilgrims are expected to dine in messes of four,\nlike monks. A small tin dish is laid between each mess, containing one\nsalted sprat, divided into four bits by a knife, and four small slices\nof raw onion. To each mess is given a copper tureen of sour quass, and\na dish of salt codfish, broken into small lumps, boiled down, and left\nto cool.\n\nA bell rings briskly; up we start, cross ourselves seven times, bow\ntowards the floor, sit down again. The captain of each mess throws\npepper and salt into the dish, and stirs up our pottage with the ladle\nout of which he drinks his quass. A second bell rings; we dip our\nwooden ladles into the dish of cod. A reader climbs into the desk, and\ndrawls the story of some saint, while a youth carries round a basket\nof white bread, already blessed by the priest and broken into bits.\nEach pilgrim takes his piece and eats it, crossing himself, time after\ntime, until the morsel gets completely down his throat.\n\nA third bell rings. Hush of silence; sound of prayer. Serving-men\nappear; our platters are swept away; a second course is served. The\nboys who wait on us, with rosy cheeks, smooth chins, and hanging\nlocks, look very much like girls. This second course, consisting of a\ntureen of cabbage-soup, takes no long time to eat. A new reader mounts\nthe desk, and gives us a little more life of saint. A fourth bell\njangles; much more crossing takes place; the serving-men rush in; our\ntables are again swept clean.\n\nAnother course is served; a soup of fresh herrings, caught in the\nconvent bay; the fish very good and sweet. Another reader; still more\nlife of saint; and then a fifth bell rings.\n\nA fourth and last course now comes in; a dainty of barley paste,\nboiled rather soft, and eaten with sour milk. Another reader; still\nmore life of saint; and then sixth bell. The pilgrims rise; the reader\nstops, not caring to finish his story; and our meal is done.\n\nOur meal, but not the ritual of that meal. Rising from our bench, we\nfall once more into rank and file; the women, who have dined in a room\napart, crowd back into the crypt; and we join our voices in a sacred\nsong. Then we stand for a little while in silence, each with his head\nbent down, as humbling ourselves before the screen, during which a\npope distributes to each pilgrim a second morsel of consecrated bread.\nBrisk bell rings again; the monks raise a psalm of thanksgiving; a\npope pronounces the benediction; and then the diners go their way\nrefreshed with the bread and fish.\n\nIt is now near twelve o'clock. The next church service will not be\nheld until a quarter to four in the afternoon. In the interval we have\nthe long cloister to walk in; the holy lake to see; the shrine of St.\nPhilip to inspect; the tombs of good monks to visit; the priestly\nrobes and monastic jewels to admire; with other distractions to devour\nthe time. We go off, each his own way; some into the country, which is\nfull of tombs and shrines of the lesser saints; others to lave their\nlimbs in the holy lake; not a few to the cells of monks who vend\ncrosses, amulets, and charms. A Russian is a believer in stones, in\nrings, in rosaries, in rods; for he bears about him a hundred relics\nof his ancient pagan creeds. His favorite amulet is a cross, which he\ncan buy in brass for a kopeck; one form for a man, a second form for a\nwoman; the masculine form being Nikon's cross, with a true Greek cross\nin relief; the feminine form being a mixture of the two. Once tied\nround the neck, this amulet is never to be taken off, on peril of\nsickness and sudden death. To drop it is a fault, to lose it is a sin.\nA second talisman is a bone ball, big as a pea, hollow, drilled and\nfitted with a screw. A drop of mercury is coaxed into the hole, and\nthe screw being turned, the charm is perfect, and the ball is fastened\nto the cross. This talisman protects the wearer from contagion in the\npublic baths.\n\nSome pilgrims go in boats to the farther isles; to Zaet, where two\naged monks reside, and a flock of sheep browses on the herbage; to\nMoksalma, a yet more secular spot, where the cattle feed, and the\npoultry cluck and crow, in spite of St. Savatie's rule. These islets\nsupply the convent with milk and eggs--in which holy men rejoice, as a\nrelief from fish--in nature's own old-fashioned ways.\n\nNot a few of the pilgrims, finding that a special pope has been\nappointed to show things to their English guest, perceive that the way\nto see sights is to follow that pope. They have to be told--in a\nkindly voice--that they are not to follow him into the Archimandrite's\nroom. To-day they march in his train into the wardrobe of the convent,\nwhere the copes, crowns, staffs and crosses employed in these church\nservices are kept; a rich and costly collection of robes, embroidered\nwith flowers and gold, and sparkling with rubies, diamonds and pearls.\nMany of these robes are gifts of emperors and tsars. One of the\ncostliest is the gift of Ivan the Terrible; but even this splendid\ngarment pales before a gift of Alexander, the reigning prince, who\nsent the Archimandrite--in remembrance of the Virgin's victory--a full\nset of canonicals, from crown and staff to robe and shoe.\n\nExactly at a quarter before four o'clock, a bell commands us to\nreturn; for vespers are commencing in the Miracle Church. Again we\nkneel at the tombs and kiss the stones, the hangings, and the iron\nrails; after which we fall in as before, and listen while the vespers\nare intoned by monks and boys. This service concludes at half-past\nfour. Adjourning to the long gallery, we have another look at the\nfires of purgatory and the abodes of bliss. Five minutes before six we\nfile into the cathedral for second vespers, and remain there standing\nand uncovered--some of us unshod--until half-past seven.\n\nAt eight the supper-bell rings. Our company gathers at the welcome\nsound; the monks form a procession; the pilgrims trail on; all moving\nwith a hungry solemnity to the crypt, where we find the long tables\ngroaning, as at dinner, with the pound of black bread, the salt sprat,\nthe onion parted into four small pieces with a knife, and the copper\ntureen of quass. Our supper is the dinner served up afresh, with the\nsame prayers, the same bowing and crossing, the same bell-ringing, and\nthe same life of saint. The only difference is, that in the evening we\nhave no barley-paste and no stale milk.\n\nWhen every one is filled and the fragments are picked up, we rise to\nour feet, recite a thanksgiving, and join the fathers in their evening\nsong. A pope pronounces a blessing, and then we are free to go into\nour cells.\n\nA pilgrim who can read, and may happen to have good books about him,\nis expected, on retiring to his cell, to read through a Psalm of\nDavid, and to ponder a little on the Lives of Saints. The convent\ngates are closed at nine o'clock; when it is thought well for the\npilgrim to be in bed.\n\nAt two in the morning a monk will come into his lobby, tinkle the\nbell, and call him to the duties of another day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nPRAYER AND LABOR.\n\n\nBut if the hours given up to prayer at Solovetsk are many, the hours\ngiven up to toil are more. This convent is a hive of industry, not\nless remarkable for what it does in the way of work than for what it\nis in the way of art and prayer.\n\n\"Pray and work\" was the maxim of monastic houses, when monastic houses\nhad a mission in the West. \"Pray and work,\" said Peter the Great to\nhis council. But such a maxim is not in harmony with the existing\nsystem; not in harmony with the Byzantine Church; and what you find at\nSolovetsk is traceable to an older and a better source. No monk in\nthis sanctuary leads an idle life. Not only the fathers who are not\nyet popes, but many of those who hold the staff and give the\nbenediction, devote their talents to the production of things which\nmay be useful in the church, in the refectory, and in the cell. A few\nmake articles for sale in the outer world; such articles as bread,\nclothes, rosaries and spoons. All round these ramparts, within the\nwalls, you find a row of workshops, in which there is a hum of labor\nfrom early dawn until long after dark; forges, dairies, salting-rooms,\nstudies, ship-yards, bake-houses, weaving-sheds, rope-walks,\nsewing-rooms, fruit-stores, breweries, boot-stalls, and the like,\nthrough all the forms which industry takes in a civilized age. These\nmonks appear to be masters of every craft. They make nearly every\nthing you can name, from beads to frigates; and they turn out every\nthing they touch in admirable style. No whiter bread is baked, no\nsweeter quass is brewed, than you can buy in Solovetsk. To go with\nFather Hilarion on his round of inspection is to meet a dozen\nsurprises face to face. At first the whole exhibition is like a dream;\nand you can hardly fancy that such things are being done by a body of\nmonks, in a lonely islet, locked up from the world for eight months in\nthe twelve by storms of sleet and deserts of ice.\n\nThese monks make seal-skin caps and belts; they paint in oil and carve\nin wood; they cure and tan leather; they knit woollen hose; they cast\nshafts of iron; they wind and spin thread; they polish stones; they\ncut out shoes and felts; they mould pewter plates; they dry fruit;\nthey fell and trim forest trees; they clip paper flowers; they build\ncarts and sledges; they embroider capes and bands; they bake bricks;\nthey weave baskets and panniers of silver bark; they quarry and hew\nblocks of stone; they paint soup-ladles; they design altar-pieces,\nchapels, and convents; they refine bees'-wax; they twist cord and\nrope; they forge anchors and marling-spikes; they knit and sew, and\nply their needles in every branch of useful and decorative art. In all\nthese departments of industry, the thing which they turn out is an\nexample of honest work.\n\nMany of the fathers find a field for their talents on the farm: in\nbreeding cattle, in growing potatoes, in cutting grass, in shearing\nsheep, in rearing poultry, in churning butter, and making cheese. A\nfew prefer the more poetic labor of the garden: pruning grapes,\nbedding strawberries, hiving bees, and preserving fruit. The honey\nmade at Mount Alexander is pure and good, the wax is also white and\nfine.\n\nThe convent bakehouse is a thing to see. Boats run over from every\nvillage on the coast to buy convent bread; often to beg it; and every\npilgrim who comes to pray takes with him one loaf as a parting gift.\nThis convent bread is of two sorts--black and white--leavened and\nunleavened--domestic and consecrated. The first is cheap, and eaten at\nevery meal; the second is dear, and eaten as an act of grace. Both\nkinds are good. A consecrated loaf is small, weighing six or eight\nounces, and is stamped with a sacred sign and blessed by a pope. The\nstamp is a cross, with a legend running round the border in old\nSlavonic type. These small white loaves of unleavened bread are highly\nprized by pious people; and a man who visits such a monastery as\neither Solovetsk, St. George, or Troitsa, can not bring back to his\nservants a gift more precious in their eyes than a small white loaf.\n\nThe brewery is no less perfect in its line than the bakehouse. Quass\nis the Russian ale and beer in one; the national drink; consumed by\nall classes, mixed with nearly every dish. Solovetsk has a name and\nfame for this Russian brew.\n\nConnected with these good things of the table are the workshops for\ncarving platters and painting spoons. The arts of life are simple in\nthese northern wilds; forks are seldom seen; and knives are not much\nused. The instrument by which a man mostly helps himself to his dinner\nis a spoon. Nearly all his food is boiled; his cabbage-soup, his\nbarley mess, his hash of salt-cod, his dish of sour milk. A deep\nplatter lies in the centre of his table, and his homely guests sit\nround it, armed with their capacious spoons. Platter and spoon are\ncarved of wood, and sometimes they are painted, with skill and taste;\nthough the better sorts are kept by pilgrims rather as keepsakes than\nfor actual use.\n\nA branch of industry allied to carving spoons and platters is that of\ntwisting baskets and panniers into shape. Crockery in the forest is\nrude and dear, and in a long land-journey the weight of three or four\npots and cups would be a serious strain. From bark of trees they weave\na set of baskets for personal and domestic use, which are lighter than\ncork and handier than tin. You close them by a lid, and carry them by\na loop. They are perfectly dry and sweet; with just a flavor, but no\nmore, of the delicious resin of the tree. They hold milk. You buy them\nof all sizes, from that of a pepper-box to that of a water-jar;\nobtaining a dozen for a few kopecks.\n\nThe panniers are bigger and less delicate, made for rough passage over\nstony roads and through bogs of mire. These panniers are fitted with\ncompartments, like a vintner's crate, in which you can stow away\nbottles of wine and insinuate knives and forks. In the open part of\nyour pannier it is well (if you are packing for a long drive) to have\nan assortment of bark baskets, in which to carry such trifles as\nmustard, cream, and salt.\n\nAmong the odds and ends of workshops into which you drop, is that of\nthe weaving-shed, in one of the turrets on the convent wall; a turret\nwhich is noticeable not only for the good work done in the looms, but\nfor the part which it had to play in the defense of Solovetsk against\nthe English fleet. The shot which is said to have driven off the\n\"Brisk\" was fired from this Weaver's Tower.\n\nPeering above a sunny corner of the rampart stands the photographic\nchamber, and near to this chamber, in a new range of buildings, are\nthe cells in which the painters and enamellers toil. The sun makes\npictures of any thing in his range; boats, islets, pilgrims, monks;\nbut the artists toiling in these cells are all employed in devotional\nart. Some are only copiers; and the most expert are artists only in a\nconventional sense. This country is not yet rich in art, except in\nthat hard Byzantine style which Nikon the Patriarch allowed in private\nhouses, and enforced in convent, shrine, and church.\n\nBut these fathers pride themselves, not without cause, on being\ngreater in their works by sea than even in their works by land. Many\nof them live on board, and take to the water as to their mother's\nmilk. They are rich in boats, in rigging, and in nets. They wind\nexcellent rope and cord. They know how to light and buoy dangerous\npoints and armlets. They keep their own lighthouses. They build\nlorchas and sloops; and they have found by trial that a steamship can\nbe turned off the stocks at Solovetsk, of which every part, from the\nsmallest brass nail to the mainmast (with the sole exception of her\nengines), is the produce of their toil.\n\nThat vessel is called the \"Hope.\" Her crew is mainly a crew of monks;\nand her captain is not only a monk--like Father John--but an actual\npope. My first sight of this priestly skipper is in front of the royal\ngates where he is celebrating mass.\n\nThis reverend father takes me after service to see his vessel and the\ndock in which she lies. Home-built and rigged, the \"Hope\" has charms\nin my eyes possessed by very few ships. A steamer made by monks in the\nFrozen Sea, is, in her way, as high a feat of mind as the spire of\nNotre Dame in Antwerp, as the cathedral front at Wells. The thought of\nbuilding that steamer was conceived in a monkish brain; the lines were\nfashioned by a monkish pen; monks felled the trees, and forged the\nbolts, and wove the canvas, and curled the ropes. Monks put her\ntogether; monks painted her cabin; monks stuffed her seats and\npillows. Monks launched her on the sea, and, since they have launched\nher, they have sailed in her from port to port.\n\n\"How did you learn your trade of skipper?\"\n\nThe father smiles. He is a young fellow--younger than Father John; a\nfellow of thirty or thirty-two, with swarthy cheek, black eye, and\ntawny mane; a man to play the pirate in some drama of virtuous love.\n\"I was a seaman in my youth,\" he says, \"and when we wanted a skipper\nin the convent, I went over to Kem, where we have a school of\nnavigation, and got the certificate of a master; that entitled me to\ncommand my ship.\"\n\n\"The council of that school are not very strict?\"\n\n\"No; not with monks. We have our own ways; we labor in the Lord; and\nHe protects us in what we do for Him.\"\n\n\"Through human means?\"\n\n\"No; by His own right hand, put forth under all men's eyes. You see,\nthe first time that we left the convent for Archangel, we were weak in\nhands and strange to our work. A storm came on; the 'Hope' was driven\non shore. Another crew would have taken to their boats and lost their\nship, if not their lives. We prayed to the Most Pure Mother of God: at\nfirst she would not hear us on account of our sins; but we would not\nbe denied, and sang our psalms until the wind went down.\"\n\n\"You were still ashore?\"\n\n\"Yes; grooved in a bed of sand; but when the wind veered round, the\nship began to heave and stir. We tackled her with ropes and got her\nafloat once more. Slava Bogu! It was her act!\"\n\nThe dock of which Father John spoke with pride turns out to be not a\ndock only, but a dry dock! Now, a dock, even where it is a common\ndock, is one of those signs by which one may gauge--as by the strength\nof a city wall, the splendor of a court of justice and the beauty of a\npublic garden--the height to which a people have attained. In Russia\ndocks are extremely rare. Not a dozen ports in the empire can boast a\ndock. Archangel has no dock; Astrachan has no dock; Rostoff has no\ndock. It is only in such cities as Riga and Odessa, built and occupied\nby foreigners, that you find such things. The dry dock at Solovetsk is\nthe only sample of its kind in the whole of Russia Proper! Cronstadt\nhas a dry dock; but Cronstadt is in the Finnish waters--a German port,\nwith a German name. The only work of this kind existing on Russian\nground is the product of monkish enterprise and skill.\n\nPriests take their share in all these labors. When a monk enters into\norders he is free to devote himself, if he chooses, to the Church\nservice only, since the Holy Governing Synod recognizes the right of a\npope to a maintenance in his office; but in the Convent of Solovetsk,\na priest rarely confines his activity to his sacred duties. Work is\nthe sign of a religious life. If any man shows a talent for either art\nor business, he is excited by the praise of his fellows and superiors\nto pursue the call of his genius, devoting the produce of his labor to\nthe glory of God. One pope is a farmer, a second a painter, a third a\nfisherman; this man is a collector of simples, that a copier of\nmanuscripts, and this, again, a binder of books.\n\nOf these vocations that of the schoolmaster is not the least coveted.\nAll children who come to Solovetsk are kept for a year, if not for a\nlonger time. The lodging is homely and the teaching rough; for the\nschools are adapted to the state of the country; and the food and\nsleeping-rooms are raised only a little above the comforts of a\npeasant's home. No one is sent away untaught; but only a few are kept\nbeyond a year. If a man likes to remain and work in the convent he can\nhire himself out as a laborer, either in the fishing-boats or on the\nfarms. He dines in summer, like the monks, on bread, fish and quass;\nin winter he is provided with salt mutton, cured on the farm--a luxury\nhis masters may not touch. Many of these boys remain for life, living\nin a celibate state, like the monks; but sure of a dinner and a bed,\nsafe from the conscription, and free from family cares. Some of them\ntake vows. If they go back into the world they are likely to find\nplaces on account of their past; in any case they can shift for\nthemselves, since a lad who has lived a few years in this convent is\npretty sure to be able to fish and farm, to cook his own dinner, and\nto mend his own boots.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nBLACK CLERGY.\n\n\nAll men of the higher classes in Russia talk of their Black Clergy as\na body of worthless fellows; idle, ignorant, profligate; set apart by\ntheir vows as unsocial; to whom no terms should be offered, with whom\nno capitulations need be kept. \"Away with them, root and branch!\" is a\ngeneral cry, delivered by young and liberal Russians in the undertone\nof a fixed resolve.\n\nThe men who raise this cry are not simply scoffers and scorners,\nmaking war on religious ideas and ecclesiastical institutions. Only\ntoo often they are men who love their church, who support their parish\npriests, and who wish to plant their country in the foremost line of\nChristian states. Russia, they say, possesses ten thousand monks; and\nthese ten thousand monks they would hand over to a drill sergeant and\nconvert into regiments of the line.\n\nThis rancor of the educated classes towards the monks--a rancor roused\nand fed by their undying hatred of reforms in Church and State--compels\none to mark the extent and study the sources of monastic power. This\nstudy will take us far and wide: though it will also bring us in the\nend to Solovetsk once more.\n\n\"A desert dotted with cloisters,\" would be no untrue description of\nthe country spreading southward from the Polar Sea to the Tartar\nSteppe. In New Russia, in the khanates of Kazan and Crimea, in the\nsteppes of the Lower Volga, and in the wastes of Siberia, it would not\nbe true. But Great Russia is a paradise of monks. In the vast regions\nstretching from Kem to Belgorod--an eagle's flight from north to south\nof a thousand miles--from Pskoff on Lake Peipus, to Vasil on the\nMiddle Volga--a similar flight from west to east of seven hundred\nmiles--the land is everywhere bright with cloisters, musical with\nmonastic bells.\n\nNothing on this earth's surface can be drearier than a Russian forest,\nunless it be a Russian plain. The forest is a growth of stunted birch\nand pine; the trees of one height and girth; the fringe of black\nshoots unvaried save by some break of bog, some length of colorless\nlake. The plain is a stretch of moor, without a swell, without a tree,\nwithout a town, for perhaps a hundred leagues; on which the grass, if\ngrass such herbage can be called, is brown; while the village, if such\na scatter of cabins can be called by a name so tender and picturesque,\nis nothing but log and mud. A traveller's eye would weary, and his\nheart would sicken, at the long succession of such lines, were it not\nthat here and there, in the opening of some forest glade, on the ridge\nof some formless plain, the radiant cross and sparkling towers of a\nconvent spring towards heaven; a convent with its fringe of verdure,\nits white front, its clustering domes and chains. The woods round\nKargopol, the marshes near Lake Ilmen, and the plains of Moscow, are\nalive with light and color; while the smaller convents on river bank\nand in misty wood, being railed and painted, look like works of art.\nOne of my sweetest recollections in a long, dull journey, is that of\nour descent into the valley of Siya, when we sighted the great\nmonastery, lying in a watery dell amidst groves of trees, with the\nrays of a setting sun on her golden cross and her shining domes--a\nhappy valley and a consecrated home; not to speak of such trifles as\nthe clean cell and the wholesome bread which a pilgrim finds within\nher walls!\n\nThe old cities of Great Russia--Novgorod, Moscow, Pskoff,\nVladimir--are much richer in monastic institutions than their rivals\nof a later time. For leagues above and leagues below the ancient\ncapital of Russia, the river Volkhoff, on the banks of which it\nstands, is bright with these old mansions of the Church. Novgorod\nenriched her suburbs with the splendid Convents of St. George, St.\nCyril, and of St. Anton of Rome. Moscow lies swathed in a belt and\nmantle of monastic houses--Simonoff, Donskoi, Danieloff, Alexiefski,\nIvanofski, and many more; the belfries and domes of which lighten the\nwonderful panorama seen from the Sparrow Hills. Pskoff has her\nglorious Convent of the Catacombs, all but rivalling that of Kief.\n\nWithin the walls, these cloisters are no less splendid than the\npromise from without. Their altars and chapels are always fine, the\nrefectories neat and roomy, the sacristies rich in crosses and\npriestly robes. Many fine pictures--fine of their school--adorn the\nscreens and the royal gates. Nearly all possess portraits of the\nMother and Child encased in gold, and some have lamps and croziers\nworth their weight in sterling coin. The greater part of what is\nvisible of Russian wealth appears to hang around these shrines.\n\nThese old monastic houses sprang out of the social life around them.\nThey were centres of learning, industry, and art. A convent was a\nschool, and in these schools a special excellence was sought and won.\nThis stamp has never been effaced; and many of the convents still\naspire to excellence in some special craft. The Convent of St. Sergie,\nnear Strelna, is famed for music; the New Monastery, near Kherson, for\nmelons; the Troitsa, near Moscow, for carving; the Catacombs, near\nKief, for service-books.\n\nIn the belfry of the old Cathedral of St. Sophia at Novgorod you are\nshown a chamber which was formerly used as a treasure-room by the\ncitizens--in fact, as their place of safety and their tower of\nstrength. You enter it through a series of dark and difficult\npassages, barred by no less than twelve iron doors; each door to be\nunfastened by bolt and bar, secured in the catches under separate lock\nand key. In this strong place the burghers kept, in times of peril,\ntheir silver plate, their costly icons, and their ropes of pearl. A\nrobber would not--and a boyar dared not--force the sanctuary of God.\nEach convent was, in this respect, a smaller St. Sophia; and every man\nwho laid up gold and jewels in such a bank could sleep in peace.\n\n\"You must understand,\" said the antiquary of Novgorod, as we paddled\nin our boat down the Volkhoff, \"that in ancient times a convent was a\nhome--a family house. A man who made money by trade was minded in his\nold age to retire from the city and end his days in peace. In England\nsuch a man would buy him a country-house in the neighborhood of his\nnative town, in which he would live with his wife and children until\nhe died. In a country like Old Russia, with brigands always at his\ngates, the man who saved money had to put his wealth under the\nprotection of his church. Selecting a pleasant site, he would build\nhis house in the name of his patron saint, adorn it with an altar,\nfurnish it with a kitchen, dormitory, and cellar, and taking with him\nhis wife, his children, and his pope, would set up his tent in that\nsecure and comfortable place for the remainder of his days on earth.\"\n\n\"Could such a man have his wife and children near him?\"\n\n\"Near him! With him; not only in his chapel but in his cell. The\nconvent was his home--his country-house; and at his death descended to\nhis son, who had probably become a monk. In some such fashion, many of\nthe prettiest of these smaller convents on the Volkhoff came to be.\"\n\nHalf the convents in Great Russia were established as country-houses;\nthe other half as deserts--like Solovetsk; and many a poor fellow\ntoiled like Zosima who has not been blessed with Zosima's fame.\n\nBut such a thing is possible, even now; for Russia has not yet passed\nbeyond the legendary and heroic periods of her growth. The latest case\nis that of the new desert founded at Gethsemane, on the plateau of the\nTroitsa, near Moscow; one of the most singular notes of the present\ntime.\n\nIn the year 1803 was born in a log cabin, in a small village called\nPrechistoe (Very Clean), near the city of Vladimir, a male serf, so\nobscure that his family name has perished. For many years he lived on\nhis lord's estate, like any other serf, marrying in his own class\n(twice), and rearing three strapping sons. At thirty-seven he was\nfreed by his owner; when he moved from his village to Troitsa, took\nthe name of Philip, put on cowl and gown, and dug for himself a vault\nin the earth. In this catacomb he spent five years of his life, until\nhe found a more congenial home among the convent graves, where he\nlived for twenty years. Too fond of freedom to take monastic vows, he\nnever placed himself under convent rule. Yet seeing, in spite of the\nproverb, that the hood makes the monk in Russia, if not elsewhere, he\nrobed his limbs in coarse serge, girdled his waist with a heavy chain,\nand walked to the palace of Philaret, Metropolite of Moscow, begged\nthat dignitary's blessing, and craved permission to adopt his name.\nPhilaret took a fancy to the mendicant; and from that time forth\nthe whilom serf from Very Clean was known in every street as\nPhilaret-oushka--Philaret the Less.\n\nThose grave-yards of the Troitsa lay in a pretty and silent spot on\nthe edge of a lake, inclosed in dark green woods. Among those mounds\nthe mendicant made his desert. Buying a few images and crosses in\nTroitsa and Gethsemane at two kopecks apiece, he carried them into the\nstreets and houses of Moscow, where he gave them to people, with his\nblessing; taking, in exchange, such gifts as his penitents pleased; a\nruble, ten rubles, a hundred rubles each. He very soon had money in\nthe bank. His images brought more rubles than his crosses; for his\nfollowers found that his images gave them luck, while his crosses sent\nthem trouble. Hence a woman to whom he gave a cross went home with a\nheavy heart. Unlike the practice in western countries, no peasant\nwoman adorns herself with this memorial of her faith; nor is the cross\na familiar ornament even in mansions of the rich. A priest wears a\ncross; a spire is crowned by a cross; but this symbol of our salvation\nis rarely seen among the painted and plated icons in a private house.\nTo \"bear the cross\" is to suffer pain, and no one wishes to suffer\npain. One cross a man is bound to bear--that hung about his neck at\nthe baptismal font; but few men care to carry a second weight.\n\nAn oddity in dress and speech, Philaret-oushka wore no shoes and\nsocks, and his greeting in the market was, \"I wish you a merry angel's\nday,\" instead of \"I wish you well.\" In his desert, and in his rambles,\nhe was attended by as strange an oddity as himself; one Ivanoushka,\nJohn the Less. This man was never known to speak; he only sang. He\nsang in his cell; he sang on the road; he sang by the Holy Gate. The\ntone in which he sang reflected his master's mood; and the voice of\nJohn the Less told many a poor creature whether Philaret the Less\nwould give her that day an image or a cross.\n\nThis mendicant had much success in merchants' shops. The more delicate\nladies shrank from him with loathing, not because he begged their\nmoney, but because he defiled their rooms. Though born in Very Clean,\nthis serf was dirtier than a monk; but his followers saw in his rusty\nchains, his grimy skin, his unkempt hair, so many signs of grace. The\nwomen of the trading classes courted him. A lady told me, that on\ncalling to see a female friend, the wife of a merchant of the first\nguild, she found her kneeling on the floor, and washing this beggar's\nfeet. Her act was not a form; for the mendicant wore no shoes, and the\nstreets of Moscow are foul with mire and hard with flints. One old\nmaid, Miss Seribrikof, used to boast, as the glory of her life, that\nshe had once been allowed to wash the good man's sores. Young brides\nwould beg him to attend their nuptial feasts; at which he would\n\"prophesy\" as they call it; hinting darkly at their future of weal or\nwoe. Sometimes he made a lucky hit. One day, at the wedding-feast of\nGospodin Sorokine, one of the richest men in Moscow, he turned to the\nbride and said, \"When your feastings are over, you will have to smear\nyour husband with honey.\" No one knew what he meant, until three days\nlater, when Sorokine died; on which event every one remembered that\nhoney is tasted at all Russian funerals; and the words of Philaret the\nLess were likened to that Vision of Zosima, which has since been\npainted on the pillar in Novgorod the Great.\n\nMadame Loguinof, one of his rich disciples, gave this mendicant money\nenough to build a church and convent, and when these edifices were\nraised in the grave-yard of Troitsa his \"desert\" was complete.\n\nAt the age of sixty-five, this idol of the people passed away. When\nhis high patron died, Philaret the Less was not so happy in his desert\nas of yore; for Innocent, the new Metropolite, was a real missionary\nof his faith, and not a man to look with favor on monks in masquerade.\nDeserting his desert, the holy man went his way from Troitsa into the\nprovince of Tula, where, in the village of Tcheglovo, he built a\nsecond convent, in which he died about a year ago. The two convents\nbuilt by his rusty chains and dirty feet are now occupied by bodies of\nregular monks.\n\nIn these morbid growths of the religious sentiment, the Black Clergy\nseek support against the scorn and malice of a reforming world.\n\nThese monks have great advantages on their side. If liberal thought\nand science are against them, usage and repute are in their favor. All\nthe high places are in their gift; all the chief forces are in their\nhands. The women are with them; and the ignorant rustics are mostly\nwith them. Monks have always attracted the sex from which they fly;\nand every city in the empire has some story of a favorite father\nfollowed, like Philaret the Less, by a female crowd. Vicar Nathaniel\nwas not worshipped in the Nevski Prospect with a softer flattery than\nis Bishop Leonidas in the Kremlin gardens. Comedy but rarely touches\nthese holy men; yet one may see in Moscow albums an amusing sketch of\nthis gifted and fascinating man being lifted into higher place upon\nladies' skirts.\n\nThe monks have not only got possession of the spiritual power; but\nthey hold in their hands nearly all the sources of that spiritual\npower. They have the convents, catacombs, and shrines. They guard the\nbones of saints, and are themselves the stuff of which saints are\nmade. In the golden book of the Russian Church there is not one\ninstance of a canonized parish priest.\n\nThese celibate fathers affect to keep the two great keys of influence\nin a land like Russia--the gift of sacrifice, and the gift of miracles.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nSACRIFICE.\n\n\nSacrifice is a cardinal virtue of the Church. To the Russian mind it\nis the highest form of good; the surest sign of a perfect faith.\nSacrifice is the evidence of a soul given up to God.\n\nA child can only be received into the church through sacrifice; and\none of the forms in which a man gives himself up to heaven is that of\nbecoming insane \"for the sake of Christ.\"\n\nLast year (1868), a poor creature called Ivan Jacovlevitch died in the\nLunatic Asylum in Moscow, after winning for himself a curious kind of\nfame. One-half the world pronounced him mad; a second half respected\nhim as a holy man. The first half, being the stronger, locked him up,\nand kept him under medical watch and ward until he died.\n\nThis Ivan, a burgher in the small town of Cherkesovo, made a\n\"sacrifice\" of his health and comfort to the Lord. By sacred vows, he\nbound himself never to wash his face and comb his hair, never to\nchange his rags, never to sit on chair and stool, never to eat at\ntable, never to handle knife and fork. In virtue of this sacrifice, he\nlived like a dog; crouching on the floor, and licking up his food with\nlips and tongue. When brought into the madhouse, he was washed with\nsoap and dressed in calico; but he began to mess himself on purpose;\nand his keepers soon gave up the task of trying to keep him clean.\n\nNo saint in the calendar draws such crowds to his shrine as Ivan\nJacovlevitch drew to his chamber in this lunatic's house. Not only\nservant girls and farmers' wives, but women of the trading classes,\ncame to him daily; bringing him dainties to eat, making him presents\nin money, and telling him all the secrets of their hearts. Sitting on\nthe ground, and gobbling up his food, he stared at these visitors,\nmumbling some words between his teeth, which his listeners racked\ntheir brains to twist and frame into sense. He rolled the crumbs of\nhis patties into pills, and when sick persons came to him to be cured,\nhe put these dirty little balls into their mouths. This man was said\nto have become \"insane for the Lord.\"\n\nThe authorities of the asylum lent him a spacious room in which to\nreceive his guests. They knew that he was mad; they knew that a\ncrowded room was bad for him; but the public rush was so strong, that\nthey could neither stand upon their science, nor enforce their rules.\nThe lunatic died amidst the tears and groans of half the city. When\nthe news of his death was noised abroad, a stranger would have thought\nthe city was also mad. Men stopped in the street to kneel and pray;\nwomen threw themselves on the ground in grief; and a crowd of the\nlower classes ran about the bazars and markets, crying, \"Ivan is dead!\nIvan is dead! Ah! who will tell us what to do for ourselves, now Ivan\nis dead?\"\n\nOn my table, as I write these words, lies a copy of the _Moscow\nGazette_--the journal which Katkoff edits, in which Samarin\nwrites--containing a proposal, made by the clergy, for a public\nmonument to Ivan Jacovlevitch, in the village where this poor lunatic\nwas born!\n\nAll monks prefer to live a life of sacrifice; the highest forms of\nsacrifice being that of the recluse and the anchorite.\n\nEvery branch of the Oriental Church--Armenian, Coptic, Greek--encourages\nthis form; but no Church on earth has given the world so many hermits\nas the Russ. Her calendar is full of anchorites, and the stories told\nof these self-denying men and women are often past belief. One Sister\nMaria was nailed up in a niche at Hotkoff, fed through a hole in the\nrock, and lingered in her living tomb twelve years.\n\nOn the great plateau of the Troitsa, forty miles from Moscow, stands a\nmonastic village, called Gethsemane. This monastic village is divided\ninto two parts; the convent and the catacombs; separated by a black\nand silent lake.\n\nA type of poverty and misery, the convent is built of rough logs,\ncolored with coarse paint. Not a trace of gold or silver is allowed,\nand the only ornaments are of cypress. Gowns of the poorest serge, and\nfood of the simplest kind, are given to the monks. No female is\nallowed to enter this holy place, excepting once a year, on the feast\nof the Virgin's ascent into heaven. Three women were standing humbly\nat the gate as we drove in; perhaps wondering why their sex should be\nshut out of Gethsemane, since their Lord was not betrayed in the\ngarden by a female kiss!\n\nAcross the black lake lie the catacombs, cut off from the convent by a\ngate and fence; for into these living graves it is lawful for a female\nto descend. Deep down from the light of day, below the level of that\nsombre lake, these catacombs extend. We light each man his taper, as\nwe stand above the narrow opening into the vaults. A monk, first\ncrossing his breast and muttering his pass-words in an unknown tongue,\ngoes down the winding stairs. We follow slowly, one by one in silence;\nshading the light and holding to the wall. A faint smell fills our\nnostrils; a dull sound greets our ears; heavily comes our breath in\nthe damp and fetid air. The tapers faint and flicker in the gloom.\nGaining a passage, we observe some grated windows, narrow holes, and\niron-bound doors. These openings lead into cells. The roof above is\nwet with slime, the floor is foul with crawling, nameless things.\n\n\"Hush!\" drones the monk, as he creeps past some grated window and some\niron-clad door, as though he were afraid that we should wake the dead.\n\n\"What is this hole in the stone?\" The monk stops short and waves his\nlurid light: \"A cell; a good man lies here; hush! his soul is now with\nGod!\"\n\n\"Dead?\"\n\n\"Yea--dead to the world.\"\n\n\"How long has he been here?\"\n\n\"How long? Eleven years and more.\"\n\nPassing this living tomb with a shiver, we catch the boom of a bell,\nand soon emerge from the narrow passage into a tiny church. A lamp is\nburning before the shrine; two monks are kneeling with their temples\non the floor; a priest is singing in a low, dull tone. The fittings of\nthis church are all of brass; for pine and birch would rot into paste\nin a single year. Beyond the chapel we come to the holy well, the\nwater of which is said to be good for body and soul. It is certainly\nearthy to the taste.\n\nOn coming into the light of day, we question the father sharply as to\nthat recluse who is said to have lived eleven years behind the\niron-clad door; and learn without surprise that he comes out from time\nto time, to ring the convent-bell, to fetch in wood, and hear the\nnews! We learn that a man retired with his son into one of these\ncatacombs; that he remained in his grave--so to speak--two years and a\nhalf, and then came out completely broken in his health. My eminent\nRussian friend, Professor Kapoustin, turns to me and says, \"When our\ncountry was covered with forests, when our best road was a rut, and\nour villages were all shut in, a man who wished for peace of mind\nmight wall himself up in a cell; but the country is now open, monks\nread newspapers, travellers come and go, and the recluse likes to hear\nthe news and see the light of day.\"\n\nInstead of living in their catacombs, the monks now turn a penny by\nshowing them to pilgrims, at the price of a taper, and by selling to\nvisitors the portraits of monks and nuns who lived in the sturdier\ndays of their church.\n\nThe spirit of sacrifice takes other and milder forms. In the\ncourt-yards of Solovetsk one sees a strange creature, dressed in rags,\nfed on garbage, and lodged in gutters, who belongs to the monastic\norder, without being vowed as a regular monk. He lives by sufferance,\nnot by right. He offers himself up as a daily sacrifice. He follows,\nso to speak, the calling of abjectness; and makes himself an example\nof the worthlessness of earthly things. This strange being is much run\nafter by the poorer pilgrims, who regard him as a holy man; and he is\nnoticeable as a type of what the Black Clergy think meritorious in the\nChristian life.\n\nFather Nikita, the name by which this man is known, is a dwarf, four\nfeet ten inches high, with thin, gray beard, black face, and rat-like\neyes. He never pollutes his skin with water and soap; for what is man\nthat he should foster pride of the flesh? His garb is a string of rags\nand shreds; for he spurns the warmer and more decent habit of a monk.\nInstead of going to the store when he needs a frock, he crawls into\nthe waste-closet, where he begs as a favor that the father having\ncharge of the castaway clothes will give him the tatters which some\npoor brother has thrown aside. A room is left for his use in the\ncloister; but a bench of wood and a pillow of straw are things too\ngood for dust and clay; and in token of his unworthiness, he lives on\nthe open quay and sleeps in the convent yard. Nobody can persuade him\nto sit down to the common meal; the sup of sour quass, the pound of\nblack bread, the morsel of salt cod being far too sumptuous food for\nhim; but when the meal is over, and the crumbs are swept up, he will\nslink into the pantry, scrape into one dish the slops and bones, and\nmake a repast of what peasants and beggars have thrown away.\n\nHe will not take his place in church; he will not pass through the\nSacred Gates. When service is going on, he crouches in the darkest\ncorner of the church, and listens to the prayers and chants with his\nhead upon the ground. He likes to be spurned and buffeted by the\ncrowd. A servant of every one, he is only too happy if folk will order\nhim about; and when he can find a wretch so poor and dirty that every\none else shuns him, he will take that dirty wretch to be his lord. In\nwinter, when the snow lies deep on the ground, he will sleep in the\nopen yard; in summer, when the heat is fierce, he will expose his\nshaven crown to the sun. He loves to be scorned, and spit upon, and\nrobbed. Like all his class, he is fond of money; and this love of\ndross he turns into his sharpest discipline of soul. Twisting plaits\nof birch-bark into creels and crates, he vends these articles to\nboatmen and pilgrims at two kopecks apiece; ties the copper coins in a\nfilthy rag; and then creeps away to hide his money under a stone, in\nthe hope that some one will watch him and steal it when he is gone.\n\nThe first monk who held the chair of abjectness in Solovetsk, before\nNikita came in, was a miracle of self-denial, and his death was\ncommemorated by an act of the rarest grace. Father Nahum is that elder\nand worthier sacrifice to heaven.\n\nNahum is said to have been more abject in manner, more self-denying in\nhabit, than Nikita; being a person of higher order, and having more\nmethod in his scheme of sacrifice. He abstained from the refuse of\nfish, as too great a delicacy for sinful men. He liked to sleep in the\nsnow. He was only too happy to lie down at a beggar's door. Once, when\nhe slept outside the convent gates all night, some humorous brother\nsuggested that perhaps he had been looking out for girls; and on\nhearing of this ribald jest he stripped himself nearly naked, poked a\nhole in the ice, and sat down in the frozen lake until his feet were\nchilled to the bone. A wing of the convent once took fire, and the\nmonks began to run about with pails; but Nahum rolled a ball of snow\nin his palms and threw it among the flames; and as the tongues lapped\nhigher and higher, he ran to the church, threw himself on the floor,\nand begged the Lord to put them out. Instantly, say the monks, the\nfire died down. An archimandrite saw him groping in a garden for\npotatoes, tearing up the roots with his fingers. \"That is cold work,\nis it not, Nahum?\" asked his kindly chief. \"Humph!\" said the monk;\n\"try it.\" When the present emperor came to Solovetsk, and every one\nwas anxious to do him service, Nahum walked up to him with a wooden\ncup, half full of dirty water, saying, \"Drink; it is good enough.\"\n\nWhen this professor of abjectness died, he was honored by his brethren\nwith a special funeral, inside the convent gates. He was buried in the\nyard, beneath the cathedral dome; where all day long, in the pilgrim\nseason, a crowd of people may be seen about the block of granite which\nmarks his grave; some praying beside the stone, as though he were\nalready a \"friend of God,\" while others are listening to the stories\ntold of this uncanonized saint. Only one other monk of Solovetsk has\never been distinguished by such a mark of grace. Time--and time\nonly--now seems wanting to Father Nahum's glory. In another\ngeneration--if the Black Clergy hold their own--Nahum of Solovetsk,\ncanonized already by the popular voice of monks and pilgrims, will be\ntaken up in St. Isaac's Square, and raised by imperial edict to his\nheavenly seat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nMIRACLES.\n\n\nYet the gift of miracles is greater than the gift of sacrifice. The\nBlack Clergy stand out for miracles; not in a mystical sense, but in a\nnatural sense; not only in times long past, but in the present hour;\nnot only in the dark and in obscure hamlets, but in populous places\nand in the light of day.\n\nAt Kief a friend drives me out to the caves of Anton and Feodosie,\nwhere we find some men and women standing by the gates, expecting the\nfather who keeps the keys to bring them and unlock the doors. As these\nliving pilgrims occupy us more than the dead anchorets, we join this\nparty, pay our five kopecks, light our tapers, and descend with them\nthe rocky stairs into the vault. Candle in hand, an aged monk goes\nforward, muttering in the gloom; stopping for an instant, here and\nthere, to show us, lying on a ledge of rock, some coffin muffled in a\npall. We thread a mile of lanes, saluting saint on saint, and twice or\nthrice we come into dwarf chapels, in each of which a lamp burns dimly\nbefore a shrine. The women kneel; the men cross themselves and pray.\nMoving forward in the dark, we come upon a niche in the wall, covered\nby a curtain and a glass door, on the ledge of which stands a silver\ndish, a little water, and a human skull. Our pilgrims cross themselves\nand mutter a voiceless prayer, while the aged monk lays down his taper\nand unlocks the door. A woman sinks on her knees before the niche,\nturns up her face, and shuts her eyes, while the father, dipping a\nquill into the water, drops a little of the fluid on her eyelids. One\nby one, each pilgrim undergoes this rite; and then, on rising from his\nknees, lays down an offering of a few kopecks on the ledge of rock.\n\n\"What does this ceremony mean?\" I ask the father. \"Mean?\" says he: \"a\nmystery--a miracle! This skull is the relic of a holy man whose eye\nhad suffered from a blow. He called upon the Most Pure Mother of God;\nshe heard his cry of pain; and in her pity she cured him of his\nwound.\"\n\n\"What is the name of that holy man?\"--\"We do not know.\"\n\n\"When did he live and die?\"--\"We do not know.\"\n\n\"Was he a monk of Kief?\"--\"He was; and after he died his skull was\nkept, because his fame was great, and every one with pain in his eyes\ncame hither to obtain relief.\"\n\nNot one of our fellow-pilgrims has sore eyes; but who, as the father\nurges, knows what the morrow may have in store? Bad eyes may come; and\nwho would not like to insure himself forever against pain and\nblindness at the cost of five kopecks?\n\nSuch miracles are performed by the bones of saints in cities less holy\nand old than Kief.\n\nSeraphim, a merchant of Kursk, abandoned his wife, his children, and\nhis shop, to become a monk. Wandering to the cloister called the\nDesert of Sarof, in the province of Tambof, he dug for himself a hole\nin the ground, in which he lay down and slept. Some robbers came to\nhis cave, where they beat and searched him; but, on finding his\npockets empty, they knew that he must be a holy man. From that lucky\nday his fame spread rapidly abroad; and people came to see him from\nfar and near; bringing presents of bread, of raiment, and of money;\nall of which he took into his cave, and doled out afterwards to the\npoor. A second window had to be cut into his cell; at one he received\ngifts, at the other he dispensed them. His desert became a populous\nplace, and the Convent of Sarof grew into vast repute.\n\nSeraphim founded a second desert for women, ten miles distant from his\nown. A gentleman gave him a piece of ground; merchants sent him money;\nfor his favor was by that time reckoned as of higher value than house\nand land. Lovely and wealthy women drove to see him, and to stay with\nhim; entering into the desert which he formed for them, and living\napart from the world, without taking on their heads the burden of\nconventual vows. At length a miracle was announced. A lamp which hung\nin front of a picture of the Virgin died out while Seraphim was\nkneeling on the ground; the chapel grew dark and the face of the\nVirgin faint; the pilgrims were much alarmed; when, to the surprise of\nevery one who saw it, a light came out from the picture and re-lit the\nlamp! A second miracle soon followed. One day, a crowd of poor people\ncame to the desert for bread, when Seraphim had little in his cell to\ngive. Counting his loaves, he saw that he had only two; and how was he\nto divide two loaves among all those hungry folk? He lifted up his\nvoice--and lo! not two, but twenty loaves were standing on his board.\nFrom that time wonders were reported every year from Sarof; cures of\nall kinds; and the court in front of Seraphim's cell was thronged by\nthe lame and blind, the deaf and dumb, by day and night.\n\nSeraphim died in 1833; yet miracles are said to be effected at his\ntomb to this very hour. Already called a saint, the people ask his\ncanonization from the Church. Every new Emperor makes a saint; as in\nTurkey every new Sultan builds a mosque; and Seraphim is fixed upon by\nthe public voice as the man whom Alexander the Third will have to make\na saint.\n\nOne Motovilof, a landowner in the province of Penza, lame, unable to\nwalk, applied for help to Seraphim, who promised the invalid, on\nconditions, a certain cure. Motovilof was to become a friend of Sarof;\na supporter of the female desert. Yielding to these terms, he was told\nto go down to Voronej, and to make his reverence at the shrine of\nMetrofanes, a local saint, on which he would find himself free from\npain. Motovilof went to Voronej, and came back cured. With grateful\nheart he gave Seraphim a patch of land for his female desert; and\nthen, being busy with his affairs, he gradually forgot his pilgrimage\nand his miraculous cure. The pain came back into his leg; he could\nhardly walk; and not until he sent a supply of bread and clothes to\nSeraphim was he restored in health. Not once, but many times, the\nworldly man was warned to keep his pledge; a journey to the desert\nbecame a habit of his life; until he fell into love for one of\nSeraphim's fair penitents, and taking her home from her refuge, made\nthat recluse his wife.\n\nMore noticeable still is the story of Tikhon, sometime Bishop of\nVoronej, now a recognized saint of the Orthodox Church. Tikhon is the\nofficial saint of the present reign; the living Emperor's contribution\nto the heavenly ranks.\n\nTimothy Sokolof, son of a poor reader in a village church, was born\n(in 1724) in that province of Novgorod which has given to Russia most\nof her popular saints. The reader's family was large, his income\nsmall, and Timothy was sent to work on a neighbor's farm. Toiling in\nthe fields by day, in the sheds by night; sleeping little, eating\nless; he yet contrived to learn how to read and write. Sent from this\nfarm to a school, just opened in Novgorod, he toiled so patiently at\nhis tasks, and made such progress in his studies, that on finishing\nhis course he was appointed master of the school.\n\nHis heart was not in this work of teaching. From his cradle he had\nbeen fond of singing hymns and hearing mass, of being left alone with\nhis books and thoughts, of flying from the face of man and the\nallurements of the world. A vision shaped for him his future course.\n\"When I was yet a teacher in the school,\" he said to a friend in after\nlife, \"I sat up whole nights, reading and thinking. Once, when I was\nsitting up in May, the air being very soft, the sky very bright, I\nleft my cell, and stood under the starry dome, admiring the lights,\nand thinking of our eternal life. Heaven opened to my sight--a vision\nsuch as human words can never paint! My heart was filled with joy, and\nfrom that hour I felt a passionate longing to quit the world.\"\n\nA few years after he took the cowl and changed the name of Timothy for\nTikhon, he was raised from his humble cell to the episcopal bench;\nfirst in Novgorod, afterwards at Voronej; the second a missionary see;\nthe province of Voronej lying close to the Don Kozak country and the\nTartar steppe.\n\nThe people of this district were lawless tribes; Kozaks, Kalmuks,\nMalo-Russ; a tipsy, idle, vagabond crew; the clergy worse, it may be,\nthan their flocks. Voronej had no schools; the popes could hardly\nread; the services were badly sung and said. All classes of the people\nlived in sin. Tikhon began a patient wrestle with these disorders.\nOpening with the priests, and with the schools, he put an end to\nflogging in the seminaries; in order, as he said, to raise the\nstanding of a priest, and cause the student to respect himself. This\nchange was but a sign of things to come. By easy steps he won his\nclergy to live like priests; to drink less, to pray more; and\ngenerally to act as ministers of God. In two years he purged the\nschools and purified the Church.\n\nNo less care was given to lay disorders. Often he had to be plain in\nspeech; but such was the reverence felt for him by burgher and peasant\nthat no one dared to disregard his voice. \"You must do so, if Tikhon\ntells you,\" they would say to each other; \"if not, he will complain of\nyou to God.\" He dressed in a coarse robe; he ate plain food; he sent\nthe wine untouched from his table to the sick. He was the poor man's\nfriend; and only waited on the rich when he found no wretched ones at\nhis gates. The power of Tikhon lay in his faultless life, in his\ntender tones, and in his loving heart. \"Want of love,\" he used to\nurge, \"is the cause of all our misery; had we more love for our\nbrothers, pain and grief would be more easy to bear; love soothes away\nall grief and pain.\"\n\nTwo years in Novgorod, five years in Voronej, he spent in these\ngracious labors, till the longing of his heart for solitude grew too\nstrong. Laying down his mitre, he retired from his palace in Voronej\nto the convent of Zadonsk, a little town on the river Don, where he\ngave up his time to writing tracts and visiting the poor. These labors\nwere of highest use; for Tikhon was among the first (if not the first\nof all) to write in favor of the serf. Fifteen volumes of his works\nare printed; fifteen more are said to lie in manuscript; and some of\nthese works have gone through fifty editions from the Russian press.\n\nTikhon's great merit as a writer lies in the fact that he foresaw,\nprepared, and urged emancipation of the serfs.\n\nFor fifteen years he lived the life of a holy man. As a friend of\nserfs, he one day went to the house of a prince, in the district of\nVoronej, to point out some wrong which they were suffering on his\nestate, and to beg him, for the sake of Jesus and Mary, to be tender\nwith the poor. The prince got angry with his guest for putting the\nthing so plainly into words; and in the midst of some sharp speech\nbetween them, struck him in the face. Tikhon rose up and left the\nhouse; but when he had walked some time, he began to see that he--no\nless than his host--was in the wrong. This man, he said to himself,\nhas done a deed of which, on cooling down, he will feel ashamed. Who\nhas caused him to do that wrong? \"It was my doing,\" sighed the\nreprover, turning on his heel, and going straight back into the house.\nFalling at the prince's feet, Tikhon craved his pardon for having\nstirred him into wrath, and caused him to commit a sin. The man was so\nastonished, that he knelt down by the monk, and, kissing his hands,\nimplored his forgiveness and his benediction. From that hour, it is\nsaid, the prince was another man; noticeable through all the province\nof Voronej for his kindness to the serfs.\n\nTikhon lived into his eightieth year. Before he passed away, he told\nthe brethren of his convent he would live until such a day and then\ndepart. He died, as he had told them he should die--on the day\nforeseen, and in the midst of his weeping friends. From the day of his\nfuneral, his shrine in Zadonsk was visited by an ever-increasing\ncrush; for cures of many kinds were wrought; the sick recovered, the\nlame walked home, the blind saw, the crooked became straight. A\nthousand voices claimed the canonization of this friend of serfs;\nuntil the reigning emperor, struck by this appeal, invited the Holy\nGoverning Synod to conduct the inquiries which precede the\ncanonization of a Russian saint.\n\nThe commission sat; the miracles were proved; and then the tomb was\nopened. Out from the coffin came a scent of flowers; the flesh was\npure and sweet; and the act of canonization was decreed and signed in\n1861, the emancipation year. Tikhon of Zadonsk is the emancipation\nsaint.\n\nYet, according to the Black Clergy, the newest and the greatest\nmiracle of modern times is the Virgin's defense of Solovetsk against\nthe Anglo-French squadron in 1854.\n\nThe wardrobe of Solovetsk contains the chief treasures of the\ncloister; old charters and letters; original grants of lands; the\nrescript of Peter; manuscript lives of Savatie and Zosima;\nservice-books, richly bound in golden plates; Pojarski's sword; cups,\nlamps, crosses, candlesticks in gold and silver; but the treasure of\ntreasures is the evidence of that stupendous miracle wrought by the\nMost Pure Mother of God.\n\nOn the centre stand, under a glass case, strongly locked, lie an\nEnglish shell and two round-shot. They are carefully inscribed. A\nreliquary in a closet holds a dozen bits of brass, the rent fusees of\nexploded shells. A number of prints are sold to the devout, in which\nthe English gun-boats are moored under the convent wall, so near that\nmen might easily have leaped on shore. Among this mass of evidence is\na new and splendid ornamental cup; the gift of Russia to Solovetsk--in\nmemory of the day when human help had failed, and \"the convent that\nendureth forever\" was saved by the Virgin Mother of God.\n\nA scoffer here and there may smile. \"Savatie! Zosima!\" laughed a\nRussian cynic in my face; \"you English made the fortune of these\nsaints. How so? You see a peasant has but two notions in his pate--the\nEmpire and the Church; a power of the flesh and a power of the spirit.\nNow, see what you have done. You wage war upon us; you send your\nfleets into the Black Sea and into the White Sea; in the first to\nfight against the Empire, in the second to fight against the Church.\nIn one sea, you win; in the other sea, you lose. Sevastopol falls to\nyour arms; while Solovetsk drives away your ships. The arm of the\nspirit is seen to be stronger than the arm of flesh. What then?\n'Heaven,' says the rustic to his neighbor, as they dawdle home from\nchurch, 'is mightier than the Tsar.' For fifty years to come our\nsuperstitions will lie on English heads!\"\n\nThe tale of that miracle, told me on the spot, will sound in some ears\nlike a piece of high comedy, in others like a chapter from some\nancient and forgotten book. A dry dispatch from Admiral Ommanney\ncontains the little that we know of our \"Operations in the White Sea;\"\nthe next Chapter gives the story, as they tell it on the other side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nTHE GREAT MIRACLE.\n\n\nSo soon as news arrived in the winter palace that an English fleet was\nunder steam for the Polar seas, the War Office set to work in the\nusual way; sending out arms and men; such arms and men as could be\nfound and spared in these northern towns. Six old siege-guns, fit for\na museum, were shipped from Archangel to the convent, with five\nartillerymen, and fifty troopers of the line, selected from the\nInvalid Corps. An officer came with these forces to conduct the\ndefense.\n\nJust as the English ships were entering on their task this officer\ndied (June, 1854); no doubt by the hand of God, in order to rebuke the\npride of man, while adding fresh lustre to the auriol of His saints.\nThe arm of flesh having failed, the fathers threw themselves on the\nonly power that can never fail.\n\nFather Alexander, then the Archimandrite, ordered a series of services\nto be held in the several chapels within the walls. A special office\nwas appointed for Sunday, with a separate appeal to Heaven for\nguidance; first in the name of the Most Sweet Infant Jesus; afterwards\nin that of the Most Pure Mother of God. Midnight services were also\ngiven; the effect of which is said to have been great and strange;\nfiring the monks with a new and wonderful spirit of confidence in\ntheir cause. The Archimandrite sang mass in person before the tombs of\nSavatie and Zosima, in the crypt of the cathedral church, and also\nbefore the miracle-working picture of the Virgin brought by Savatie to\nhis desert. This picture--so important in the story--came from Greece.\nThe service sung before it filled the monks with gladness; warmth and\ncomfort flowed from the Madonna's face; and her adorers felt\nthemselves conquerors, in her name, before the English warships hove\nin sight.\n\nIn their first trouble, the copes and missals, charters and jewels,\nhad been sent away into the inland towns. This act of doubt occurred\nbefore the officer died, and the monks had taken upon themselves the\nburden of defense. To those who carried away the cups and crosses,\nrobes and books, the Archimandrite gave his blessing and his counsel.\n\"Know,\" he said to them at parting, \"that, whether you be on sea or\nland, every Friday we shall be fasting and praying for you; do you the\nsame; and God will preserve the things which belong to His service,\nand which you are carrying away; follow my commands, and come back to\nme in a better time, sound in health, with the things of which you go\nin charge.\" When news came in that English ships were cruising off the\nbar of Archangel, some of the brethren fainted; \"left by the Emperor,\"\nthey sighed, \"to be made a sacrifice for his sins.\" Ten days before\nthe squadron came in sight, the Archimandrite held a service in his\nchurch, to encourage these feeble souls; and when his prayers were\nended, he addressed them thus: \"Grieve not that the defense seems weak\nwhile the foe is strong. Rely upon our Lord, upon His Most Pure\nMother, upon the two excellent saints who have promised that this\nconvent shall endure forever. Jesus will perform a miracle, for their\nsake, such as the world has never seen.\" A ray of comfort stole into\ntheir hearts; and rolling out barrels of pitch and tar, they smeared\nthe wooden shingles of wall and tower, filled pails of water in\nreadiness to drench out fires, and took down from the convent armory\nthe rusty pikes and bills which had been lying up since the attack of\nSwedish ships in the days of Peter the Great.\n\nA hundred texts were found to show that these old weapons could be\nused again, even as the arms of David were used once more by the Lion\nof Judah in defense of Solomon's shrine. Young children came into the\nmonastery from Kem and Suma, vowed by their fathers to the cause of\nGod; and many old pikes and bills were put into these infant hands.\n\"The fire of your ships,\" said one of the monks, \"did not frighten\nthese innocents, who played with the shells as though they had been\nharmless toys.\" Not a child was hurt.\n\nWhen the fleet was signalled from the outlooks, Alexander spoke to his\nbrethren after meat: \"Have a good heart,\" he cried; \"we are not weak,\nas we appear; for God is on our side. If we were saved by an army,\nwhere would be our credit? With the soldiery, with the world! What\nwould be our gain? But if by prayer alone we drive the squadron from\nour shores, the glory will belong to our convent and our faith. Have a\ngood heart! Slava Bogu--Glory to God!\"\n\nOn Tuesday morning (July 18th, 1854) the watchers signalled two\nfrigates, which were rounding Beluga Point: the Archimandrite\nproclaimed a three days' fast. The two frigates anchored seven miles\nfrom the shore: the Archimandrite ordered the convent bell to toll for\na special service to the Most Pure Mother of God. Like a Hebrew king,\nhe took off his gorgeous robes, and, humbling himself before the\nfathers, read a prayer in front of the tombs of Savatie and Zosima,\nand, taking down the miraculous picture of the Virgin, marched with it\nin procession round the walls. Then--but not till then--the frigates\nsailed away.\n\nAs the ships steamed off towards Kem, it was feared they might still\ncome back; and Ensign Niconovitch, commanding the Company of Invalids,\nwent out to survey the shores, dragging two three-pounder guns through\nthe sand; while many of the pilgrims and workmen offered their\nservices as scouts. Niconovitch built a battery of sods and sand,\nbehind which he trained his guns; and eight small pieces were laid\nupon the towers and walls, after which the fathers fell once more to\nprayer.\n\nNext day a trail of smoke was seen in the summer sky. The two ships,\nsoon known to them as the \"Brisk\" and the \"Miranda,\" steamed into the\nbay. The \"Brisk,\" say the monks, was the first to speak, and she\nopened her parley with a rattling shot. Standing on the quay, the\nArchimandrite was nearly struck by a ball, and his people, frightened\nat the crashing roar, ran up into the convent yard, and tried to close\nbehind them the Sacred Gates.\n\nA petty officer, one Drushlevski, having charge of ten men and a gun\nin the Weaver's Tower, returned the fire; on which the English frigate\nis said to have opened her broadside on the tower and wall.\nDrushlevski took up her challenge; but with aim and prudence, having\nvery little powder in his casks. The \"Brisk,\" they say, fired thirty\nrounds, while the officer in the Weaver's Tower discharged his gun\nthree times. The English then sheered off; a shot from the convent gun\nhaving struck her side, and killed a man.\n\nThat night was spent in joy and prayer. The Archimandrite kissed\nDrushlevski, and gave his blessing to every gunner in the Weaver's\nTower. When night came on--the summer night of the Frozen Sea--the\nfrigates were out of sight; but no one felt secure, and least of all\nDrushlevski, that this triumph of the cross was yet complete. Not a\nsoul in the convent slept.\n\nDawn brought them one of the holiest festivals of the Russian year;\nThursday, July 20th, the feast of our Lady of Kazan; a day on which no\nplough is driven, no mill is opened, no school is kept, in any part of\nRussia, from the White Sea to the Black. Matins were sung, as usual,\nin the Cathedral Church at half-past two; the Archimandrite steadily\ngoing through his chant, as though the peril were not nigh. Te Deum\nwas just being finished, when a boat came ashore from the \"Brisk,\"\ncarrying a white flag, and bringing a summons for the convent to yield\nher keys. The letter was in English, accompanied by a bad translation,\nin which the word for \"squadron of ships,\" was rendered by the Russian\nterm for squadrons of horse. Consulting with his monks--who laughed in\ngood hearty mood at the idea of being set upon by cavalry from the\nsea--the Archimandrite told the messenger to say his answer should be\nsent to the \"Brisk\" by an officer of his own.\n\nTwo \"insolent conditions\" were imposed by the admiral: (1.) The\ncommander was to yield his sword in person; (2.) The garrison were to\nbecome prisoners of war. Ommanney's letter informed the fathers that\nif a gun were fired from the wall, his bombardment would begin at\nonce; alleging in explanation that on the previous day a gun in the\nconvent had opened on his ship.\n\nOne Soltikoff, a pilgrim, carried the Archimandrite's answer to the\n\"Brisk:\"--a proud refusal to give up his keys. Denying that the\nconvent had opened fire on the English boat, he said the first shot\ncame from the frigate, and the convent simply replied to it in\nself-defense. The paper was unsigned; the monk declaring that as a man\nof peace he could not write his name on a document treating of blood\nand death.\n\nAdmiral Ommanney told the pilgrim there was nothing more to say; the\nbombardment would begin at once; and the convent would be swept from\nthe earth. Soltikoff asked for time, and Ommanney offered him three\nhours' grace. It was now five in the morning, and the admiral gave the\nfathers until eight o'clock; but on the pilgrim saying the time was\nshort, Ommanney is said to have sworn a great oath, and lessened his\nterm of grace three-quarters of an hour. He kept his oath; the\nbombardment opened at a quarter to eight o'clock of that holy\nday--inscribed to Our Lady of Kazan--our Lady of Victory; the first\nshell flying over the convent shingles almost as soon as Soltikoff\nreached the Sacred Gates.\n\nOn the English frigates opening fire, the bell in the courtyard tolled\nthe monks to prayer. Shot, shell, grenade and cartridge rained on the\nwalls and domes; yet the services went on all day; a hurricane of fire\nwithout; an agony of prayer within! While the people were on their\nknees, a shell struck the cathedral dome--the rent of which is piously\npreserved--and, tearing through the wooden framework, dashed down the\nceiling on the supplicants' heads. The rafters were on fire; the\nchurch was suddenly filled with smoke. A sacred image was grazed and\nsinged. The windows cracked; the doors flew open; the buildings reeled\nand shivered; and the terrified people fell with their faces on the\nstones. One man only kept his feet. Standing before the royal gates,\nthe Archimandrite cried: \"Stay! stay! Be not afraid, the Lord will\nguard His own!\" The monks and pilgrims, lifting up their eyes, beheld\nthe old man standing before his altar, quiet and erect, with big tears\nrolling down his cheeks. They sprang to their feet; they ran to fetch\nwater; they put out the flames; they swept off the wreck of dust and\nrafters; and when the floor was cleansed, they sank on their knees and\nbowed their heads once more in prayer.\n\nWhen mass was over, three poor women remained in the cathedral on\ntheir knees; a shell came through the roof, and burst; on which the\npoor things crawled towards the shrines where men were praying, and\nwomen are not allowed to come. A good pope let them in, and suffered\nthem to pray with the men; an act which the monks regard as one of the\nhighest wonders of that miraculous day.\n\nA petty officer named Ponomareff occupied with his gun a spit of rock,\nfrom which he could tease the frigates, and draw upon himself no\nlittle of their wrath. Every shot from the \"Miranda\" splashed the mire\nabout his men, who were often buried, though they were not killed that\nday. Leaping to his feet, and shaking the dirt from his clothes,\nPonomareff stood to his gun, until he was called away. He and three\nother men crept through the stones and trees, to places far apart;\nwhence they discharged their carbines, and ran away into the scrub,\nafter drawing upon these points a rattle of shot and shell. At length\nhe was recalled. \"It is a sad day for the monastery,\" sighed the\ngunner, \"but we are willing to die with the saints.\"\n\nServices were sung all day in front of the shrines of Savatie and\nZosima. Once a shot struck the altar; the pope shrank back from his\ndesk, and the people fell on their faces. Every one supposed that his\nhour was come, and many cried out in their fear for the bread and\nwine. Father Varnau, the confessor, took his seat, confessed the\npeople, and gave them the sacrament. Alexander was the first to\nconfess his sins, and make up his account with God. The elders\nfollowed; then the lay monks, pilgrims, soldiers, women; and when all\nwere shriven, the body of penitents pressed around the shrines of\nPhilip, Savatie, Zosima, and the Mother of God.\n\nA little after noon, the convent bells in the yard were tolled, the\nmonks and pilgrims gathered on the wall, and lines of procession were\nordered to be formed. The monks stood first, the pilgrims next, the\nwomen and children last; and when they were all got ready to march,\nthe Archimandrite took down from the screen beside his altar the\nMiraculous Virgin and the principal cross; and placing himself in\nfront of his people, with the cross in his right hand, the Virgin in\nhis left, conducted them round the ramparts under fire. He waved his\ncross, and blessed the pilgrims with the Miraculous Virgin as he\nstrode along. The great bell tolled, the monks and pilgrims sang a\npsalm. Shot and shell rained overhead; the boulders trembled in the\nwall; the shingles cracked and split on the roof. Near the corner\ntower by the Holy Lake the procession came to a halt. A shell had\nstruck the windmill, setting the fans on fire. Pealing their psalm,\nand calling on their saints, they waited till the flames died down,\nand then resumed their march. A shot came dashing through the rampart;\nsplintering the logs and planks in their very midst, and cutting the\nline of procession into head and heel. \"Advance!\" cried the\nArchimandrite, waving his cross and picture, and the people instantly\nadvanced. On reaching the Weaver's Tower, from which the shot of\ndestiny had been fired the previous day, the Archimandrite, calling\nthe monk Gennadie to his side, gave him the cross, with orders to\ncarry it up into the tower, and let the gunners kiss the image of our\nLord. While Gennadie was absent on this errand, the Archimandrite\nshowed the monks and pilgrims that the convent doves were not\nfluttered in their nests by the English guns.\n\nA miracle! When the procession moved from the Weaver's Tower, they\ncame near some open ground, which they were obliged to cross, under\nshowers of shot. No man of flesh and blood--unless protected from on\nhigh--could pass through that fire unscathed. But now was the time to\ntry men's faith. A moment only the procession paused; the\nArchimandrite, holding up his miraculous picture of the Mother of God,\nadvanced into the cloud of dust and smoke; the people pealed their\npsalm; and the shells and balls from the English ships were seen to\ncurve in their flight, to whirl over dome and tower, and come down\nsplashing into the Holy Lake! Every eye saw that miracle; and every\nheart confessed the Most Pure Mother of God.\n\nThe frigates then drew off, and went their way; to be seen from the\nwatch-towers of the sacred isles no more; vanquished and put to shame;\nthough visibly not by the hand of man. Not a soul in the convent had\nbeen hurt; though hurricanes of brass and iron had been fired from the\nEnglish decks.\n\nA Norwegian named Harder, a visitor by chance to Solovetsk, was so\nmuch struck by this miraculous defense, that he cried in the convent\nyard, \"How great is the Russian God!\" and begged to be admitted a\nmember of their Church.\n\nThe news of this attack by an English Admiral on Solovetsk was carried\ninto every part of Russia, and the effect which it produced on the\nRussian mind may be conceived by any one who will take the pains to\nimagine how he would feel on hearing reports from Palestine that a\nTurkish Pasha had opened fire on the dome and cross of the Holy\nSepulchre. Shame, astonishment, and fury filled the land, until the\nfurther news arrived that this abominable raid among the holy graves\nand shrines had come to naught. Since that year of miracles, young and\nold, rich and poor, have come to regard a journey to Solovetsk as only\nsecond in merit to a voyage to Bethlehem and the tomb of Christ.\nPeasants set the fashion, which Emperors and grand dukes are taking\nup. Alexander the Second has made a pilgrimage to these holy isles;\nhis brother Constantine has done the same; and two of his sons will\nmake the trip next year. The Empress, too, is said to have made a vow,\nthat if Heaven restores her strength, she will pay a visit to\nSavatie's shrine.\n\nSome people think these visits of the imperial race are due, not only\nto the wish to lead where they might otherwise have to follow, but to\nmatters connected with that mystery of a buried grand duke which lends\nso dark a fame to the convent in the Frozen Sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nA CONVENT SPECTRE.\n\n\nA land alive with goblins and sorceries, in which every monk sees\nvisions, in which every woman is thought to be a witch, presents the\nproper scenery for such a legend as that of the convent spectre,\ncalled the Spirit of the Frozen Sea.\n\nFaith in the existence of this phantom is widely spread. I have met\nwith evidences of this faith not only in the northern seas, but on the\nVolga, in hamlets of the Ukraine, and among old believers in Moscow,\nNovgorod, and Kief. All the Ruthenians, most of the Don Kozaks, and\nmany of the Poles, give credit to this tale, in either a spiritualized\nor physical form.\n\nRufin Pietrowski, the Pole who escaped from his Siberian mine, and,\ncrossing the Ural Mountains, dropped down the river Dvina on a raft,\nand got as near to Solovetsk as Onega Point, reports the spectre as a\nfact, and offers the explanation which was given of it by his\nfellow-pilgrims. He says it is not a ghost, but a living man. Other\nand later writers than Pietrowski hint at such a mystery; but the tale\nis one of which men would rather whisper in corners than prate in\nbooks.\n\n\"You have been to Solovetsk?\" exclaimed to me a native of Kalatch, on\nthe Don, a man of wit and spirit. \"May I ask whether you saw any thing\nthere that struck you much?\"\n\n\"Yes, many things; the convent itself, the farms and gardens, the\ndry-dock, the fishing-boats, the salt-pits, the tombs of saints.\"\n\n\"Ah! yes, they would let you see all those things; but they would not\nlet you go into their secret prison.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" I said, to lead him on.\n\n\"They have a prisoner in that building whom they dare not show.\"\n\nThe same thing happened to me several times, with variations of time\nand place.\n\nSome boatman from the Lapland ports, while striving, in the first hard\ndays of winter, with the floes of ice, is driven beneath the fortress\ncurtain, where he sees, on looking up, in the faint light of dusk, a\nvenerable figure passing behind a loop-hole in the wall; his white\nhair cut, which proves that he is not a monk; his eyes upraised to\nheaven; his hands clasped fervently, as though he were in prayer; his\nwhole appearance that of a man appealing to the justice of God against\nthe tyranny of man. A sentry passes the loop-hole, and the boatman\nsees no more.\n\nThis figure is not seen at other times and by other folk. Three months\nin the year these islands swarm with pilgrims, many of whom come and\ngo in their craft from Onega and Kem. These visitors paddle below the\nramparts day and night; yet nothing is seen by them of the aged\nprisoner and his sentry on the convent wall. Clearly, then, if the\nfigure is that of a living man, there must be reasons for concealing\nhim from notice during the pilgrim months.\n\n\"Hush!\" said a boatman once to a friend of mine, as he lay in a tiny\ncove under the convent wall; you must not speak so loud; these rocks\ncan hear. One dares not whisper in one's sleep, much less on the open\nsea, that the phantom walks yon wall. The pope tells you it is an imp;\nthe elder laughs in your face and calls you a fool. If you believe\nyour eyes, they say you are crazed, not fit to pull a boat.\"\n\n\"You have not seen the figure?\"\n\n\"Seen him--no; he is a wretched one, and brings a man bad luck. God\nhelp him ... if he is yet alive!\"\n\n\"You think he is a man of flesh and blood?\"\n\n\"Holy Virgin keep us! Who can tell?\"\n\n\"When was he last seen?\"\n\n\"Who knows? A boatman seldom pulls this way at dusk; and when he finds\nhimself here by chance, he turns his eyes from the castle wall. Last\nyear, a man got into trouble by his chatter. He came to sell his fish,\nand fetching a course to the south, brought up his yawl under the\ncastle guns. A voice called out to him, and when he looked up\nsuddenly, he saw behind the loop-hole a bare and venerable head. While\nhe stood staring in his yawl, a crack ran through the air, and looking\nalong the line of roof, he saw, behind a puff of smoke, a sentinel\nwith his gun. A moment more and he was off. When the drink was in his\nhead, he prated about the ghost, until the elder took away his boat\nand told him he was mad.\"\n\n\"What is the figure like?\"\n\n\"A tall old man, white locks, bare head, and eyes upraised, as if he\nwere trying to cool his brain.\"\n\n\"Does he walk the same place always?\"\n\n\"Yes, they say so; always. Yonder, between the turrets, is the\nphantom's walk. Let us go back. Hist! That is the convent bell.\"\n\nThe explanation hinted by Pietrowski, and widely taken for the truth,\nis that the figure which walks these ramparts in the winter months is\nnot only that of a living man, but of a popular and noble prince; no\nless a personage than the Grand Duke Constantine, elder brother of the\nlate Emperor Nicolas, and natural heir to the imperial crown!\n\nThis prince, in whose cause so many patriots lost their lives, is\ncommonly supposed to have given up the world for love; to have\nwillingly renounced his rights of succession to the throne; to have\nacquiesced in his younger brother's reign; to have died of cholera in\nMinsk; to have been buried in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.\nBut many persons look on this story as a mere official tale. Their\nversion is, that the prince was a liberal prince; that he married for\nlove; that he never consented to waive his rights of birth; that the\ndocuments published by the Senate were forged; that the Polish rising\nof 1831 was not directed against him; that the attack on his summer\npalace was a feint; that his retirement to Minsk was involuntary; that\nhe did not die of cholera, as announced; that he was seized in the\nnight, and whisked away in a tarantass, while Russia was deceived by\nfuneral rites; that he was driven in the tarantass to Archangel,\nwhence he was borne to Solovetsk; that he escaped from the convent;\nthat in the year of Emancipation he suddenly appeared in Penza; that\nhe announced a reign of liberty and peace; that he was followed by\nthousands of peasants; that, on being defeated by General Dreniakine,\nhe was suffered to escape; that he was afterwards seized in secret,\nand sent back to Solovetsk; where he is still occasionally seen by\nfishermen walking on the convent wall.\n\nThe facts which underlie these versions of the same historical events\nare wrapped in not a little doubt; and what is actually known is of\nthe kind that may be read in a different sense by different eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nSTORY OF A GRAND DUKE.\n\n\nWhen Alexander the First--elder brother of Constantine and\nNicolas--died, unexpectedly, at Taganrog, on the distant Sea of Azof,\nleaving no son to reign in his stead, the crown descended, by law and\nusage, to the brother next in birth. Constantine was then at Warsaw,\nwith his Polish wife; Nicolas was at St. Petersburg, with his guards.\nConstantine was called the heir; and up to that hour no one seems to\nhave doubted that he would wear the crown, in case the Emperor's life\nshould fail. There was, however, a party in the Senate and the barrack\nagainst him; the old Russian party, who could not pardon him his\nPolish wife.\n\nWhen couriers brought the news from Taganrog to St. Petersburg,\nNicolas, having formed no plans as yet, called up the guards,\nannounced his brother's advent to the throne, and set them an example\nof loyalty by taking the oath of allegiance to his Imperial Majesty\nConstantine the First. The guards being sworn, the generals and\nstaff-officers signed the act of accession and took the oaths.\nCantering off to their several barracks, these officers put the\nvarious regiments of St. Petersburg under fealty to Constantine the\nFirst; and Nicolas sent news that night to Warsaw that the new Emperor\nhad begun to reign.\n\nBut while the messengers were tearing through the winter snows, some\nmembers of the Senate came to Nicolas with yet more startling news.\nAlexander, they said, had left with them a sealed paper, contents\nunknown, which they were not to open until they heard that he was\ndead. On opening this packet, they found in it two papers; one a\nletter from the Grand Duke Constantine, written in 1822, renouncing\nhis rights in the crown; the second, a manifesto by the dead Emperor,\nwritten in 1823, accepting that renunciation and adopting his brother\nNicolas as his lawful heir. A similar packet, they alleged, had been\nsecretly left with Philaret of Moscow, and would be found in the\nsacristy of his cathedral church. Nicolas scanned these documents\nclosely; saw good reason to put them by; and urged the whole body of\nthe Senate to swear fidelity to Constantine the First. In every office\nof the State the imperial functionaries took this oath. All Russia, in\nfact all Europe, saw that Constantine had opened his reign in peace.\n\nThen followed a surprise. Some letters passed between the two grand\ndukes, in which (it was said) the brothers were each endeavoring to\nforce the other to ascend the throne; Nicolas urging that Constantine\nwas the elder born and rightful heir; Constantine urging that Nicolas\nhad better health and a more active spirit. Ten days rolled by. The\nEmpire was without a chief. A plot, of which Pestel, Rostovtsef, and\nMouravief were leading spirits, was on the point of explosion. But on\nChristmas Eve, the Grand Duke Nicolas made up his mind to take the\ncrown. He spent the night in drawing up a manifesto, setting forth the\nfacts which led him to occupy his brother's seat; and on Christmas Day\nhe read this paper in the Senate, by which body he was at once\nproclaimed Autocrat and Tsar. A hundred generals rode to the various\nbarracks, to read the new proclamation, and to get those troops who\nhad sworn but a week ago to uphold his majesty Constantine the First,\nto cast that oath to the winds, and swear a second time to uphold his\nmajesty Nicolas the First. But, if most of the regiments were quick to\nunswear themselves by word of command, a part of the guards, and\nchiefly the marines and grenadiers, refused; and, marching from their\nquarters into St. Isaac's Square, took up a menacing position towards\nthe new Emperor, while a cry rose wildly from the crowd, of \"Long live\nConstantine the First!\"\n\nA shot was heard.\n\nCount Miloradovitch, governor-general of St. Petersburg, fell dead; a\nbrave general who had passed through fifty battles, killed as he was\ntrying to harangue his troops. A line of fire now opened on the\nsquare. Colonel St\u00fcrler fell, at the head of his regiment of guards.\nWhen night came down, the ground was covered with dead and dying men;\nbut Nicolas was master of the square. A charge of grape-shot swept the\nstreets clear of rioters just as night was coming down.\n\nWhen the trials to which the events of that day gave rise came on, it\nsuited both the Government and the conspirators to keep the grand duke\nout of sight. Count Nesselrode told the courts that this revolt was\nrevolutionary, not dynastic; and Nicolas denounced the leaders to his\npeople as men who wished to bring \"a foreign contagion upon their\nsacred soil.\"\n\nThe grand duke and his Polish wife remained in Warsaw, living at the\nsummer garden of Belvedere, in the midst of woods and lakes, of\npictures, and works of art. Once, indeed, he left his charming villa\nfor a season; to appear, quite unexpectedly (the court declared), in\nthe Kremlin, and assist in placing the Imperial crown on his brother's\nhead. That act of grace accomplished, he returned to Warsaw; where he\nreigned as viceroy; keeping a modest court, and leading an almost\nprivate life. But the country was excited, the army was not content.\nOne war was forced by Nicolas on Persia, a second on Turkey; both of\nthem glorious for the Russian arms; yet men were said to be troubled\nat the sight of a younger brother on the throne; a sentiment of\nreverence for the elder son being one of the strongest feelings in a\nSlavonic breast; and all these troubles were kept alive by the social\nand political writhings of the Poles.\n\nTwo prosperous wars had made the Emperor so proud and haughty that\nwhen news came in from Paris, telling him of the fall of Charles the\nTenth, he summoned his minister of war, and ordered his troops to\nmarch. He said he would move on Paris, and his Kozaks began to talk of\npicqueting their horses on the Seine. But the French have agencies of\nmischief in every town of Poland; and in less than five months after\nCharles the Tenth left Paris, Warsaw was in arms.\n\nEvery act of this Polish rising seems, so far as concerns the Grand\nDuke Constantine, to admit of being told in different ways.\n\nA band of young men stole into the Belvedere in the gloom of a\nNovember night, and ravaged through the rooms. They killed General\nGendre; they killed the vice-president of police, Lubowicki; and they\nsuffered the grand duke to escape by the garden gate. These are the\nfacts; but whether he escaped by chance is what remains in doubt. The\nRussian version was that these young fellows came to kill the prince,\nas well as Gendre and Lubowicki; that a servant, hearing the tumult\nnear the palace, ran to his master's room, and led him through the\ndomestic passages into the open air. The Polish version was, that\nthese young men desired to find the prince; not to murder him, but to\nuse him as either hostage or emperor in their revolt against his\nbrother's rule.\n\nArriving in Warsaw from his country-house, the grand duke, finding\nthat city in the power of a revolted soldiery, moved some posts on the\nroad towards the Russian frontier. Agents came to assure him that no\nharm was meant to him; that he was free to march with his guards and\nstores; that no one would follow him or molest him on the road. Some\nPolish companies were with him; and four days after his departure from\nBelvedere, he received in his camp near Warsaw a deputation, sent to\nhim by his own request, from the insurgent chiefs. Then came the act\nwhich roused the anger of his brother's court; and led, as some folk\nthink, to the mystery and sympathy which cling around his name.\n\nHe asked the deputation to state their terms. \"A living Poland!\" they\nreplied; \"the charter of Alexander the First; a Polish army and\npolice; the restoration of our ancient frontier.\" In return, he told\nthese deputies that he had not sent to Lithuania for troops; and he\nconsented that the Polish companies in his camp should return to\nWarsaw and join the insurgent bands! For such a surrender to the\nrebels any other general in the service would certainly have been\ntried and shot. The Emperor, when he heard the news, went almost mad\nwith rage; and every one wishing to stand well at court began to\nwhisper that the Grand Duke Constantine had forfeited his honor and\nhis life.\n\nConstantine died suddenly at Minsk. The disease was cholera; the\ncorpse was carried to St. Petersburg; and the prince, who had lost a\ncrown for love, was laid with honor among the ashes of his race, in\nthe gloomy fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.\n\nBut no gazetteer could make the common people believe that their\nprince was gone from them forever. Like his father Paul, and like his\ngrandfather Peter, he was only hiding in some secret place; and\nputting their heads together by the winter fires they told each other\nhe would come again.\n\nIn the year of emancipation (1861) a man appeared in the province of\nPenza, who announced himself not only as the grand duke, but as a\nprophet, a leader, and a messenger from the Tsar. He told the people\nthey were being deceived by their priests and lords, that the Emperor\nwas on their side, that the emancipation act gave them the land\nwithout purchase and rent-charge, and that they must support the\nEmperor in his design to do them good. A crowd of peasants, gathering\nto his voice, and carrying a red banner, marched through the villages,\ncrying death to the priests and nobles. General Dreniakine, an\naide-de-camp of the Emperor, a prompt and confidential officer, was\nsent from St. Petersburg against the grand duke, whom in his\nproclamation he called Egortsof, and after a smart affair, in which\neight men were killed and twenty-six badly hurt, the peasants fled\nbefore the troops. The grand duke was suffered to escape; and nothing\nmore has been heard of him, except an official hint that he is dead.\n\nWhat wonder that a credulous people fancies the hero of such\nadventures may be still alive?\n\nIn every country which has virtue enough to keep the memory of a\nbetter day, the popular mind is apt to clothe its hopes in this\nlegendary form. In England, the commons expected Arthur to awake; in\nPortugal, they expected Sebastian to return; in Germany they believed\nthat Barbarossa sat on his lonely peak. Masses of men believe that\nPeter the Third is living, and will yet resume his throne.\n\nBefore landing in the Holy Isles, I gave much thought to this mystery\nof the grand duke, and nursed a very faint hope of being able to\nresolve the spectre into some mortal shape.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nDUNGEONS.\n\n\nMy mind being full of this story, I keep an eye on every gate and trap\nthat might lead me either up or down into a prisoner's cell. My leave\nto roam about the convent-yards is free; and though I am seldom left\nalone, except when lodged in my private room, some chance of loitering\nround the ramparts falls in my way from time to time. The monks retire\nabout seven o'clock, and as the sun sets late in the summer months, I\nstroll through the woods and round by the Holy Lake, while Father John\nis laying our supper of cucumbers and sprats. Sometimes I get a peep\nat strange places while the fathers are at mass.\n\nOne day, when strolling at my ease, I come into a small court-yard,\nwhich my clerical guides have often passed by. A flutter of wings\nattracts me to the spot, and, throwing a few crumbs of biscuit on the\nground, I am instantly surrounded by a thousand beautiful doves. They\nare perfectly tame. Here, then, is that colony of doves which the\nArchimandrite told his people were not disturbed by the English guns;\nand looking at the tall buildings and the narrow yard, I am less\nsurprised by the miracle than when the story was told me by the monks.\nLifting my eyes to the sills from which these birds come fluttering\ndown, I see that the windows are barred, that the door is strongly\nbound. In short, this well-masked edifice is the convent jail; and it\nflashes on me quickly that behind these grated frames, against which\nthe doves are pecking and cooing, lies the mystery of Solovetsk.\n\nIn going next day round the convent-yards and walls, with my two\nattending fathers, dropping into the quass-house, the school, the\ndyeing-room, the tan-yard, and the Weaver's Tower, I lead the way, as\nif by merest chance, into this pigeons' court. Referring to the\nArchimandrite's tale of the doves, I ask to have that story told\nagain. Hundreds of birds are cooing and crying on the window-sills,\njust as they may have done on the eventful feast of Our Lady of Kazan.\n\n\"How pretty these doves! What a song they sing!\"\n\n\"Pigeons have a good place in the convent,\" says the father at my\nside. \"You see we never touch them; doves being sacred in our eyes on\naccount of that scene on the Jordan, when the Holy Ghost came down to\nour Lord in the form of a dove.\"\n\n\"They seem to build by preference in this court.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is a quiet corner; no one comes into this yard; yon windows\nare never opened from within.\"\n\n\"Ah! this is the convent prison?\"\n\n\"Yes; this is the old monastic prison.\"\n\n\"Are any of the fathers now confined in the place?\"\n\n\"Not one. We have no criminals at Solovetsk.\"\n\n\"But some of the fathers are in durance, eh? For instance, where is\nthat monk whom we brought over from Archangel in disgrace? Is he not\nhere?\"\n\n\"No; he has been sent to the desert near Striking Hill.\"\n\n\"Is that considered much of a penalty?\"\n\n\"By men like him, it is. In the desert he will be alone; will see no\nwomen, and get no drink. In twelve months he will come back to the\nconvent another man.\"\n\n\"Let us go up into this prison and see the empty cells.\"\n\n\"Not now.\"\n\n\"Why not? I am curious about old prisons; especially about church\nprisons; and can tell you how the dungeons of Solovetsk would look\nbeside those of Seville, Antwerp, and Rome.\"\n\n\"We can not enter; it is not allowed.\"\n\n\"Not allowed to see empty cells! Were you not told to show me every\npart of the convent? Is there a place into which visitors must not\ncome?\"\n\nThe two fathers step aside for a private talk, during which I feed the\npigeons and hum a tune.\n\n\"We can not go in there--at least, to-day.\"\n\n\"Good!\" I answer, in a careless tone; \"get leave, and we will come\nthis way to-morrow.... Stay! To-morrow we sail to Zaet. Why not go in\nat once and finish what we have yet to see down here?\"\n\nThey feel that time would be gained by going in now; but then, they\nhave no keys. All keys are kept in the guardroom, under the\nlieutenant's eyes. More talk takes place between the monks; and doubt\non doubt arises, as to the limit of their powers. Their visitor hums a\ntune, and throws more crumbs of bread among the doves, who frisk and\nflutter to his feet, until the windows are left quite bare. A father\npasses into a house; is absent some time; returns with an officer in\nuniform, carrying keys. While they are mounting steps and opening\ndoors, the pilgrim goes on feeding doves, as though he did not care\none whit to follow and see the cells. But when the doors roll back on\ntheir rusty hinges, he carelessly follows his guides up the prison\nsteps.\n\nThe first floor consists of a long dark corridor, underground; ten or\ntwelve vaults arranged in a double row. These cells are dark and\nempty. The visitor enters them one by one, pokes the wall with his\nstick, and strikes a light in each, to be sure that no one lies there\nunobserved; telling the officer and the monks long yarns about\nunderground vaults and wells in Antwerp, Rome, and Seville. Climbing\nthe stairs to an upper floor, he finds a sentinel on duty, pacing a\nstrong anteroom; and feels that here, at least, some prisoner must be\nkept under watch and ward. An iron-bound door is now unlocked, and the\nvisitor passes with his guides into an empty corridor with cells on\neither side, corresponding in size and number with the vaults below.\nEvery door in that corridor save one is open. That one door is closed\nand barred.\n\n\"Some one in there?\"\n\n\"No one?\" says the father; but in a puzzled tone of voice,\nand looking at the officer with inquiring eyes.\n\n\"Well, yes; a prisoner,\" says that personage.\n\n\"Let us go in. Open the door.\"\n\nLooking at the monks, and seeing no sign of opposition on their part,\nthe soldier turns the key; and as we push the door back on its rusty\nhinge, a young man, tall and soldier-like, with long black beard and\ncurious eyes, springs up from a pallet; and snatching a coverlet,\nwraps the loose garment round his all but naked limbs.\n\n\"What is your name?\" the visitor asks; going in at once, and taking\nhim by the hand.\n\n\"Pushkin,\" he answers softly; \"Adrian Pushkin.\"\n\n\"How long have you been confined at Solovetsk?\"\n\n\"Three years; about three years.\"\n\n\"For what offense?\"\n\nHe stares in wonder, with a wandering light in his eye that tells his\nsecret in a flash.\n\n\"Have you been tried by any court?\"\n\nThe officer interferes; the sentinel on guard is called; and we are\nhuddled by the soldiers--doing what they are told--from the prisoner's\ncell.\n\n\"What has he done?\" I ask the fathers, when the door is slammed upon\nthe captive's face.\n\n\"We do not know, except in part. He is condemned by the Holy Governing\nSynod. He denies our Lord.\" More than this could not be learned.\n\n\"A mad young man,\" sighs the monk; \"he might have gone home long ago;\nbut he would not send for a pope, and kiss the cross. He is now of\nbetter mind; if one can say he has any mind. A mad young man!\"\n\nThere is yet another flight of steps. \"Let us go up and see the\nwhole.\"\n\nWe climb the stair, and find a second sentinel in the second anteroom.\nMore prisoners, then, in this upper ward! The door which leads into\nthe corridor being opened, the visitor sees that here again the cells\nare empty, and the doors ajar--in every case but one. A door is\nlocked; and in the cell behind that door they say an old man lodges; a\nprisoner in the convent for many years.\n\n\"How long?\"\n\n\"One hardly knows,\" replies the monk: \"he was here when most of us\ncame to Solovetsk. He is an obstinate fellow; quiet in his ways; but\nfull of talk; he worries you to death; and you can teach him nothing.\nMore than one of our Archimandrites, having pity on his case, has\nstriven to lead him into a better path. An evil spirit is in his\nsoul.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"A man of rank; in his youth an officer in the army.\"\n\n\"Then you know his name?\"\n\n\"We never talk of him; it is against the rules. We pray for him, and\nsuch as he is; and he needs our prayers. A bad Russian, a bad\nChristian, he denies our holy Church.\"\n\n\"Does he ever go out?\"\n\n\"In winter, yes; in summer, no. He might go to mass; but he refuses to\naccept the boon. He says we do not worship God aright; he thinks\nhimself wiser than the Holy Governing Synod--he! But in winter days,\nwhen the pilgrims have gone away, he is allowed to walk on the rampart\nwall, attended by a sentinel to prevent his flight.\"\n\n\"Has he ever attempted flight?\"\n\n\"Attempted! Yes; he got away from the convent; crossed the sea; went\ninland, and we lost him. If he could have held his peace, he might\nhave been free to this very hour; but he could not hold his tongue;\nand then he was captured and brought back.\"\n\n\"Where was he taken?\"\n\n\"No one knows. He came back pale and worn. Since then he has been\nguarded with greater care.\"\n\nHere, then, is the prisoner whom I wish to see; the spectre of the\nwall; the figure taken for the prince; the man in whom centre so many\nhopes. \"Open the door!\" My tone compels them either to obey at once or\ngo for orders to the Archimandrite's house. A parley of the officer\nand monks takes place; ending, after much ado, in the door being\nunlocked (to save them trouble), and the whole party passing into the\nprisoner's cell.\n\nAn aged, handsome man, like Kossuth in appearance, starts astonished\nfrom his seat; unused, as it would seem, to such disturbance of his\ncell. A small table, a few books, a pallet bed, are the only\nfurnishings of his room, the window of which is ribbed and crossed\nwith iron, and the sill bespattered with dirt of doves. A table holds\nsome scraps of books and journals; the prisoner being allowed, it\nseems, to receive such things from the outer world, though he is not\npermitted to send out a single line of writing. Pencils and pens are\nbanished from his cell. Tall, upright, spare; with the bearing of a\nsoldier and a gentleman; he wraps his cloak round his shoulder, and\ncomes forward to meet his unexpected guests. The monks present me in\nform as a stranger visiting Solovetsk, without mentioning _his_ name\nto me. He holds out his hand and smiles; receiving me with the grace\nof a gentleman offering the courtesies of his house. A man of noble\npresence and courtly bearing: _not_, however, the Grand Duke\nConstantine, as fishermen and pilgrims say!\n\n\"Your name is--?\"\n\n\"Ilyin; Nicolas Ilyin.\"\n\n\"You have been here long?\"\n\nShaking his head in a feeble way, he mutters to himself, as it were,\nlike one who is trying to recall a dream. I put the question again;\nthis time in German. Then he faintly smiles; a big tear starting in\nhis eye. \"Excuse me, sir,\" he sighs, \"I have forgotten most things;\neven the use of speech. Once I spoke French easily. Now I have all but\nforgotten my mother tongue.\"\n\n\"You have been here for years?\"\n\n\"Yes; many. I wait upon the Lord. In His own time my prayer will be\nheard, and my deliverance come.\"\n\n\"You must not speak with this prisoner,\" says the officer on duty; \"no\none is allowed to speak with him.\" The lieutenant is not uncivil; but\nhe stands in a place of trust; and he has to think of duty to his\ncolonel before he can dream of courtesy to his guest.\n\nIn a moment we are in the pigeons' court. The iron gates are locked;\nthe birds are fluttering on the sills; and the prisoners are alone\nonce more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nNICOLAS ILYIN.\n\n\nLeaving Solovetsk for the south, I keep the figure of this aged\nprisoner in my mind, and by asking questions here and there, acquire\nin time a general notion of his course of life. But much of it remains\ndark to me, until, on my return from Kertch and Kief to St.\nPetersburg, the means are found for me of opening up a secret source.\n\nThe details now to be given from this secret source--controlled by\nother and independent facts--will throw a flood of light into some of\nthe darkest corners of Russian life, and bring to the front some part\nof the obstacles through which a reforming Emperor has to march.\n\nIt will be also seen that in the story of Ilyin's career, there are\npoints--apart from what relates to the convent spectre, and the\nlikeness to Constantine the First--which might account for some of the\nsympathy shown for him by Poles.\n\nIlyin seems to have been born in Poland; his mother was certainly a\nPole. His father, though of Swedish origin, held the rank of general\nin the imperial service. At an early age the boy was sent by General\nIlyin to the Jesuits' College in Polotsk; that famous school in which,\naccording to report, so many young men of family were led astray in\nthe opening years of Alexander the First. The names he bore inclined\nhim to devote his mind to sacred studies. Nicolas is the poor man's\nsaint, and Ilyin is the Russian form of Elias, the Hebrew prophet. It\nis not by chance, he thought, that men inherit and receive such names.\n\nHe was highly trained. In the school-room he was noted for his gentle\nways, his studious habits, his religious turn of mind. He neither\ndrank nor swore; he neither danced nor gamed. When the time arrived\nfor him to leave his college and join the army, he passed a good\nexamination, took a high degree, and entered an artillery corps with\nthe rank of ensign. By his new comrades he was noted for his power of\nwork, for his scorn of pleasure, for his purity of life. A hard\nreader, he gave up his nights and days to studies which were then\nunusual in the mess-room and the camp. While other young men were\ndrinking deep and dancing late in their garrison-towns, he was giving\nup the hours that could be snatched from drill and gunnery to Newton\non the Apocalypse, to Swedenborg on Heaven and Hell, to Bengel on the\nNumber of the Beast. What his religious doctrines were in these early\ndays, we can only guess. His father seems to have been a Greek\nCatholic, his mother a Roman Catholic; and we know too much of the\ngenius which inspired the Jesuits' College in Polotsk to doubt that\nevery effort would be made by the fathers to win such a student as\nNicolas Ilyin to their side.\n\nIn Polotsk, as in nearly all Polish towns, reside a good many learned\nJews. Led by his Apocalyptic studies to seek the acquaintance of\nRabbins, Ilyin talked with these new friends about his studies, and\neven went with them to their synagogue; in the ritual of which he\nfound a world of mystical meaning not suspected by the Jews\nthemselves. In conning the Mishna and Gemara, he began to dream that a\nconfession of faith, a form of prayer, a mode of communion, might be\nframed, by help of God's Holy Spirit, which would place the great\nfamily of Abraham under a common flag. A dream, it may be, yet a noble\ndream!\n\nIlyin toyed with this idea, until he fancied that the time for a\nreconciliation of all the religious societies owning the God of\nAbraham for their father was close at hand; and that he, Nicolas\nIlyin--born of a Greek father and a Catholic mother; bearing the names\nof a Hebrew prophet and a Russian saint; instructed, first by Jesuits\nand then by Rabbins; serving in the armies of an Orthodox emperor--was\nthe chosen prophet of this reign of grace and peace. A vision helped\nhim to accept his mission, and to form his plan.\n\nTaking the Hebrew creed, not only as more ancient and venerable, but\nas simpler in form than any rival, he made it the foundation for a\nwide and comprehensive church. Beginning with God, he closed with man.\nSetting aside, as things indifferent, all the points on which men\ndisagree, he got rid of the immaculate conception, the symbol of the\ncross, the form of baptism, the practice of confession, the official\nChurch, and the sacerdotal caste. In his broad review, nothing was of\nfirst importance save the unity of God, the fraternity of men.\n\nGifted with a noble presence and an eloquent tongue, he began to teach\nthis doctrine of the coming time; announcing his belief in a general\nreconciliation of all the friends of God. The monks who have lodged\nhim in the Frozen Sea, accuse him of deceit; alleging that he affected\nzeal for the Orthodox faith; and that on converting General Vronbel,\nhis superior officer, from the Roman Church to the Russian Church, he\nsought, as a reward for this service, a license to go about and\npreach. The facts may be truly stated; yet the moral may be falsely\ndrawn. A general in the Russian service, not of the national creed,\nhas very few means of satisfying his spiritual wants. Unless he is\nserving in some great city, a Roman Catholic can no more go to mass\nthan a Lutheran can go to sermon; and an officer of either confession\nis apt to smoke a pipe and play at cards, while his Orthodox troops\nare attending mass. Ilyin may have deemed it better for Vronbel to\nbecome a good Greek than remain a bad Catholic. In these early days of\nhis religious strife, he seems to have dreamt that the Orthodox Church\nafforded him the readiest means of reconciling creeds and men. In\nbringing strangers into that fold, he was putting them into the better\nway. Anyhow, he converted his general, and obtained from his bishop\nthe right to preach.\n\nIt was the hope of his bishop that he would bring in stragglers to the\nfold; not that he should set up for himself a broader camp in another\nname and under a bolder flag. Ilyin went out among the sectaries who\nabound in every province of the empire; and to these men of wayward\nmind he preached a doctrine which his ecclesiastical patrons fancied\nto be that of the Orthodox faith. In every place he drew to himself\nthe hearts of men; winning them alike by the splendor of his eloquence\nand by the purity of his life.\n\nEarly married, early blessed with children, happy in his home, Ilyin\ncould give up hand and heart to the work he had found. He took from\nthe Book of Revelation the name of Right-hand Brethren, as an\nappropriate title for all true members of the church; his purpose\nbeing to proclaim the present unity and future salvation of all the\nfriends of God.\n\nA good soldier, a good man of business, Ilyin was sent to the\ngovernment works, in the province of Perm, in the Ural Mountains,\nwhere he found time, in the midst of his purely military duties, for\npreaching among the poor, and drawing some of those who had strayed\ninto separation back into the orthodox fold. His enemies admit that in\nthose days of his work in the Ural Mountains he lived a holy life.\nGoing on state affairs to the mines of Barancha, where the Government\nowns a great many iron works and steel works, he saw among the\nsectaries of that district, most of whom were exiles suffering for\ntheir conscience' sake, a field for the exercise of his talents as a\npreacher of the word, a reconciler of men. But the martyrs of free\nthought whom he met in the mines of Barancha, were to him what the\nKaffir chieftains were to the Bishop of Natal. They put him to the\ntest. They showed him the darker side of his cause. They led him to\ndoubt whether reconciliation was to be expected from metropolites and\nmonks. Forced into a sharper scrutiny of his own belief, Ilyin at\nlength gave up his advocacy of the Orthodox faith, and even ceased to\nattend the Orthodox mass.\n\nA secret Church was slowly formed in the province of Perm, of which\nIlyin was the chief. Not much was known in high quarters about his\ndoings, until Protopopoff, one of his pupils, was accused of some\ntrifling offense, connected with the public service, and brought to\ntrial. Protopopoff was a leading man among the Ural dissenters. His\ntrue offense was some expression against the Church. Ilyin appeared in\npublic as his friend and advocate. Protopopoff was condemned: and\nIlyin closely watched. Ere long, the director-general of the Ural\nMines reported to his chief, the minister of finance in St.\nPetersburg, that in one of his districts he had found existing among\nthe miners a new religious body, calling themselves, in secret,\nRight-hand Brethren, of which body Nicolas Ilyin, captain of artillery\nin the Emperor's service, was the chief and priest.\n\nNot a little frightened by his discoveries, the director-general lost\nhis head. In his report to the minister of finance, he said a good\ndeal of these reconcilers that was not true. He charged them with\ncircumcising children, with advocating a community of goods and lands,\nwith propagating doctrines fatally at war with imperial order in\nChurch and State.\n\nIt is true that under the name of Gospel love, the followers of Ilyin\ntaught very strongly the necessity and sanctity of mutual help. They\nspoke to the poor, and bade them take heart of grace; bidding them\nlook, not only for bliss in a better world, but for a reign of peace\nand plenty on the earth. In the great questions of serf and soil, two\npoints around which all popular politics then moved, they took a part\nwith the peasant against his lord, though Ilyin was himself of noble\nbirth. These things appeared to the director-general of mines\nanarchical and dangerous, and Ilyin was denounced by him to the\nminister of finance as a man who was compromising the public peace.\n\nBut the fact which more than all else struck the council in St.\nPetersburg, was the zeal of Ilyin's pupils in spreading his doctrine\nof the unity and brotherhood of mankind. The new society was said to\nbe perfect in unity. The first article of their association was the\nneed for missionary work; and every member of the sect was an apostle,\neager to spend his strength and give his life in building up the\nfriends of God. A man who either could not or would not convert the\nGentile was considered unworthy of a place on His right hand. At the\nend of seven years a man who brought no sheep into the fold was\nexpelled as wanting in holy fire. Ilyin is alleged to have declared\nthat there was no salvation beyond the pale of this new church, and\nthat all those who professed any other creed would find their position\nat the last day on the left hand of God, while the true brethren found\ntheir seats on His right. This story is not likely to be true; and an\nintolerant Church is always ready with such a cry. It is not asserted\nthat the new Church had any printed books, or even circulars, in which\nthese things were taught. The doctrine was alleged to be contained in\ncertain manuscript gospels, copied by proselytes and passed from one\nmember to another; such manuscript gospels having been written, in the\nfirst instance at least, by Ilyin himself.\n\nA special commission was named by the ministers to investigate the\nfacts; and this commission, proceeding at once into the Ural Mines,\narrested many of the members, and seized some specimens of these\nfugitive gospel sheets. Ilyin, questioned by the commissioners, avowed\nhimself the author of these Gospel tracts, which he showed them were\nchiefly copies of sayings extracted from the Sermon on the Mount. In\nscathing terms, he challenged the right of these commissioners to\njudge and condemn the words of Christ. Struck by his eloquence and\ncourage, the commission hardly knew what to say; but as practical men,\nthey hinted that a captain of the imperial artillery holding such\ndoctrines must be unsound in mind.\n\nA report from these commissioners being sent, as usual, to the Holy\nGoverning Synod, that board of monks made very short work of this\npretender to sacred gifts. The reconciler of creeds and men was lodged\nin the Convent of the Frozen Sea until he should put away his\ntolerance, give up his dream of reconciliation, and submit his\nconscience to the guidance of a monk.\n\nAnd so the reconciler rests in his convent ward. The Holy Governing\nSynod treats such men as children who have gone astray; looking\nforward to the wanderer coming round to his former state. The\nsentence, therefore, runs in some such form as this: \"You will be sent\nto ...., where you will stay, under sound discipline, until you have\nbeen brought to a better mind.\" Unless the man is a rogue, and yields\nin policy, one sees how long such sentences are likely to endure!\n\nNicolas Ilyin is a learned man, with whom no monk in the Convent of\nSolovetsk is able to contend in speech. A former Archimandrite tried\nhis skill; but the prisoner's verbal fence and knowledge of Scripture\nwere too much for his feeble powers; and the man who had repulsed the\nEnglish fleet retired discomfited from Ilyin's cell.\n\nOnce the prisoner got away, by help of soldiers who had known him in\nhis happier days. Escaping in a boat to Onega Point, he might have\ngone his way overland, protected by the people; but instead of hiding\nhimself from his pursuers, he began to teach and preach. Denounced by\nthe police, he was quickly sent back to his dungeon; while the\nsoldiers who had borne some share in his escape were sent to the\nSiberian mines for life.\n\nThe noble name and courtly family of Ilyin are supposed to have saved\nthe arrested fugitive from convict labor in the mines.\n\nMy efforts to procure a pardon for the old man failed; at least, for a\ntime; the answer to my plea being sent to me in these vague words:\n\"Apr\u00e8s l'examin du dossier de l'affaire d'Ilyin, il resulte qu'il n'y\na pas eu d'arr\u00eat de mise en libert\u00e9.\" Yet men like Nicolas Ilyin are\nthe salt of this earth; men who will go through fire and water for\ntheir thought; men who would live a true life in a dungeon rather than\na false life in the richest mansions of the world!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nADRIAN PUSHKIN.\n\n\nExcept the fact of their having been lodged in the Convent of\nSolovetsk in neighboring cells, under the same hard rule, Adrian\nPushkin and Nicolas Ilyin have nothing in common; neither age nor\nrank; neither learning nor talent; not an opinion; not a sympathy; not\na purpose. Pushkin is young, Ilyin is old. Pushkin is of burgher,\nIlyin of noble birth. Pushkin is uneducated in the higher sense; Ilyin\nis a scholar to whom all systems of philosophy lie open. Pushkin is\nnot clever; Ilyin is considered, even by his persecutors, as a man of\nthe highest powers.\n\nYet Pushkin's story, from the man's obscurity, affords a still more\ncurious instance of the dark and difficult way through which a\nbeneficent and reforming government has to pass.\n\nEarly in the spring of 1866, a youth of good repute in his class and\ndistrict, that of a small burgher, in the town of Perm, began to make\na stir on the Ural slopes, by announcing to the peasant dissenters of\nthat region the second coming of our Lord, and offering himself as the\nreigning Christ!\n\nSuch an event is too common to excite remark in the upper ranks, until\nit has been seen by trial whether the announcement takes much hold on\nthe peasant mind. In Pushkin's case, the neighbors knew their prophet\nwell. From his cradle he had been frail in body and flushed in mind.\nWhen he was twenty years old, the doctors were consulted on his state\nof mind; and though they would not then pronounce him crazy, they\nreported him as a youth of weak and febrile pulse, afflicted with\ndisease of the heart; a boy who might, at any moment of his life, go\nmad. Easy work, in country air, was recommended. A place was got for\nhim in the country, on the Countess Strogonof's estate, not far from\nPerm. He was made a kind of clerk and overseer; a place of trust, in\nwhich the work was light; but even this light labor proved too great\nfor him to bear. In doing his duty to his mistress, his mind gave way;\nand when the light went out on earth, the poor idiot offered his help\nin leading other men up to heaven.\n\nMany of the people near him knew that he was crazed; but his unsettled\nwits were rather a help than hindrance to his success in stirring up\nthe village wine-shop and the workman's shed. In every part of the\nEast some touch of idiotcy is looked for in a holy man; the wandering\neye, the broken phrase, the distracted mien, being read as signs of\nthe Holy Spirit. The province of Perm is rich in sectaries; many of\nwhom watch and pray continually for the second coming of our Lord.\nAmong these sectaries, Adrian found some listeners to his tale. He\nspoke to the poor, and of the poor. Calling the peasants to his side,\nhe pictured to them a kingdom of heaven in which they would owe no\ntaxes and pay no rent. The earth, he told them, was the Lord's; a\nparadise given by Him as a possession to His saints. What peasant\nwould not hear such news with joy? A gospel preached in the village\nwine-shop and the workman's shed was soon made known by its fruits;\nand the Governor of Perm was told that tenants were refusing to pay\ntheir rent and to render service, on the ground that the kingdom of\nheaven was come and that Christ had begun to reign.\n\nAdrian was now arrested, and being placed before the Secret\nConsultative Committee of Perm, he was found guilty of having preached\nfalse doctrine and advocated unsocial measures; of having taught that\nthe taxes were heavy, that the peasants should possess the land, that\ndues and service ought to be refused. Knowing that the young man was\nmad, the Secret Consultative Committee saw that they could never treat\nhis case like that of a man in perfect health of body and mind. They\nthought the Governor of Perm might request the Holy Governing Synod to\nconsent that Pushkin should be simply lodged in some country convent,\nwhere he might live in peace, and, under gentle treatment, hope to\nregain his wandering sense.\n\nBut the Holy Governing Synod pays scant heed to lay opinion. Judging\nthe young man's fault with sharper anger than the Secret Consultative\nCommittee of Perm had done, they sent him to Solovetsk; not until he\nshould recover his sense and could resume his duties as a clerk, but\nuntil such time as he should recant his doctrines and publicly return\nto the Orthodox fold.\n\nValouef, Minister of the Interior, received from Perm a copy of this\nsynodal resolution, which he saw, as a layman, that he could not carry\nout, except by flying in the face of Russian law. The man was mad. The\nHoly Governing Synod treated him as sane. But how could he, a jurist,\ncast a man into prison for being of unsound mind? No code in the world\nwould sanction such a course; no court in Russia would sustain him in\nsuch an act. Of course, the Holy Governing Synod was a light unto\nitself; but here the civil power was asked to take a part which in the\nminister's conscience was against the spirit and letter of the\nimperial code.\n\nIt was a case of peril on either side. Such things had been done so\noften in former years, that the Church expected them to go on forever;\nand the monks were certain to resist, to slander, and destroy the man\nwho should come between them and their prey. Valouef, acting with\nprudence, brought the report before a council of ministers, and after\nmuch debate, not only of the special facts but of the guiding rules,\nthe council of ministers agreed upon these two points: first, that\nsuch a man as Pushkin could not be safely left at large in Perm;\nsecond, that it would be against the whole spirit of Russian law to\npunish a man for being out of his mind.\n\nOn these two principles being adopted, Valouef was recommended by the\nCouncil of Ministers to procure the Emperor's leave for Adrian Pushkin\nto be brought from Perm to St. Petersburg, for the purpose of\nundergoing other and more searching medical tests. Carrying his\nminute-book to the Emperor, Valouef explained the facts, together with\nthe rules laid down, and his majesty, adopting the suggestion, wrote\nwith his own hand these words across the page: \"Let this be done\naccording to the Minister of the Interior's advice, Oct. 21, 1866.\"\n\nOn this humane order, Pushkin was brought from Perm to St. Petersburg,\nwhere he was placed before a board of medical men. After much care and\nthought had been given to the subject, this medical board declared\nthat Pushkin was unsound of brain, and could not be held responsible\nfor his words and acts.\n\nSo far then as Emperor and ministers could go, the course of justice\nwas smooth and straight; but then came up the question of what the\nChurch would say. A board of monks had ordered Pushkin to be lodged in\nthe dungeons of Solovetsk until he repented of his sins. A board of\nmedical men had found him out of his mind; and a council of ministers,\nacting on their report, had come to the conclusion that, according to\nlaw, he could not be lodged in jail. His majesty was become a party to\nthe course of secular justice by having signed, with his own hand, the\norder for Adrian to be fetched from Perm and subjected to a higher\nclass of medical tests. Emperor, ministers, physicians, stood on one\nside; on the other side stood a board of monks. Which was to have\ntheir way?\n\nThe Holy Governing Synod held their ground; and in a question of false\nteaching it was impossible to oppose their vote. They knew, as well as\nthe doctors, that Adrian was insane; but then, they said, all heretics\nare more or less insane. The malady of unbelief is not a thing for men\nof science to understand. They, and not a medical board, could purge a\nsufferer like Pushkin of his evil spirit. They said he must be sent,\nas ordered, to the Frozen Sea.\n\nNo minister could sign the warrant for his removal after what had\npassed; and, powerful as they are, the Holy Governing Synod have to\nuse the civil arm. The dead-lock was complete. But here came into play\nthe silent and inscrutable agency of the secret police. These secret\npolice have a life apart from that of every other body in the State.\nThey think for every one; they act for every one. So long as law is\nclear and justice prompt, they may be silent--looking on; but when the\nhour of conflict comes, when great tribunals are at feud, when no one\nelse can see their way, these officers step to the front, set aside\ncodes and rules, precedents and decisions, as so much idle stuff,\nassume a right to judge the judges, to replace the ministers, and, in\nthe name of public safety, do what they consider, in their wisdom,\nbest for all.\n\nThe men who form this secret body are not called police, but \"members\nof the third section of his imperial majesty's chancellery.\" They are\nhighly conservative, not to say despotic, in their views; and said to\nfeel a particular joy when thwarting men of science and overruling\njudgments given in the courts of law. One general rule defines the\npower which they can bring to bear in such a case as that of Adrian\nPushkin. If justice seems to them to have failed, and they are firmly\npersuaded--they must be \"firmly persuaded\"--that the public service\nrequires \"exclusive measures\" to be adopted, they are free to act.\n\nOn the whole, these secret agents side with power against law, with\nusage against reform, with all that is old against every thing that is\nnew. In Pushkin's case they sided with the monks. Overriding Emperor,\nminister, council, medical board, they carried Pushkin to the White\nSea, where he was placed by the Archimandrite, not in a monastic cell,\nbut in the dismal corridor in which I found him. He is perfectly\nsubmissive, and clearly mad. He goes to mass without ado, says his\nprayers, confesses his sins, and seems to have returned into the arms\nof the official Church. The monks in charge of him have told their\nchiefs that he is now of right mind with regard to the true faith; and\nthe Governor of Archangel has written to advise that he should be\nallowed to go back to his friends in Perm.\n\nIt is hard, however, for a man to get away from Solovetsk. A year ago,\nGeneral Timashef, who has now replaced Valouef in the Ministry of the\nInterior, wrote to ask whether the Holy Governing Synod had not heard\nfrom the Archimandrite of Solovetsk in favor of the prisoner; and\nwhether the time had not come for him to be given up to his friends.\nNo answer to that letter has been received to the present day (Dec.,\n1869). The board of monks are slow to undo their work; the dissidents\nin Perm are gaining ground; and this poor madman remains a prisoner in\nthe pigeons' yard!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nDISSENT.\n\n\nThese dissidents, who ruffle so much the patient faces of the monks,\nare gaining ground in other provinces of the empire as well as Perm.\n\nSuch tales as those of Ilyin and Pushkin open a passage, as it were,\nbeneath an observer's feet; going down into crypts and chambers below\nthe visible edifice of the Orthodox Church and Government; showing\nthat, in the secret depths of Russian life there may be other\ncontentions than those which are arming the married clergy against the\nmonks. On prying into these crypts and chambers, we find a hundred\npoints on which some part of the people differ from their Official\nChurch.\n\nThe Emperor Nicolas would not hear of any one falling from his Church;\n\"autocracy and orthodoxy\" was his motto; and what the master would not\ndeign to hear, the Minister of Education tried his utmost not to see.\nThat millions of Mussulmans, Jews, and Buddhists lived beneath his\nsceptre, Nicolas was fond of saying; but for a countryman of his own\nto differ in opinion from himself was like a mutiny in his camp. The\nChurch had fixed the belief of one and all; the only terms on which\nthey could be saved from hell. Had _he_ not sworn to observe those\nterms? While Nicolas lived it was silently assumed in the Winter\nPalace that the dissenting bodies were all put down. One Christian\nchurch existed in his empire; and never, perhaps, until his dying hour\ndid Nicolas learn the truth about those men whom the breath of his\nanger was supposed to have swept away!\n\nOutside the Winter Palace and the Official Church dissent was growing\nand thriving throughout his reign. No doubt some few conformed--with\nhalters round their throats. When autocrat and monk combined to crush\nall those who held aloof from the State religion, the sincere\ndissenter had to pass through bitter times; but spiritual passion is\nnot calmed by firing volleys into the house of prayer; and the result\nof thirty years of savage persecution is, that these non-conformists\nare to-day more numerous, wealthy, concentrated, than they were on the\nday when Nicolas began his reign.\n\nNo man in Russia pretends to know the names, the numbers, and the\ntenets of these sects, still less the secrets of their growth. A\nmystery is made of them on every side. The Minister of Police divides\nthem into four large groups, which he names and classifies as follows:\n\n   I.--DUKHOBORTSI, Champions of the Holy Spirit.\n  II.--MOLOKANI, Milk Drinkers.\n III.--KHLYSTI, Flagellants.\n  IV.--SKOPTSI, Eunuchs.\n\nIn our day it is rare to find self-deception carried to so high a\npoint as in this official list. Four groups! Why, the Russian\ndissenters boast, like their Hindoo brethren, of a hundred sects. The\nclassification is no less strange. The Champions of the Holy Spirit\nare neither an ancient nor a strong society. The Milk Drinkers are of\nlater times than the Flagellants and the Eunuchs. The Flagellants are\nnot so numerous as the Eunuchs, though they probably surpass in\nstrength the Champions of the Holy Spirit.\n\nThe Flagellants and Eunuchs are of ancient date--no one knows how\nancient; the Flagellants going back to the fourteenth century at\nleast; the Eunuchs going back to the Scythian ages; while the Milk\nDrinkers and the Champions of the Holy Spirit sprang into life in the\ntimes of Peter the Great.\n\n\nCHAMPIONS OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.\n\nThough standing first in the official list, the Champions of the Holy\nSpirit are one of the less important sects. They write nothing, and\nnever preach. The only book which contains their doctrine is \"The\nDukhobortsi,\" written by a satirist and a foe! Novitski, a professor\nin the University of Kief, having heard of these champions from time\nto time, threw what he learned about them into a squib of some eighty\npages; meaning to laugh at them, and do his worst to injure them,\naccording to his lights. His tract was offered for twenty kopecks, but\nno one seemed disposed to buy, until the Champions took it up, read it\nin simple faith, and sent a deputation to thank the professor for his\nservice to their cause! Novitski was amused by their gravity;\nespecially when they told him a fact of which he was not aware; that\nthe articles of their creed had never until then been gathered into a\nconnected group! Of this droll deputation the police got hints.\nNovitski, being an officer of state, was, of course, orthodox; and his\nbook bore every sign of having been written to expose and deride the\nnon-conforming sect. Yet the police, on hearing of that deputation,\nbegan to fear there was something wrong; and in the hope of setting\nthings right, they put his tract on their prohibited list of books.\nWhat more could an author ask? On finding the work condemned by the\npolice, the Champions sent to the writer, paying him many compliments\nand buying up every copy of his tract at fifty rubles each. Novitski\nmade a fortune by his squib; and now, in spite of his jokes, the\nlaughing Professor of Kief is held to be the great expounder of their\ncreed!\n\nThe Champions build no churches and they read no Scriptures; holding,\nlike some of our Puritan sects, that a church is but a house of logs\nand stones, while the temple of God is the living heart; that books\nare only words, deceitful words, while the conscience of man must be\nled and ruled by the inner light. They show a tendency towards the\nmost ancient form of worship; holding that every father of a family is\na priest. Many of them join the Jews, and undergo the rite of\ncircumcision. Now and then they buy a copy of the Hebrew Bible, though\nthey can not read one word of the sacred text. They keep it in their\nhouses as a charm.\n\n\nMILK DRINKERS.\n\nThe Milk Drinkers are of more importance than these Champions of the\nHoly Spirit.\n\nCritics dispute the meaning of Molokani. The original seats of the\nMilk Drinkers are certain villages in the south country, lying on the\nbanks of a river called the Molotchnaya (Milky Stream); a river\nflowing past the city of Melitopol into the Sea of Azof, through a\ndistrict rich in saltpetre, and pushing its waters into the sea as\nwhite as milk. But some of the secretaries whom I meet at Volsk, on\nthe Lower Volga, tell me this resemblance of name is an accident, no\nmore. According to my local guides, the term Milk Drinker, like that\nof Shaker, Mormon, and, indeed, of Christian, is a term of contempt\napplied to them by their enemies, because they decline to keep the\nordinary fasts in Lent. Milk--and what comes of milk; butter, whey,\nand cheese--are staples of food in every house; and a sinner who\nbreaks his fast in Lent is pretty sure to break it on one of the\narticles derived from milk; chiefly by frying his potato in a pat of\nbutter instead of in a drop of vegetable oil.\n\nThese milk people deny the sanctity and the use of fasts, holding that\nmen who have to work require good food, to be eaten in moderation all\nthe year round; no day stinted, no day in excess. They prefer to live\nby the laws of nature; asking and giving a reason for every thing they\ndo. They set their faces against monks and popes. They look on Christ\nwith reverence, as the purest being ever born of woman; but they deny\nhis oneness with the Father, and treat the miraculous part of his\ncareer on earth as a tale of later times. In a word, the Milk Drinkers\nare Rationalists.\n\nThe name which they give themselves is Gospel Men; for they profess to\nstand by the Evangelists; live with exceeding purity, and base their\ndaily lives on what they understand to be the laws laid down for all\nmankind in the Sermon on the Mount. Under Nicolas they were sorely\nharried. Sixteen thousand men and women were seized by the police;\narranged in gangs; and driven with rods and thongs across the dreary\nsteppes and yet more dreary mountain crests into the Caucasus. In that\nfearful day a great many of the Milk Drinkers fled across the Pruth\ninto Turkey, where the Sultan gave them a village, called Tulcha, for\ntheir residence. Wise and tolerant Turk! These emigrants carried their\nvirtues and their wealth into the new country, prospered in their\nshops and farms, and made for their protectors beyond the Danube a\nthousand friends in their ancient homes.\n\n\nFLAGELLANTS.\n\nThe Flagellants are older in date, stronger in number than the\nChampions and the Milk Drinkers. They go back to the first year of\nAlexie (1645); to a time of deep distress, when the heads of men were\ntroubled with a sense of their guilty neglect of God.\n\nOne Daniel Philipitch, a peasant in the province of Kostroma, serving\nin the wars of his country, ran away from his flag, declared himself\nthe Almighty, and wandered about the empire, teaching those who would\nlisten to his voice his doctrine in the form of three great\nassertions: I. I am God, announced by the prophets; there is no other\nGod but me. II. There is no other doctrine. III. There is nothing new.\n\nTo these three assertions were added nine precepts: (1.) drink no\nwine; (2.) remain where you are, and what you are; (3.) never marry;\n(4.) never swear, or name the devil; (5.) attend no wedding,\nchristening, or other feast; (6.) never steal; (7.) keep my doctrine\nsecret; (8.) love each other, and keep my laws; (9.) believe in the\nHoly Spirit. Daniel roamed about the country, preaching this gospel\nfor several years, gathering to himself disciples in many places,\nthough his headquarters remained at Kostroma. He was God; and his\nconverts called themselves God's people. Daniel chose a son, one Ivan\nSusloff, a peasant of Vladimir; and this Ivan Susloff chose a pretty\nyoung girl as his Virgin Mother, together with twelve apostles. Flung\ninto prison with forty of his disciples, Susloff saw the heresy\nspread. It ran through the empire, and it has followers at this hour\nin every part of Central Russia. \"God's House,\" Daniel's residence in\nthe village of Staro\u00ef, still remains--held in the utmost veneration by\ncountry folk.\n\nThe chief article of their faith is the last precept given by Daniel,\n\"Believe in the Holy Ghost.\" All their discipline and service is meant\nto weaken the flesh and strengthen the spirit; to which end they fast\nvery often and flog each other very much.\n\nGreat numbers of these Flagellants have been sent into the Caucasus\nand Siberia, where many of them have been forced to serve in the\narmies and in the mines.\n\n\nEUNUCHS.\n\nA more singular body is that of the Beliegolubi (White Doves), called\nby their enemies Skoptsi (Eunuchs). These people \"make themselves\neunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake,\" and look on Peter the\nThird, whom they take to be still alive, as their priest and king.\nThey profess to lead a life of absolute purity in the Lord; spotless,\nthey say, as the sacrificial doves! The White Doves are believed to\nlive like anchorites; all except a few of their prophets and leading\nmen. They drink no whisky and no wine. They think it a sin to indulge\nin fish; their staple food is milk, with bread and walnut oil. White,\nweak, and wasting, they appear in the shops and streets like ghosts.\nThe monks admit that they are free from most of the vices which\nafflict mankind. It is affirmed of them that they neither game nor\nquarrel; that they neither lie nor steal. The sect is secret; and any\nprofession of the faith would make a martyr of the man upon whom was\nfound the sign of his high calling. Seeming to be what other men are,\nthey often escape detection, not for years only, but for life; many of\nthem filling high places in the world; their tenets unknown to those\nwho are counted in the ranks of their nearest friends.\n\nThe White Doves have no visible church, no visible chief. Christ is\ntheir king, and heaven their church. But the reign of Christ has not\nyet come; nor will the Prince of Light appear until the earth is\nworthy to receive Him. Two or three persons, gathered in His name, may\nhope to find Him in the spirit; but not until three hundred thousand\nsaints confess His reign will He come to abide with them in visible\nflesh. One day that sacred host will be complete; the old earth and\nthe old heaven will pass away, consumed like a scroll in the fire.\n\nSo far as I can see (for the Eunuchs print no books, and frame no\narticles), their leading tenet, borrowed from the East, appears to be\nthat of a recurring Incarnation of the Word. Just as a pundit of\nBenares teaches that Vishnu has been born into the world many times,\nprobably many hundred times, a White Dove holds that the Messiah is\nfor evermore being born again into the world which He has saved. Once\nHe came as a peasant's child in Galilee, when the soldiers and\nhigh-priests rose on Him and slew Him. Once again He came as an\nemperor's grandson in Russia, when the soldiers and high-priests rose\non Him again and slew Him. He did not die; for how could God be killed\nby man? But He withdrew into the unseen until His hour should come.\nMeantime he is with His Church, though not in His majestic and\npotential shape, as hero, king, and God.\n\nThe White Doves have amongst them, only known to few, a living Virgin\nand a living Christ. These incarnations are not Son and Mother in\ntheir mortal shapes; in fact, the Son is generally older than the\nMother; and they are not of kin, except in the Holy Spirit. The\npresent Christ exists in his lower form; holy, not royal; pure, not\nperfect; waiting for the ripeness of his time, when he will once again\ntake flesh in all his majesty as God. A Virgin is chosen in the hope\nthat when the ripeness of His time has come, He will be born again\nfrom that Virgin's side.\n\nAlexander the First was deeply moved by what he heard of these\nsectaries. He went amongst them, and held much talk with their learned\nmen. It has been imagined that he joined their church. Under Nicolas,\nthe \"Doves\" were chased and seized by the police. On proof of the fact\nthey were tied in gangs, and sent into the Caucasus, where they\nlived--and live--at the town of Maran, a post on the road from Poti to\nKutais, waiting for Peter to arrive. A second colony exists in the\ntown of Shemakha, on the road from Tiflis to the Caspian Sea. They are\nsaid to be docile men, doing little work on scanty food, giving no\ntrouble, and leading an innocent and sober life. At present, they are\nnot much worried by the police; except when some discovery, like the\nPlotitsen case in Tambof, excites the public mind. A Dove who keeps\nhis counsel, and refrains from trying to convert his neighbors, need\nnot live in fear. The law is against him; his faith is forbidden; he\nis not allowed to sing in the streets, to hold public meetings, and to\nbury his dead with any of his adopted rites; these ceremonies of his\nfaith must be done in private and in secret; yet this singular body is\nsaid to be increasing fast. They are known to be rich; they are\nreported to be generous. A poor man is never suspected of being a\nEunuch. When the love of woman dies out, from any cause, in a man's\nheart, it is always succeeded by the love of money; and all the\nbankers and goldsmiths who have made great fortunes are suspected of\nbeing Doves. In Kertch and Moscow, you will hear of vast sums in gold\nand silver being paid to a single convert for submitting to their\nrite.\n\nThe richest Doves are said to pay large sums of money to converts, on\nthe strength of a prophecy made by one of their holy men, that so soon\nas three hundred thousand disciples have been gathered into his fold,\nthe Lord will come to reign over them in person, and to give up to\nthem all the riches of the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nNEW SECTS.\n\n\nThese groups, so far from ending the volume of dissent, do little more\nthan open it up to sight. Stories of the Flagellants and the Eunuchs\nare like old-world tales, the sceneries of which lie in other ages and\nother climes. These sects exist, no doubt; but they draw the nurture\nof their life from a distant world; and they have little more enmity\nto Church and State than what descends with them from sire to son.\nCommittees have sat upon them; laws have been framed to suit them;\nministerial papers have described them. They figure in many books, and\nare the subjects of much song and art. In short, they are historical\nsects, like the Anabaptists in Germany, the Quakers in England, the\nAlumbradros in Spain.\n\nBut the genius of dissent is change; and every passing day gives birth\nto some new form of faith. As education spreads, the sectaries\nmultiply. \"I am very much puzzled,\" said to me a parish priest, \"by\nwhat is going on. I wish to think the best; but I have never known a\npeasant learn to read, and think for himself, who did not fall away\ninto dissent.\" The minds of men are vexed with a thousand fears,\nexcited by a thousand hopes; every one seems listening for a voice;\nand every man who has the daring to announce himself is instantly\nfollowed by an adoring crowd. These births are in the time, and of the\ntime; apostles born of events, and creeds arising out of present\nneeds. They have a political side as well as a religious side. Some\nsamples of these recent growths may be described from notes collected\nby me in provinces of the empire far apart; dissenting bodies of a\ngrowth so recent, that society--even in Russia--has not yet heard\ntheir names.\n\n\nLITTLE CHRISTIANS.\n\nIn the past year (1868) a new sect broke out in Atkarsk, in the\nprovince of Saratof, and diocese of the Bishop of Tsaritzin. Sixteen\npersons left the Orthodox Church, without giving notice to their\nparish priest. They set up a new religion, and began to preach a\ngospel of their own devising. Saints and altar-pieces, said these\ndissidents, were idols. Even the bread and wine were things of an\nolden time. They had a call of their own to teach, to suffer, and to\nbuild a Church. This call was from Christ. They obeyed the summons by\ngoing down into the Volga, dipping each other into the flood, changing\ntheir names, and holding together a solemn feast. This scene took\nplace in winter--Ash Wednesday, February 26th, when the waters of the\nVolga are locked in ice, and had to be pierced with poles. From that\nday they have called themselves humbly, after the Lord's name, Little\nChristians.\n\nThey have no priests, and hardly any form of prayer. They keep no\nimages, use no wafers, and make no sacred oil. Instead of the\nconsecrated bread, they bake a cake, which they afterwards worship, as\na special gift from God. This cake is like a penny bun in shape and\nsize; but in the minds of these Little Christians it possesses a\npotent virtue and a mystic charm.\n\nHearing of these secessions from his flock, the Bishop of Tsaritzin\nwrote to Count Tolstoi, Minister of Education, who in turn dispatched\nhis orders to the district police. These orders were, that the men\nwere to be closely watched; that no more baptisms in the ice were to\nbe allowed; that no more cakes were to be baked of the size and shape\nof a penny bun. All preaching of these new tenets was to be stopped.\nThe bishop, living on the spot, was to be consulted on every point of\nprocedure against the sectaries. All these orders, and some others,\nhave been carried out; the police are happy in their labor of\nrepression; and the heresy of the Little Christians is increasing fast.\n\n\nHELPERS.\n\nA few months ago the Governor of Kherson was amused by hearing that\nsome villagers in his province had been arrested by the police on the\nground of their being a great deal too good for honest men. It was\nsaid the men who had been cast into prison never drank, never swore,\nnever lied, owed no money, and never confessed their sins to the\nparish priest. Nobody could make them out; and the police, annoyed at\nnot being able to make them out, whipped them off their fields, threw\nthem into prison, and laid a statement of their suspicions before the\nprince.\n\nThese over-good peasants were brothers, by name Ratushni, living in\nthe hamlet of Osnova, in which they owned some land. Not far from\nOsnova stands a small town called Ananief, in which lived a burgher\nnamed Vonsarski, who was also marked by the police with a black line,\nas being a man too good for his class. Vonsarski paid his debts and\nkept his word; he lived with his wife in peace; and he never attended\nhis parish church. He, too, was seized by the police and lodged in\njail, until such time as he should explain himself, and the governor's\npleasure could be learned.\n\nIt is surmised that the monks set the police at work; in the hope that\nif nothing could be proved at first against these offenders, tongues\nmight be loosened, tattle might come out, and some sort of charge\nmight be framed, so soon as the fact of their lying in jail was noised\nabroad through the southern steppe.\n\nRatushni and Vonsarski were known to be clever men; to have talked\nwith Moravian settlers in the south. They were suspected of looking\nwith a lenient eye on the foreign style of harnessing bullocks and\ndriving carts. They were accused of underrating the advantages of\nrural communes, in favor of a more equitable and religious system of\nmutual help. They were called the Helpers. But their chief offense\nappears to have been their preference for domestic worship over that\nof the parish priest.\n\nThe Governor of Kherson thought his duty in the matter clear; he set\nthe prisoners free. When the Black Clergy of his province stormed upon\nhim, as a man abetting heresy and schism, he quoted Paragraph 11 in\nhis imperial master's minute on the treatment of Dissent; a paragraph\nlaying down the rule that every man is free to believe as he likes, so\nlong as he abstains from troubling his neighbors by attempting to\nconvert them to his creed. The prince added a recommendation of his\nown, that the clergy of his province should strive in their own\nvocation to bring these wanderers back into the fold of God.\n\n\nNON-PAYEES OF RENT.\n\nNear Kazan I hear of a new sect having sprung up in the province of\nViatka, which is giving the ministry much trouble. It may have been\nthe fruit of poor Adrian Pushkin's labor (though I have not heard his\nname in connection with it); the main doctrine of the Non-payers of\nRent being the second article of Pushkin's creed.\n\nThe canton of Mostovinsk, in the district of Sarapul, is the scene of\nthis rising of poor saints against the tyrants of this world. Viatka,\nlying on the frontiers of Asia, with a mixed population of Russ,\nFinns, Bashkirs, Tartars, is one of the most curious provinces of the\nempire. Every sort of religion flourishes in its difficult dales;\nChristian, Mussulman, Buddhist, Pagan; each under scores of differing\nforms and names. Twenty Christian sects might be found in this single\nprovince; and as all aliens and idolaters living there have the right\nof being ruled by their own chiefs, it is not easy for the police to\nfollow up all the clues of discovery on which they light. But such a\nbody as the Non-payers of Rent could hardly conceal themselves from\nthe public eye. If they were to live their life and obey their\nteachers, they must come into the open day, avow their doctrine, and\ndefend their creed. Such was the necessary logic of their conversion,\nand when rents became due they refused to pay. The debt was not so\nmuch a rental, as a rent-charge on their land. Like all crown-peasants\n(and these reformers had been all crown-peasants), they had received\ntheir homesteads and holdings subject to a certain liquidating charge.\nThis charge they declined to meet on religious grounds.\n\nAlarmed by such a revolt, the Governor of Viatka wrote to St.\nPetersburg for orders. He was told, in answer, to make inquiries; to\narrest the leaders; and to watch with care for signs of trouble.\nNearly two hundred Non-payers of Rent were seized by the police,\nparted into groups, and put under question. Some were released on the\ngovernor's recommendation; but when I left the neighborhood,\ntwenty-three of these Non-paying prisoners were still in jail.\n\nThey could not see the error of their creed; they would not promise to\nabstain from teaching it; and, worst of all, they obstinately declined\nto bear the stipulated burdens on their land.\n\nWhat is a practical statesman to do with men who say their conscience\nwill not suffer them to pay their rent?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nMORE NEW SECTS.\n\n\nOn my arrival in the province of Simbirsk, every one is talking of a\nsingular people, whose proceedings have been recently brought to\nlight. One Peter Mironoff, a private soldier in the Syzran regiment,\nhas set up a new religion, which is to be professed in secret and to\nhave no name. Peter is known as a good sort of man; pious, orderly,\nsedate; a soldier never absent from his drill; a penitent who never\nshirked his priest. Nothing fantastic was expected from him. It is\nsaid that he began by converting fourteen of his comrades, all of whom\nswore that they would hold the truth in private, that they would act\nso as to divert suspicion, that they would suffer exile, torture,\ndeath itself, but never reveal the gospel they had heard.\n\nNot being a learned man, and having no respect for books, Peter\nrejects all rituals, derides all services, tears up all lives of\nsaints. He holds that reading and writing are dangerous things, and\ntakes tradition and a living teacher for his guides. Though waging war\nagainst icons and crosses, on which he stamps and frowns in his secret\nrites, he ostentatiously hangs a silver icon in his chamber, and wears\na copper cross suspended from his neck. Teaching his pupils that true\nreligion lies in a daily battle with the flesh, he urges them to fast\nand fast; abstaining, when they fast, from every kind of food, so as\nnot to mock the Lord; and when they indulge the senses, to reject as\nluxuries unfit for children of grace such food as meat and wine, as\nmilk and eggs, as oil and fish. He warns young people against the sin\nof marriage, and he bids the married people live as though they were\nnot; urging them to lead a life of purity and peace, even such as the\nangels are supposed to lead in heaven. By day and night he declares\nthat the heart of man is full of good and evil; that the good may be\nencouraged, the evil discouraged; that fasting and prayer are the only\nmeans of driving out the evil spirits which enter into human flesh.\n\nThe men whom Peter has drawn into order reject all mysteries and\nsigns; they wash themselves in quass, and then drink the slops. They\nlive in peace with the world, they help each other to get on, and they\nimplicitly obey a holy virgin whom they have chosen for themselves.\n\nThis virgin, a peasant-woman named Anicia, living in the village of\nPerevoz, in the province of Tambof, is their actual ruler; one who is\neven higher in authority than Peter Mironoff himself. Anicia has been\nmarried about nineteen years. Fallen man, they say, can only have one\nteacher; and that one teacher must be a woman and a virgin. After\nAnicia, they recognize the Saviour and St. Nicolas as standing next in\nrank.\n\nTheir service, held in secret, with closed doors and shutters, begins\nand ends with songs; brisk music of the romping sort, accompanied by\njumping, hopping, twirling; and a part of their worship has been\nborrowed from the Tartar mosques. They stand in prayer. They bow to\nthe ground in adoration. They make no sign of the cross. Instead of\ncrying \"Save me, pardon me, Mother Mary!\" they cry \"Save me, pardon\nme, Mother Anicia Ivanovna!\"\n\nLike all the sectaries, these Nameless Ones reject the official empire\nand the official church.\n\nA long time passed before Peter and his fellows were betrayed to the\npolice, and now that the prophet and virgin have been seized, attempts\nare made to pass the matter by as a harmless joke. The Government is\npuzzled how to act; nearly all the men and women accused of belonging\nto this lawless and blasphemous sect being known through the province\nof Simbirsk for their sober and decent lives. The leaders are noted\nmen, not only as church-goers, but supporters of the clergy in their\nstruggles against the world. Every man whom the police has seized on\nsuspicion holds a certificate from his priest, in which his regularity\nin coming to confess his sins and receive the sacrament is duly set\nforth and signed. Nay, more, the parish priests come forward to\ntestify in their behalf; for in a society which does not commonly\nregard priests with favor, the men who are now accused of irreligion\nhave set an example of respect for God's ministers by asking them, on\nsuitable occasions, to their homes.\n\nMother Anicia, arrested in her village, has been put under the\nseverest trials; yet nothing has been found against her credit and her\nfame. She is forty years old. She has been married nineteen years. A\nmedical board, appointed by the governor, reports that she is still a\nvirgin, and her neighbors, far and near, declare that she has lived\namongst them a perfectly blameless life.\n\nThe police are not yet beaten in their game. An agent of their own has\nsworn to having been present in one of the sheds in which they\nconducted their indecent rites. Peter Mironoff, he declares, took down\nthe ordinary icons from the wall, spat on them, cursed them, banged\nthem on the floor, leaped on them, and ground them beneath his feet.\nAfter cursing the images, Mironoff kneaded a peculiar cake of ashes,\nfoul water, and paste, in mockery of the sacred bread, and gave to\nevery man in the shed a piece of this cake to eat. When they had eaten\nthis cake, he called on them to strip, each one as naked as when he\nwas born--garments being a sign of sin; and when they had all obeyed\nhis words he bade them sing and pray together, in testimony against\nthe world.\n\nEach man, says this agent, is bound by the rules to choose for himself\na bride of the Spirit, with whom he must live in the utmost purity of\nlife.\n\nWhat can a reforming minister do in such a case? A jurist would be\nglad to leave such folk alone; but the Holy Governing Synod will not\nsuffer them to be left alone. Peter and Anicia remain in jail; their\ncase is under consideration; and the model soldier and blameless\nvillager will probably end their days in a Siberian mine.\n\n\nCOUNTERS.\n\nIn the province of Saratof, a wild steppe country, lying between the\nlands of the Kalmuks and the Don Kozaks, I hear of a new sect, called\nthe Counters or Enumerators (Chislenniki). The high-priest of this\ncongregation is one Taras Maxim, a peasant of Semenof, one of the\nbleak log villages in the black-soil country.\n\nTaras speaks of having been out one night in a wood, when he met a\nvenerable man, holding in his hands a book. This book had been given\nto the old man by an angel, and the old man offered to let Taras read\nit. Parting the leaves, he found the writing in the sacred Slavonic\ntongue, and the words a message of salvation to all living men. The\nbook declared that the people of God must be counted and set apart\nfrom the world. It spoke of the Official Church as the Devil's Church.\nIt showed that men have confused the order of time, so as to profane\nwith secular work the day originally set apart for rest; that Thursday\nis the seventh day, the true Sabbath, to be kept forever holy in the\nname of God. It mentioned saints and angels with contempt; denounced\nthe official fasts as works of Satan; and proclaimed in future only\none fast a year. It spoke of the seven sacraments as delusions, to be\nwholly banished from the Church of God. It said the priesthood was\nunnecessary and unlawful; every man was a priest, empowered by Heaven\nto confess penitents, to read the service, and inter the dead.\n\nHaving read all these things, and some others, in the book, Taras\nMaxim left his venerable host in the wood, and going back into\nSemenof, told a friend what he had seen and learned. Men and women\nlistened to his tale, and, being anxious for salvation, they counted\nthemselves off from a corrupt society, and founded the Secret Semenof\nChurch.\n\nSo far as I could learn--the sect being unlawful, and the rites\nperformed in private--one great purpose seems to inspire these\nCounters; that of pouring contempt, in phrase and gesture, on the\nforms of legal and official life. Sometimes, I can hardly doubt, they\ncarry this protest to the length of indecent riot. Holding that Sunday\nis not a holy day, they meet in their sheds and barns on Sunday\nmorning, while the village pope is saying mass, and having closed the\ndoor and planted watchers in the street, they sing and dance, they\ngibe and sneer; using, it is said, the roughest Biblical language to\ndenounce, the coarsest Oriental methods to defile, the neighbors whom\nthey regard as enemies of God.\n\nSemenof stands east of Jerusalem, and even east of Mecca.\n\nMaxim's chief theological tenet refers to sin. Man has to be saved\nfrom sin. Unless he sins, he can not be saved. To commit sin, is\ntherefore the first step towards redemption. Hence it is inferred by\nthe police that Maxim and his pupils rather smile on sinners,\nespecially on female sinners, as persons who are likely to become the\nobjects of peculiar grace. Outside their body, these Counters are\nregarded, even by liberal men, as an immoral and unsocial sect.\n\n\nNAPOLEONISTS.\n\nIn Moscow I hear of a body of worshippers who have the singular\nquality of drawing their hope from a foreign soil. These men are\nNapoleonists. Like all the dissenting sects, they hate the official\nempire and deride the Official Church. Seeing that the chief enemy of\nRussia in modern times was Napoleon, they take him to have been,\nliterally, that Messiah which he assumed to be, in a certain mystical\nsense, to the oppressed and divided Poles; and they have raised the\nCorsican hero into the rank of a Slavonic god.\n\nTheir society is secret, and their worship private. That they live and\nthrive, as an organized society, is affirmed by those who know their\ncountry well. Their meetings are held with closed doors and windows,\nunder the very eyes of the police; but this is the case with so many\nsects in Moscow, that their immunity from detection need excite no\nwonder in our eyes. Making a sort of altar in their room, they place\non it a bust of the foreign prince, and fall on their knees before it.\nBusts of Napoleon are found in many houses; in none more frequently\nthan in those of the imperial race. I have been in most of these\nimperial dwellings, and do not recollect one, from the Winter Palace\nto the Farm, in which there was not a bust of their splendid foe.\n\nThe Napoleonists say their Messiah is still alive, and in the flesh;\nthat he escaped from the snares of his enemies; that he crossed the\nseas from St. Helena to Central Asia; that he dwells in Irkutsk, near\nLake Baikal, on the borders of Chinese Tartary; that in his own good\ntime he will come back to them, heal their sectional quarrels, raise a\ngreat army, and put the partisans of Satan, the reigning dynasty and\nacting ministers, to the sword.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nTHE POPULAR CHURCH.\n\n\nThese secret sects and parties would be curious studies--and little\nmore--if they stood apart, and had to live or die by forces of their\nown. In such a case they would be hardly more important than the\nEnglish Levellers and the Yankee Come-outers; but these Russian\ndissidents are symptoms of a disease in the imperial body, not the\ndisease itself. They live on the popular aversion to an official\nchurch.\n\nIt is not yet understood in England and America that a Popular Church\nexists in Russia side by side with the Official Church. It is not yet\nsuspected in England and America that this Popular Church exists in\nsleepless enmity and eternal conflict with this Official Church. Yet\nin this fact of facts lies the key to every estimate of Russian\nprogress and Russian power.\n\nThis Popular Church consists of the Old Believers; men who reject the\npretended \"reforms\" of Patriarch Nikon, and follow their fathers in\nobserving the more ancient rite. \"You will find in our country,\" said\nto me a priest of this ancient faith, \"a Church of Byzantine, and a\nChurch of Bethlehem; a new voice and an old voice; a system framed by\nman, and a gospel given by God.\"\n\nNo one has ever yet counted the men who stand aloof from the State\nChurch as Old Believers. By the Government they have been sometimes\ntreated in a vague and foolish way as dissenters; though the\ngovernments have never had the courage to count them as dissenters in\nthe official papers. Known to be sources of weakness in the empire,\nthey have been hated, feared, cajoled, maligned; observed by spies,\narrested by police, entreated by ministers; every thing but counted;\nfor the governments have not dared to face the truths which counting\nthese Old Believers would reveal. A wiser spirit rules to-day in the\nWinter Palace; and this great question--greatest of all domestic\nquestions--is being studied under all its lights. Already it is felt\nin governing circles--let the monks say what they will--that nothing\ncan be safely done in Russia, unless these Old Believers like it.\nEvery new suggestion laid before the Council of Ministers is met (I\nhave been told) by the query--\"What will the Old Believers say?\"\n\nThe points to be ascertained about these Old Believers are these: How\nmany do they count? What doctrines do they profess? What is their\npresent relation to the empire? What concessions would reconcile them\nto the country and the laws?\n\nHow many do they count?\n\nA bishop, who has travelled much in his country, tells me they are ten\nor eleven millions strong. A minister of state informs me they are\nsixteen or seventeen millions strong. \"Half the people, even now, are\nOld Believers,\" says a priest from Kem; \"more than three-fourths will\nbe, the moment we are free.\" My own experience leads me to think this\npriest is right. \"I tell you what I find in going through the\ncountry,\" writes to me a German who has lived in Russia for thirty\nyears, knowing the people well, yet standing free (as a Lutheran) from\ntheir local brawls; \"I find, on taking the population, man by man,\nthat _four_ persons _in five_ are either Old Believers now, or would\nbe Old Believers next week, if it were understood among them that the\nGovernment left them free.\" This statement goes beyond my point; yet I\nsee good reason every day to recognize the fact--so long concealed in\nofficial papers--that the Old Believers are the Russian people, while\nthe Orthodox Believers are but a courtly, official, and monastic sect.\n\nNearly all the northern peasants are Old Believers; nearly all the Don\nKozaks are Old Believers; more than half the population of Nijni and\nKazan are Old Believers; most of the Moscow merchants are Old\nBelievers. Excepting princes and generals, who owe their riches to\nimperial favor, the wealthiest men in Russia are Old Believers. The\nmen who are making money, the men who are rising, the captains of\nindustry, the ministers of commerce, the giants of finance--in one\nword, the men of the instant future--are members of the Popular\nChurch.\n\nDriving through the streets of Moscow, day by day, admiring the noble\nhouses in town and suburb, your eye and ear are taken by surprise at\nevery turn. \"Whose house is this?\" you ask. \"Morozof's.\" \"What is he?\"\n\"Morozof! why, sir, Morozof is the richest man in Moscow; the greatest\nmill-owner in Russia. Fifty thousand men are toiling in his mills. He\nis an Old Believer.\"\n\n\"Who lives here?\" \"Soldatenkof.\" \"What is he!\" \"A great merchant; a\ngreat manufacturer; one of the most powerful men in Russia. He is an\nOld Believer.\"\n\n\"Who lives in yonder palace?\"\n\n\"Miss Rokhmanof. In London you have such a lady; Miss Burdett Coutts\nis richer, perhaps, than Miss Rokhmanof, but not more swift to do good\ndeeds. Her house, as you see, is big; it has thirty reception-rooms.\nShe is an Old Believer.\" So you drive on from dawn to dusk. You go\ninto the bazar--to find Old Believers owning most of the shops; you go\ninto the University--to find Old Believers giving most of the burses;\nyou go into the hospitals--to find Old Believers feeding nearly all\nthe sick. The old Russ virtues--even the old Russ vices--will be found\namong these Old Believers; not among the polite and enervated\nfollowers of the official form. \"In Russia,\" said to me a judge of\nmen, \"society has a ritual of her own; a ritual for the palace, for\nthe convent, for the camp; a gorgeous ritual, fit for emperors and\nprinces, such as the purple-born might offer to barbaric kings, not\nsuch as fishermen in Galilee would invent for fishermen on the Frozen\nSea.\"\n\nAn Old Believer clings to the baldest forms of village worship, and\nthe simplest usages of village life. Conservative in the bad sense, as\nin the good, he objects to every new thing, whether it be a synod of\nmonks, a capital on foreign soil, a cup of tea sweetened with sugar, a\ncity lit by gas. Show him a thing unknown to his fathers in Nikon's\ntime, and you show him a thing which he will spurn as a work of the\nnether fiend.\n\nThese Old Believers are as much the enemies of an official empire as\nthey are of an official church. The test of loyalty in Russia is\npraying for the reigning prince as a good Emperor and a good\nChristian; but many of these Old Believers will not pray for the\nreigning prince at all. Some will pray for him as Tsar, though not as\nEmperor; but none will pray for him as a Christian man. They look on\nhim as reigning by a dubious title and a doubtful right. The word\nemperor, they say, means Chert--Black One; the double eagle an evil\nspirit; the autocracy a kingdom of Antichrist.\n\nAll this confusion in her moral and political life is traceable to the\ntimes of Nikon the Patriarch; a person hardly less important to a\nmodern observer of Russia, than the great prince who is said by Old\nBelievers to have been his bastard son.\n\nAbout the time when our own Burton and Prynne were being laid in the\npillory, when Hampden and Cromwell were being stayed in the Thames, a\nman of middle age and sour expression landed from a boat at Solovetsk\nto pray at the shrine of St. Philip, and beg an asylum from the monks.\nHe described himself as a peasant from the Volga, his father as a\nfield laborer in a village near Nijni. He was a married man and his\nwife was still alive. In his youth he had spent some time in a\nmonastery, and after trying domestic life for ten years, he had\npersuaded his partner to become a bride of Christ. Leaving her in the\nconvent of St. Alexie in Moscow, he had pushed out boldly into the\nfrozen north.\n\nAt that time certain hermits lived on the isle of Anzersk, where the\nfarm now stands, in whose \"desert\" this stranger found a home. There\nhe took the cowl, and the name of Nikon; but his nature was so rough,\nthat he was soon engaged in bickering with his chief as he had\nbickered with his wife. Eleazar, founder of the desert, desired to\nbuild a church of stone in lieu of his church of pines, and the two\nmen set out for Moscow to collect some funds. They quarrelled on their\nroad; they quarrelled on their return. At length, the brethren rose on\nthe new-comer, expelled him from the desert, placed him in a canoe,\nwith bread and water, and told him to go whither he pleased, so that\nhe never came back. Chance threw him on shore at Ki, a rock in Onega\nBay; where he set up a cross, and promised to erect a chapel, if the\nvirgin whom he served would help him to get rich.\n\nOn crossing to the main land, he became the organizer of a band of\nhermits on Leather Lake (Kojeozersk) in the province of Olonetz. From\nLeather Lake he made his spring into power and fame; for having an\noccasion to see the Tsar Alexie on some business, he so impressed that\nvery poor judge of men that in a few years he was raised to the seats\nof Archimandrite, Bishop, Metropolite, and Patriarch.\n\nCombining the pride of Wolsey with the subtlety of Cranmer, Nikon set\nhis heart on governing the Church with a sharper rod than had been\nused by his faint and shadowy predecessors. A burly fellow, flushed of\nface, red of nose, and bleary of eye, Nikon resembled a Friesland boor\nmuch more than a Moscovite monk. He revelled in pomp and show; he\nswelled with vanity as he sat enthroned in his cathedral near the\nTsar. Feeling a priest's delight in the splendor of the Byzantine\nclergy, even under Turkish rule, he sought to model his own ceremonial\nrites on those of the Byzantine clergy, not aware that in going back\nto the Lower Empire he was seeking guidance from the Greeks in their\ncorruptest time. His earlier steps were not unwise. Sending out a body\nof scribes, he obtained from Mount Athos copies of the most ancient\nand authentic sacred books, which he caused to be translated into\nSlavonic and compared with the books in ordinary use; and finding that\nerrors had crept into the text, he bade his scribes prepare for him a\nnew edition of the Scriptures and Rituals, in which the better\nreadings should be introduced. But here his merit ends. Nikon knew no\nGreek; yet when the work was done for him by others, he proceeded,\nwith an arrogant frown on his brow, to force his version on the\nChurch. The Church objected; Nikon called upon the Tsar. The priests\ndemurred to this intrusion of the civil power; and Nikon handed the\nprotesting clergy over to the police. Alexie lent him every aid in\ncarrying out his scheme. Yet the opposition was strong, not only in\ntown and village, but in the council, in the convent, and in the\nChurch. Peasants and popes were equally against the changes he\nproposed to make. The service-books were old and venerable; they\nsounded musical in every ear; their very accents seemed divine. These\nbooks had been used in their sacred offices time out of mind, and\ntwenty generations of their fathers had by them been christened,\nmarried, and laid at rest. Why should these books be thrown aside? The\nwritings offered in their stead were foreign books. Nikon said they\nwere better; how could Nikon know? The Patriarch was not a critic;\nmany persons denied that he was a learned man. Instead of trying to\ngain support for his innovations, he forced them on the Church. Nor\nwas he satisfied to deal with the texts alone. He changed the old\ncross. He trifled with the sacraments. He brought in a new mode of\nbenediction. He altered the stamp on consecrated bread. By order of\nthe Tsar, who could not see the end of what he was about, the Council\nadopted Nikon's reforms in the Church; and these new Scriptures, these\nnew services, these new sacraments, this new cross, and this new\nbenediction, were introduced, by order of the civil power, in every\nchurch and convent throughout the land. The Nikonian Church was\nrecognized as an Official Church.\n\nMost of the people and their parish clergy stood up boldly for their\nancient texts, especially in the far north countries, where the court\nhad scarcely any power over the thoughts of men. The view taken in the\nnorth appears to have been something like that of our English Puritans\nwhen judging the merits and demerits of King James's version: they\nthought the new Scriptures rather too worldly in tone; over-just to\nhigh dignitaries in Church and State; less likely to promote holy\nliving and holy dying than the old. In a word, they thought them too\npolitical in their accent and their spirit.\n\nNo convent in the empire showed a sterner will to reject these\ninnovations than the great establishment in the Frozen Sea. When\nNikon's service-books arrived at Solovetsk, the brethren threw them\naside in scorn. The Archimandrite, as an officer of state, took part\nwith the Patriarch and the Tsar; but the fathers put their\nArchimandrite in a boat and carried him to Kem. Having called a\ncouncil of their body, they chose two leaders; Azariah, whom they\nelected caterer; and Gerontie, whom they elected bursar. All the\nKozaks in the fortress joined them; and, supported from the mainland\nby people who shared their minds, the monks of Solovetsk maintained\ntheir armed revolt against the Nikonian Church for upward of ten\nyears, and only fell by treachery at last.\n\nIn Orthodox accounts of this siege the captors are represented as\nbehaving as men should behave in war. They are said to have put to the\nsword only such as they took in arms; and borne the rest away from\nSolovetsk, to be placed in convents at a distance till they came to a\nbetter mind. But many old books, possessed by peasants round the\nFrozen Sea, put another face on such tales. A peasant, living in the\nDelta, pulled up a book from a well under his kitchen floor, and\nshowed me a passage in red and black ink, to the effect that the whole\nbrotherhood of resisting monks was put to the sword and perished to a\nman.\n\nWhat the besiegers won, the nation lost. This victory clove the Church\nin twain, and the end of Nikon's triumph has not yet been reached.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nOLD BELIEVERS.\n\n\nThe new service-books and crosses were ordered to be used in every\nChurch. The Church which used them was declared official, orthodox,\nand holy. Every other form of public worship was put under curse and\nban.\n\nPrinces, Vladikas, generals, all made haste to pray in the form most\npleasing to their Tsar. Cajoled and terrified by turns, the monks\nbecame in a few years orthodox enough; and many of the parish priests,\non being much pressed by the police, marched over to the stronger\nside. Not all; not nearly all; for thousands of the country clergymen\nresisted all commands to introduce into their services these suspected\nbooks; contending that the changes wrought in the sacred texts were\nneither warranted by fact nor justified by law. They treated them as\nthe daring labor of a single man. Not all of those who held out\nagainst Nikon could pretend to be scholars and critics; but neither,\nthey alleged, was Nikon himself a scholar and a critic. When he came\nto Solovetsk he was an ignorant peasant, too old to learn; when he was\ndriven from Anzersk by his outraged brethren, he was as ignorant of\nletters as when he came. Since that time he had led a life of travel\nand intrigue. If they were feeble judges, he was also a feeble judge.\n\nClinging fast to their venerable forms, the clergy kept their altars\nopen to a people whom neither soldiers nor police could drive to the\nnew matins and the new mass. Many of the burghers, most of the\npeasants, doggedly refused to budge from their ancient chapels, to\nforego their favorite texts. They were Old Believers; they were the\nRussian Church; Nikon was the heretic, the sectarian, the dissident;\nand, strong in these convictions, they set their teeth against every\nman who fell away from the old national rite to the new official rite.\n\nFrom those evil times, the people have been parted into two hostile\ncamps; a camp of the Ancient Faith, and a camp of the Orthodox Faith;\na parting which it is no abuse of words to describe as the heaviest\nblow that has ever fallen upon this nation; heavier than the Polish\ninvasion, heavier than the Tartar conquest; since it sets brother\nagainst brother, and puts their common sovereign at the head of a\npersecuting board of monks.\n\nOne consequence of these Old Believers being driven into relations of\nenmity towards the Government is the weakening of Russia on every\nside. The Church is shorn of her native strength; the civil power\nusurps her functions; and the man who brought these evils on her was\ndeposed from his high rank. Nikon was hardly in his grave before the\noffice of Patriarch was abolished; and the Church was virtually\nabsorbed into the State. The Orthodox Church became a Political\nChurch; extending her limits, and ruling her congregations by the\nsecular arm. Imperious and intolerant, she allows no reading of the\nBible, no exercise of thought, no freedom of opinion, within her pale.\nThe Old Believers suffer, in their turn, not only from the\npersecutions to which their \"obstinacy\" lays them open, but from the\nisolation into which they have fallen.\n\nFrom the moment of their protest down to the present time, these Old\nBelievers have been driven, by their higher virtues, into giving an\nunnatural prominence to ancient habits and ancient texts. Living in an\nold world, they see no merit in the new. According to their earnest\nfaith, the reign of Antichrist began with Nikon; and since the time of\nNikon every word spoken in their country has been false, every act\ncommitted has been wrong.\n\nLike a Moslem and like a Jew, an Old Believer of the severer classes\nmay be known by sight. \"An Old Believer?\" says a Russian friend, as we\nstand in a posting-yard, watching some pilgrims eat and drink; \"an Old\nBeliever? Yes.\"\n\n\"How do you read the signs?\"\n\n\"Observe him; see how he puts the potatoes from him with a shrug. That\nis a sign. He eats no sugar with his glass of tea; that also is a\nsign. The chances are that he will not smoke.\"\n\n\"Are all these notes of an Old Believer?\"\n\n\"Yes; in these northern parts. At Moscow, Nijni, and Kazan, you will\nfind the rule less strict--especially as to drinking and smoking--least\nof all strict among the Don Kozaks.\"\n\n\"Are the Don Kozaks Old Believers?\"\n\n\"Most of them are so; some say all. But the Government of Nicolas\nstrove very hard to bring them round; and seeing that these Kozaks\nlive under martial law, their officers could press them in a hundred\nways to obey the wishes of their Tsar. Their Atamans conformed to the\nEmperor's creed; and many of his troopers so far yielded as to hear an\nofficial mass. Yet most of them stood out; and many a fine young\nfellow from the Don country went to the Caucasus, rather than abandon\nhis ancient rite. You should not trust appearances too far, even among\nthose Don Kozaks; for it is known that in spite of all that popes and\npolice could do, more than half the Kozaks kept their faith; and fear\nof pressing them too far has led, in some degree, to the more tolerant\nsystem now in vogue.\"\n\n\"You find some difference, then, even as regards adherence to the\nancient rite, between the north country and the south?\"\n\n\"It must be so; for in the north we live the true Russian life. We\ncome of a good stock; we live apart from the world; and we walk in our\nfathers' ways. We never saw a noble in our midst; we hold to our\nnative saints and to our genuine Church.\"\n\nThe signs by which an Old Believer is to be distinguished from the\nOrthodox are of many kinds; some domestic--such as his way of eating\nand drinking; others devotional--such as his way of making the cross\nand marking the consecrated bread.\n\nAn Old Believer has a strong dislike to certain articles; not because\nthey are bad in themselves, but simply because they have come into use\nsince Nikon's time. Thus, he eats no sugar; he drinks no wine; he\nrepudiates whisky; he smokes no pipe.\n\nAn Old Believer of the sterner sort has come to live alone; even as a\nHebrew or a Parsee lives alone. He has taken hold of the Eastern\ndoctrine that a thing is either clean or unclean, as it may happen to\nhave been touched by men of another creed. Hence he must live apart.\nHe can neither break bread with a stranger, nor eat of flesh which a\nheretic has killed. He can not drink from a pitcher that a stranger's\nlip has pressed. In his opinion false belief defiles a man in body and\nin soul; and when he is going on a journey, he is tortured like a\nHebrew with the fear of rendering himself unclean. He carries his\nwater-jug and cup, from which no stranger is allowed to drink. He\ncalls upon his comrades only, since he dares not eat his brown bread,\nand drain his basin of milk in a stranger's house. Yet homely morals\ncling to these men no less than homely ways. An Old Believer is not\nmore completely set apart from his neighbors of the Orthodox rite by\nhis peculiar habits, than by his personal virtues. Even in the north\ncountry, where folk are sober, honest, industrious, far beyond the\naverage Russian, these members of the Popular Church are noticeable\nfor their probity and thrift. \"If you want a good workman,\" said to me\nan English mill-owner, \"take an Old Believer, especially in a\nflax-mill.\"\n\n\"Why in a flax-mill?\"\n\n\"You see,\" replied my host, \"the great enemy of flax is fire; and\nthese men neither drink nor smoke. In their hands you are always safe.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nA FAMILY OF OLD BELIEVERS.\n\n\nIn the forest village of Kondmazaro lives a family of Old Believers,\nnamed Afanasevitch; two brothers, who till the soil, fell pines, and\nmanufacture tar. Their house is a pile of logs; a large place, with\nbarn and cow-shed, and a patch of field and forest. These brothers are\nwealthy farmers, with manly ways, blue eyes, and gentle manners. Fedor\nand Michael are the brothers, and Fedor has a young and dainty wife.\n\nThe family of Afanasevitch is clerical, and the two men, Fedor and\nMichael, were brought up as priests. On going into their house you see\nthe signs of their calling, and on going into their barn you see a\nchapel, with an altar and sacred books.\n\nThat barn was built by their grandfather, in evil days, as a chapel\nfor his flock; and during many years, the father of these men--now\ngone to a better place--kept up, in the privacy of his farm, the forms\nof worship which had come down to him from his sire, and his sire's\nsire. This barn has no cupola, no cross, no bell. So far as takes the\neye, it is a simple barn. Inside, it is a quaint little chapel, with\nscreen and cross, with icon and crown. It has a regular altar, with\nstep and desk, and the customary pair of royal gates.\n\nThe father of Fedor and Michael, following in his father's wake,\nappeared to the outside world a farmer and woodman, while to his\nfaithful people he was a priest of God.\n\nThese lads assisted him in the service, while his neighbors took their\nturn of either dropping in to mass, or mounting guard in the lane. His\naltars were often stripped, his books put in a well, his pictures\nhidden in a loft; for the police, informed of what was going on by\nmonkish spies, were often at his gates. At length a brighter day is\ndawning on the Popular Church. A new prince is on the throne; and\nunder the White Tsar, the congregations which keep within the rules\nlaid down are left in peace.\n\n\"You hold a service in this church?\"\n\n\"My brother holds it; not myself,\" says Fedor, with a sigh. \"My\npriesthood is gone from me.\"\n\n\"Your priesthood gone? How can a priesthood go away? Is not the law,\nonce a priest always a priest?\"\n\n\"Yes, in a regular church; but we are not now a regular church, with a\nsacred order and an apostolic grace. We are a village priesthood only;\nchosen by our neighbors to serve the Lord in our common name.\"\n\n\"How was your personal priesthood lost?\"\n\n\"By falling into sin through love. My wife, though village born, had\nscruples about the form of marriage in use among our people, and\nbegged me to indulge her weakness on that point by marrying her in the\nparish church. It was a proper thing for her to ask; a very hard thing\nfor me to grant; for law and right are here at strife, and one must\ntake his chance of rejecting either man or God. The time is not a\nreign of grace, and nothing that we do is lawful in the sight of\nHeaven. We take no sacraments; for the apostolic priesthood has passed\naway. No man alive has power to bind and loose, or even to marry and\nto shrive.\"\n\n\"Still you marry?\"\n\n\"Yes; outwardly, according to a form; not inwardly, according to the\nSpirit. Besides, the law does not admit our form; the Orthodox say we\nare not married, and the courts declare our children basely born.\nHence, some of our women crave to be wedded as the code directs, in\nthe parish church, by an Orthodox priest. I could not blame poor Mary\nfor her weakness, though she wished me to marry her in a way that\nwould insult my kindred, harass my mother, and cause me to be removed\nfrom my office, and degraded from my rank as priest. I loved the girl\nand we went to church.\"\n\nFedor stands beside me, tall and lank, with mild blue eyes and yellow\nlocks, a serge blouse hanging round his figure, caught at the waist by\na broad red belt; his figure and face suggesting less of the meek Russ\npeasant than of the fiery northern skald. Quaint books, with old\nbronze clasps and leather ties, are in his arms. These books he\nspreads before me with mysterious silence, pointing out passage after\npassage, written in a dashing style--partly in red letters, partly in\nblack--in the dead Slavonic tongue. He looks a very unlikely man to\nhave lost the world for love.\n\n\"Your marriage got you into trouble?\"\n\n\"Yes; a man who marries plunges into care.\"\n\n\"But though you have lost your priesthood, you are not expelled from\nthe community?\"\n\n\"Not expelled in words; yet I am not received into fellowship; not\nhaving yet performed the necessary acts.\"\n\n\"What acts?\"\n\n\"The acts of penitence. Being married, I am not allowed to pass the\nchurch door; only to stand on the outer steps, salute the worshippers,\nand listen to the sacred sounds. I am expected to stand in the street,\nbareheaded, through the summer's sun and the winter frost; to bend my\nknee to every one going in; to beg his pardon of my offense; and to\nsolicit his prayers at the throne of grace.\"\n\n\"How long will your time of penitence last?\"\n\n\"Years, years!\" he answers sadly; \"if I were rich enough to do nothing\nelse, I could be purified in six weeks. The penance is for forty days;\nbut forty successive days; and I have never yet found time to give up\nforty days, in any one season, to the cleansing of my fame. But some\nyear I shall find them.\"\n\n\"How does this failure affect your wife? Is she received into the\nchurch?\"\n\n\"If you note this house of God, you will observe a part railed off\nbehind the screen; this is the female side, and has an entrance by a\nseparate door. No woman goes in at the principal gate. The space\nbehind the screen is not considered as lying within the church; and\nthere my wife can stand during service; bending to our neighbors as\nthey enter, asking every woman to forgive her offense, and help her in\nprayer with her patron saint.\"\n\n\"Are you considered impure?\"\n\n\"Yes; until our peace is made. You see, an Old Believer thinks that\nfor most people a single life is better than a wedded life. It is the\nwill of God that some should marry, in order that His children shall\nnot die off the earth. Sometimes it is the will of Satan, that hell\nmay be replenished with fallen souls. In either case, it is a sign of\nour lost estate; an act to be atoned by penitence and prayer. But\ngetting married is not the whole of our offense. We went into the\nworld: we held communion with the heathen; and we put ourselves beyond\nthe pale of law.\"\n\n\"You hold the outer world to be unclean?\"\n\n\"In one sense, yes. The world has been defiled by sin. A man who goes\nfrom our village into the world--who crosses the river in order to\nsell his deals and buy white flour--must purify himself on coming\nback. He may have to cut his bread with an unclean knife, to drink his\nwater from an unclean glass. He carries his knife and cup beneath his\ngirdle for common use; yet he may be forced, by accident, to eat with\na strange knife, to drink out of a strange mug. On his return, he has\nto stand at the chapel door, and beg the forgiveness of every member\nof the community for his sins.\"\n\n\"Yet you are said to differ from the Orthodox clergy only in a few\npoints?\"\n\n\"On many points. We differ on the existence of a State Church; on the\nHoly Governing Synod; on the number of sacraments; on the benediction;\non the cross; on the service-books; on the apostolical succession; and\non many more. We object to the civil power in matters of faith; object\nto Byzantine pomp in our worship. What we want in our Church is the\nold Russian homeliness and heartiness; priests who are learned and\nsober men; bishops who are actual fathers of their flocks.\"\n\n\"Show me how you give the benediction.\"\n\n\"Christ and His apostles gave the blessing so; the first and second\nfinger extended; the thumb on the third finger; not as the Byzantines\ngive it, with the thumb on the first finger. We follow the usage\nintroduced by Christ.\"\n\n\"You make much of that form?\"\n\n\"Much for what it proves; not much for what it is. Pardon me, and I\nwill show you. Here is a small bronze figure of our Lord; the work\ngood and ancient; older than Nikon, older than St. Vladimir; it is\nsaid to have come from Kherson, on the Black Sea. This figure proves\nour case against Nikon the Monk, who altered things without reason,\nonly to puff himself out with pride. Our Lord, you will observe, is\ngiving the blessing, just as our saints, from Philip to Vladimir, gave\nit. The Greek fathers in Bethlehem bless a pilgrim in this way now.\nOur form is Syrian Greek, the Orthodox form is Byzantine Greek.\"\n\n\"And the cross?\"\n\n\"We keep the old traditions of the cross. On every ancient spire and\nbelfry in the land you find a true cross. Observe the spires in\nMoscow, Novgorod, and Kief. In places it has been removed, to make way\nfor the Latin cross; but on many towers and steeples it remains; a\nlofty and silent witness for the truth.\"\n\n\"How do you prove that your cross is the true one? Think of it; the\ncross was a Roman gibbet: a thing unknown to either Jew or Greek. Are\nnot the Latins likely to have known the shape of their own penal\ncross?\"\n\n\"All that is true; but the Holy Cross on which our Lord expired in the\nflesh was not a common cross, made of two logs. We know that it was\nbuilt of four different trees; cypress, cedar, palm, and olive;\ntherefore it must have had three arms.\"\n\n\"You take no sacraments?\"\n\n\"At present, none. We have no priests ordained to bless the bread and\nwine. Saved without them? Yes; in the providence of God. Men were\nsaved before sacraments; Judas Iscariot took them and was lost. A\nsacrament is a good form, not a saving means.\"\n\nFedor is a type of those Old Believers who are said to be slackening\nat the joints, in consequence of their present freedom from\npersecution. He has not learned to smoke; but he sees no harm in a\npipe, except so far as it might cause a brother to fail and fall. He\ndoes not care for wine; but he will toss off his glass of whisky like\na genuine child of the north. Some strict ones in his village drink no\ntea, having doubts on their mind whether tea came into use before\nNikon's reign; and nearly all his neighbors refuse to mix sugar with\ntheir food, to put pipes into their mouths, to plant potatoes in their\nsoil. Fedor objects to sugar, as being a devil's offering, purified\nwith blood. Whisky he thinks lawful and beneficial, St. Paul having\ncommanded Timothy to drink a little wine--which Fedor says is a\nshorter name for whisky--for his stomach's sake. Fedor is willing to\nobey St. Paul.\n\nFedor is a Bible-reader. Every phrase from his lips is streaked with\ntext, and every point in his argument backed by chapter and verse.\nExcept in some New England homesteads, I have never heard such floods\nof reference and quotation in my life.\n\n\"You say your Church has lost the priesthood?\"\n\n\"Yes; our priests are all destroyed; the heavenly gift is lost, and we\nare wandering in the desert without a guide. This is our trial. Our\nbishops have all died off; we can not consecrate a priest; the\nconsecrating power is in the devil's camp.\"\n\n\"How can you get back this gift?\"\n\n\"By miracle; in no other way. The priesthood came by miracle; by\nmiracle it will be restored.\"\n\n\"In our own day?\"\n\n\"No; we do not hope it. Miracles come in an age of faith. _We_ are not\nworthy of such a sign. We have to walk in our fathers' ways; to keep\nour children true; and hope that they may live into that better day.\"\n\n\"You think the Orthodox rite will be overthrown?\"\n\n\"In time. In God's own time His kingdom will be restored; and Russia\nwill be one people and one Church.\"\n\n\"What would you like the Government to do?\"\n\n\"We want a free Church; we want to walk with our fathers; we want our\nold Church discipline; we want our old books, our old rituals, our old\nfashions; we want to read the Bible in our native tongue.\"\n\n\"Are the Old Believers all of one mind about these points?\"\n\n\"Ha, no! There are Old Believers and Old Believers. In the north we\nare pretty nearly of one mind; in the south they are divided into two\nbodies, if not more. The Government is active in Moscow; Moscow being\nour ancient capital; and most of the traders in that city Old\nBelievers. Ministers are trying to win them over to the Orthodox\nChurch. Visit the Cemetery of the Transfiguration near Moscow; there\nyou will see what Government has done.\"\n\nLet us follow Fedor's hint.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nCEMETERY OF THE TRANSFIGURATION.\n\n\nFour or five miles from the Holy Gate, beyond the walls of Moscow, in\na populous suburb, near the edge of a pool of water, lies a field\ncontaining multitudes of graves--the graves of people who were long\nago struck down by plague. This field is fenced with stakes, and part\nof the inclosure guarded by a wall. Within this wall stand a hospital\nand a convent; hospital on your left, convent on your right. A huge\ngateway, built of stones from older piles, and quaintly colored in\nTartar panels, opens in your front. Driving up to this gate, we send\nin our cards--a councillor of state, an English friend, and\nmyself--and are instantly admitted by the chief.\n\n\"This cemetery,\" says our friendly guide, \"is called Preobrajenski\n(Transfiguration), from the village close by. In the plague time\n(1770) it was steppe, and people threw out their dead upon it, laying\nthem in trenches, hardly covered with a pinch of dust. The plague\ngrowing worse and worse, the village elder got permission from Empress\nCatharine to build a house on the spot, to keep the peace and fumigate\nthe dead. That house was built among the trenches. Ten years later\n(1781), Elia Kovielin, a brickmaker in Moscow, built among these\ngraves a church, a cloister, and a hospital. This Kovielin was a\nclever man; rich in money and in friends; living in a fine house, and\nhaving the master of police, with governors, generals, princes, always\nat his board. Catharine was not aware of his being an Old Believer;\nbut her ministers and courtiers knew him well enough. His house was a\nchurch; the pictures in his private chapel cost him fifty thousand\nrubles. Kovielin _was_ a rich man. The monks were afraid of him,\nbecause he had friends at court; the priests, because he had the\nstreets and suburbs at his back. Besides, what monk or priest could\nrail against a man for building a cemetery for the dead? A very clever\nman! You have heard the story of his magic loaf? You have not! Then\nyou shall hear it. Paul the First, becoming aware that this edifice of\nthe Transfiguration was an Old Believer's church, resolved to have it\ntaken down. Kovielin drove to St. Petersburg, and found the Emperor\ndeaf to his pleas. Voi\u00e9kof, master of police in Moscow, having the\nEmperor's orders to pull down tower and wall, rode out to the\ncemetery, where he was received by Kovielin, and on going away was\nhonored by the present of a convent loaf. A loaf! A magic loaf!\nVoi\u00e9kof liked that lump of bread so well, that he went home and forgot\nto pull the cemetery about our ears. Folk say that loaf contained a\npurse--five thousand rubles coined in gold. Who knows? Elia Kovielin\nwas a clever man.\"\n\nOur guide through the courts and chapels is not an Old Believer, but\nan officer of state. In 1852, Nicolas seized the cemetery, sequestered\nthe funds, and threw the management into official hands. The hospital\nhe left to the Old Believers; for this great hospital is maintained in\nfunds by the gifts of pious men; and the Emperor saw that if his\nofficers seized the hospital, either his budget must be charged with a\nnew burden, or the sick and aged people must be thrown into the\nstreets. He seized their church, and left them their sick and aged\npoor.\n\n\"Kovielin's magic loaf was not the best,\" says the officer in charge;\n\"these Old Believers are always rogues. When Bonaparte was lodging at\nthe Kremlin, they went to him with gift and speech--the gift, a dish\nof golden rubles; saying, they came to greet him, and acknowledge him\nas Tsar.\"\n\n\"They thought he would deliver them from the tyranny of monks and\npriests?\"\n\n\"Yes; that was what they dreamt. Napoleon humored them like fools, and\neven rode down hither to see them in their village. Kovielin was dead;\n_he_ would not have done such things. Napoleon rode round their\ngraves, and ate of their bread and porridge; but he could not make\nthem out. They wanted a White Tsar; not a soldier in uniform and\nspurs. He went away puzzled; and when he was gone the rascals took to\nforging government notes.\"\n\n\"Odd trade to conduct in a cemetery!\"\n\n\"You doubt me! Ask the police; ask any friend in Moscow; ask the\ncouncillor.\"\n\n\"They were suspected,\" says the councillor of state, \"and their chapel\nwas suppressed; but these events occurred in a former reign.\"\n\n\"What became of their chapel? Was it pulled down?\"\n\n\"No; there it stands. The chapel is a rich one; Kovielin transferred\nto it all those pictures from his private house which had cost him\nfifty thousand rubles; and many rich merchants of Moscow graced it\nwith works of art. It has been purified since, and turned into an\nOrthodox Church.\"\n\n\"An Orthodox Church?\"\n\n\"Well, yes; in a sort of way. You see, the people here about are Old\nBelievers; warm in their faith; attached to their ancient rites. In\nnumbers only they are strong: ten millions--fifteen millions--twenty\nmillions; no one knows how many. Long oppressed, they have lost alike\ntheir love of country and their loyalty to the Tsar; some looking\nwistfully for help to the Austrian Kaiser; others again dreaming of a\nking of France. It is of vast political moment to recover their lost\nallegiance; and the ministers of Nicolas conceived a plan which has\nbeen steadily carried out. The Old Believers are to be reconciled to\nthe empire by--what shall we say?\"\n\n\"A trick?\"\n\n\"Well, this is the plan. The chapel is to be declared orthodox; it is\nto be opened by thirty monks and a dozen priests; but the monks are to\nbe dressed in homely calico, and the ritual to be used is that\nemployed before Nikon's time.\"\n\n\"You mean me to understand that the Official Church is willing to\nadopt the Ancient Rites, if she may do so with her present priests?\"\n\n\"Yes; the object of the Government is to prove that custom, not\nbelief, divides the Ancient from the Orthodox Church.\"\n\n\"It is an object that compels the Government to meet the Old Believers\nmore than half-way; for to give up Nikon's ritual is to give up all\nthe principle at stake. Has the experiment of an Orthodox priest\nperforming the Ancient Rite succeeded in bringing people to the\npurified church?\"\n\n\"Old Believers say it has completely failed. The chapel is now divided\nfrom the hospital by a moral barrier; and outside people scorn to pass\nthe door and fall into what they call a trap. Last year the chiefs of\nthe asylum prayed for leave to build a new wall across this courtyard,\ncutting off all communication with what they call their desecrated\nshrine. The home minister saw no harm in their request; but on sending\ntheir petition to the Holy Governing Synod, he met a firm refusal of\nthe boon. The Popular Church has nothing to expect from these mitred\nmonks.\"\n\nOn passing into this \"desecrated shrine,\" we find a sombre church, in\nwhich vespers are being chanted by a dozen monks, without a single\nsoul to listen. Most of these monks are aged men, with long hair and\nbeards, attired in black calico robes, and wearing the ancient Russian\ncowl. Each monk has a small black pillow, on which he kneels and\nknocks his head. Church, costume, service, every point is so arranged\nas to take the eye and ear as homely, old and weird, in fact, the\nAncient Rite.\n\n\"Do any of the Old Believers come to see you?\"\n\n\"Yes, on Sundays, many,\" says the chief pope; \"for on Sundays we allow\nthem to dispute in church, and they are fond of disputing with us,\nphrase by phrase, and rite by rite. Five or six hundred come to\nus--after service--to hear us questioned by their popes. We try to\nshow them that we all belong to one and the same Church; that the\ndifference between us lies in ceremony and not in faith.\"\n\n\"Have you made converts to that view?\"\n\n\"In Moscow, no; in Vilna, Penza, and elsewhere, our work of\nconciliation is said to have been more blessed.\"\n\n\"Those places are a long way off.\"\n\n\"Yes; bread that is scattered on the waters may be found in distant\nparts.\"\n\nWhen I ask in official quarters, on what pretense the Emperor Nicolas\nseized the Popular Cemetery, the answer is--that under the guise of a\ncemetery, the Old Believers were establishing a college of their\nfaith; from which they were sending forth missionaries, full of Bible\nlearning, into other provinces; and that these priests and elders were\nattracting crowds of men from the Orthodox Church into dissent. It was\nalleged that they were spreading far and fast; that the parish priests\nwere favoring them; and that every public trouble swelled their ranks.\nTo wit, the cholera is said to have changed a thousand Orthodox\npersons into Old Believers every week. If it had raged two years, the\nOrthodox faith would have died a natural death. For in cases of public\npanic the Russian people have an irresistible longing to fall back\nupon their ancient ways. It is the cry of Hebrews in dismay: \"Your\ntents! back to your tents!\" All Eastern nations have this homely and\nconservative passion in their blood.\n\n\"These were the actual reasons,\" says the councillor of state; \"but\nthe cause assigned for interference was the scandal of the forged\nbank-notes.\"\n\n\"Surely no one believes that scandal?\"\n\n\"Every one believes it. Only last year this scandal led to the\nperpetration of a curious crime.\"\n\n\"What sort of crime?\"\n\n\"At dusk on a wintry day, when all the offices in the cemetery were\nclosed, a cavalcade dashed suddenly to the door. A colonel of\ngendarmes leaped from a drojki, followed by a master of police. Four\ngendarmes and four citizens of Moscow came with them. Pushing into the\nchief office, they asked to see the strong-box, and to have it opened\nin their presence. As the clerk looked shy, the colonel of gendarmes\nwas sharp and rude. They were accused, he said, of forging ruble\nnotes, and he had come by order of the Governor-general, Prince\nVladimir Dolgorouki, to open their strong-box under the eyes of four\neminent merchants and the master of police. He laid the prince's\nmandate down; he showed his own commission; and then in an imperial\ntone, demanded to have the keys! The keys could not be found; the\ntreasurer was gone to Moscow, and would not return that night. 'Then\nseal your box,' said the colonel of gendarmes; 'the police will keep\nit! Come to-morrow, with your keys, to Prince Dolgorouki's house in\nthe Tverskoi Place, at ten o'clock.' The box was sealed; the police\nmaster hauled it into his drojki; in half an hour the cavalcade was\ngone. Next day the treasurer, with his clerk and manager, drove into\nMoscow with their keys, and on arriving in the Tverskoi Place were\nsmitten pale with news that no search for ruble notes had been ordered\nby the prince.\"\n\n\"Who, then, was that colonel of gendarmes?\"\n\n\"A thief; the master of police a thief; the four gendarmes were\nthieves; the four eminent citizens thieves!\"\n\n\"And what was done?\"\n\n\"Prince Dolgorouki sent for Rebrof, head of the police (a very fine\nhead), and told him what these thieves had done. 'Superb!' laughed\nRebrof, as he heard the tale; and when the prince had come to an end\nof his details, he again cried out, in genuine admiration, 'Ha!\nsuperb! One man, and only one in Moscow, has the brain for such a\ndeed. The thief is Simonoff. Give me a little time, say nothing to the\nworld, and Simonoff shall be yours.' Rebrof kept his word; in three\nmonths Simonoff was tried, found guilty on the clearest proof, and\nsentenced to the mines for life. Rebrof traced him through the cabmen,\nfollowed him to his haunts, learned what he had done with the scrip\nand bonds, and then arrested him in a public bath. The money--two\nhundred thousand rubles--he had shared and spent. 'Siberia,' cried the\nbrazen rogue, when the judge pronounced his doom, 'Siberia is a jolly\nplace; I have plenty of money, and shall have a merry time.' Had there\nbeen no false reports about the cemetery, a theft like Simonoff's\ncould hardly have taken place.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nRAGOSKI.\n\n\nRagoski, another cemetery of the Old Believers, in the suburbs of\nMoscow, has a different story, and belongs to a second branch of the\nPopular Church. There is a party of Old Believers \"with priests\" and a\nparty \"without priests.\" Ragoski belongs to the party with priests;\nPreobrajenski to the party without priests.\n\nOne party in the Popular Church believes that the priesthood has been\nlost; the other party believes that it has been saved. Both parties\ndeny the Orthodox Church; but the more liberal branch of the Popular\nChurch allows that a true priesthood may exist in other Greek\ncommunions, by the bishops of which a line of genuine pastors may be\nordained.\n\n\"You wish to visit the Ragoski?\" asks my host. \"Then we must look to\nour means. The chiefs of Ragoski are suspicious; and no wonder; the\ntimes of persecution are near them still. In the reign of Nicolas, the\nRagoski was shut up, the treasury was seized, and many of the\nworshippers were sent away--no one knows whither; to Siberia, to\nArchangel, to Imeritia--who shall say? Alexander has given them back\ntheir own; but they can not tell how long the reign of grace may last.\nAn order from Prince Dolgorouki might come to-morrow; their property\nmight be seized, their chapel closed, their hospital emptied, and\ntheir graves profaned. It is not likely; it is not probable; for the\nfavor shown to this cemetery is a part of our general progress, not an\nisolated act of imperial grace. But these Old Believers, caring little\nabout general progress, give the glory to God. If you told them they\nare tolerated, as Jews are tolerated, they would think you mad; 'The\nLord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the\nLord.' Who among them knows when the evil day may come? Hence, they\nsuspect a stranger. Not twenty men in Moscow, out of their own\ncommunion, have been within their gates. The cemetery will be hard to\nenter; hard as to enter your own Abode of Love.\"\n\nBy happy chance, a gentleman calls while we are talking of ways and\nmeans, who is not only an Old Believer, but an Old Believer of the\nbranch with priests. A short man, white and wrinkled, with a keen gray\neye, a serious face, and speech that takes you by its wonderful force\nand fire, this gentleman is a trader in the city, living in a fine\nhouse, and giving away in charities the income of a prince. I know one\nman to whom he sends every year a thousand rubles, as a help for poor\nstudents at the university. This good citizen is a banker, trader,\nmill-owner, what not; he is able, prompt, adroit; he gives good\ndinners; and is hand-and-glove with every one in power. I have heard\nfolks say--by way of parable, no doubt--that all the police of Moscow\nare in his pay. You also hear whispers that this banker, trader, what\nnot, is a priest; not of the ordained and apostolic order, but one of\nthose popular priests whom the Synod hunts to death. Who knows?\n\n\"You are an Old Believer,\" he begins, addressing his speech to me. \"I\nknow that from your book on The Holy Land; every word of which\nexpresses the doctrines held by the Russian Church in her better\ndays.\"\n\nMy host explains my great desire to see the cemetery of Ragoski. \"You\nshall be welcomed there like a friend. Let me see; shall I go with\nyou? No; it will be better for you to go alone. The governor, Ivan\nKruchinin, shall be there to receive you. I will write.\" He dashes off\na dozen lines of introduction, written in the tone and haste of a\nrecognized chief.\n\nArmed with this letter we start next day, and driving through the\ncourt-yards of the Kremlin, have to pull up our drojki, to allow a\ntrain of big black horses to go prancing by. It is the train of\nInnocent, metropolite of Moscow, taking the air in a coach-and-six!\n\n\"This Ragoski cemetery,\" says the councillor of state, as we push\nthrough the China Town into the suburbs, \"had an origin like that of\nthe Transfiguration. It was opened on account of plague (1770), not by\na single founder, like its rival, but by a company of pious persons,\nanxious to consecrate the ground in which they had already begun to\nlay their dead. A chapel was erected, and a daily service was\nperformed in that chapel for eighty-six years. Of late, the police are\nsaid to have troubled them very much; no one knows why; and no one\ndares to ask any questions on such a point. We are all too much afraid\nof the gentlemen in cowl and gown.\"\n\nIn about an hour we are at the gates. The place is like a desert,\nbrightened by one gaudy pile. An open yard and silent office; a wall\nof brick; a painted chapel, in the old Russ style; a huge tabernacle\nof plain red brick; a wilderness of mounds and tombs: this is Ragoski.\nNot a soul is seen except one aged man in homely garb, who is carrying\nlogs of wood. This man uncaps as we drive past; but turns and watches\nus with furtive eyes. Our letter is soon sent in; but we are evidently\nscanned like pilgrims at Marsaba; and twenty minutes elapse before the\ngovernor comes to us, cap in hand, and begs us to walk in.\n\nA small, round man, with ruddy face and laughing eyes, and tender,\nplaintive manner, Ivan Kruchinin is not much like the men we see\nabout--men who have a lean, sad look and fearful eyes, as though they\nlived in the conscious eclipse of light and faith. Coming to our\ncarriage-door, he begs us to step in, and puts his service smilingly\nat our will.\n\n\"What is this new edifice with the gay old Tartar lozenges and bars?\"\n\n\"Ugh?\" sighs the governor.\n\n\"One of the last efforts made to win these Old Believers over,\" says\nthe councillor of state. \"You see the monks have gone to work with\ncraft. The pile is Russ outside, like many old chapels in Moscow;\npiles which catch the eye and impress the mind. They call it an Old\nBelievers' Chapel; they have built it as the Roman centurion built the\nJews a synagogue; and they hold a service in it, as they hold a\nservice in the Transfiguration; said and sung by Orthodox popes, but\nin the language and the forms employed before Nikon's time.\"\n\nInside, the chapel is arranged to suit an Old Believer's taste; and\nevery point of ritual, phrase and form is yielded to such as will\naccept the ministry of an Orthodox priest.\n\n\"Do they draw any part of your flock?\"\n\n\"Not a soul,\" says the governor. \"A few of those 'without priests,'\nhave joined them in despair; not many--not a hundred; while thousands\nof their people are coming round to us.\"\n\n\"These converts, who accept an Orthodox priest and the ancient ritual,\nare called the United Old Believers--are they not?\"\n\n\"United! They--the new schismatics! We know them not; we hate all\nsects; and these misguided men are adding to our country another\nsect.\"\n\nPassing the cemetery yards, ascending some broad stone steps, we stand\nat a chapel door. This door is closed, and all around us reigns the\nsilence which befits a tomb. Kruchinin makes a sign; his tap is\nanswered from within; a door swings back; and out upon us floats a\nlow, weird chant. Going through the door, we find ourselves in a\nspacious church, columned and pictured, with a noble dome. This is the\nOld Believers' church. A few dim lamps are burning on the shrines;\nsome tapers flit and mingle near the royal gates; a crowd of women\nkneel on the iron floor, not only in the aisles, but across the nave.\nAdvancing with our guide, up the central aisle, we come upon a line of\nmen, some prostrate on the ground, some standing erect in prayer. A\ngroup of singers and readers stands apart, in front of the royal\ngates, with service-books and candles in their hands, reciting in a\nsweet, monotonous drone the ritual of the day.\n\nAs a surprise the scene is perfect.\n\n\"Who are these readers and singers?\"\n\n\"Citizens of Moscow,\" says the governor; \"bankers, farmers, men of\nevery trade and class.\"\n\nWe stand aside until the service ends--a most impressive service, with\nlouder prayers and livelier bendings than you hear and see in Orthodox\ncathedrals. Then we move about. \"What is the service just concluded?\"\nKruchinin bends his eyes to the ground, and answers, \"Only a layman's\nservice; one that can be said without a priest. You noticed, perhaps,\nthat neither the royal gates nor the deacon's doors were opened?\"\n\n\"Yes; how is that?\"\n\n\"Our altars have been sealed.\"\n\n\"Your altars sealed?\"\n\n\"Yes; you shall see. Come round this way,\" and the governor leads us\nto the deacon's door. Sealed; certainly sealed; the door being nailed\nby a piece of leather to the screen; and the leather itself attached\nby a fresh blotch of official wax. It looks as if the persecution were\ncome again.\n\n\"How can such things be done?\"\n\n\"Our Emperor does not know it,\" sighs the governor, who seems to be a\nthoroughly patriotic man; \"it is the doing of our clerical police. We\nask to have the use of our own altar, in our own church, according to\nthe law. They say we shall have it, on one condition. They will give\nus our altar, if we accept their priest!\"\n\n\"And you refuse?\"\n\n\"What can we do? Their priests have not been properly ordained; they\nhave lost their virtue; they can not give the blessing and absolve\nfrom sin. We have declined; our altars continue sealed; and our people\nhave to sing and pray, as in the synagogues of Galilee, without a\npriest.\"\n\n\"That was not always so?\"\n\n\"In other days we had our clergy, living with us openly in the light\nof day; but when our cemetery was restored to us by our good Emperor\nin 1856, some trouble came upon us from the Synod on the subject of\nconsecration, and we have not yet lived that trouble down.\"\n\n\"The prelates in St. Isaac's Square object to your priests receiving\nordination at the hands of foreign bishops?\"\n\n\"Yes; they wish us to receive the Holy Spirit from them; from men who\nhave it not to give! We can not live a lie; and we decline their offer\nto consecrate our priests.\"\n\n\"You have no popular priests?\" \"No.\"\n\n\"If you have no priests, how can you marry and baptize infants?\"\n\n\"According to the law of God.\"\n\n\"Without a priest?\"\n\n\"No; with a priest. We have a priest for such things; though we can\nnot suffer him to risk Siberia by performing a public office in our\nchurch. Father Anton lives in secret. In the bazar of Moscow he is\nknown as a merchant, dealing in grain and stuffs. The world knows\nnothing else about him; even the police have never suspected _him_ of\nbeing a priest.\"\n\n\"He is ordained?\"\n\n\"You know that some of our brethren live in Turkey and in Austria,\nwhere the Turks and Germans grant them asylums which they have not\nalways found at home. A good many Old Believers dwell in a village,\ncalled Belia Krinitza, in the country lying at the feet of the\nCarpathians, just beyond the frontiers of Podolia and Bessarabia. One\nAmbrosius, a Greek prelate from Bulgaria, visited these refugees, and\nconsecrated their Bishop Cyril, who is still alive. Cyril consecrated\nFather Anton, our Moscow priest.\"\n\n\"Father Anton marries and christens the members of your church?\"\n\n\"He does, in secret. In his worldly name he buys and sells, like any\nother dealer in his shop.\"\n\n\"You live in hope that the persecution will not come again?\"\n\n\"We live to suffer, and _not_ to yield.\"\n\nPassing into the hospital, we find a hundred men, in one large\nedifice; four hundred women in a second large edifice. The rooms are\nvery clean; the beds arranged in rows, the kitchens and baking houses\nbright. A woman stands at a desk, before a Virgin, and reads out\npassages from the gospels and the psalms. Each poor old creature drops\na courtesy as we pass her bed, and after we have eaten of their bread\nand salt, in the common dining-hall, they gather in a line and cross\nthemselves, bending to the ground, thanking us, as though we had\nconferred on them some special grace.\n\nThese asylums of the Old Believers are the only free charities in\nRussia; for the hospitals in towns are Government works, supported by\nthe state. The Black Clergy does little for the poor, except to supply\nthem with crops of saints, and bring down persecution on the Popular\nChurch.\n\nOn driving back to Moscow, in the afternoon--pondering on what we have\nseen and heard--the lay singers, the clean asylum, and the sealed-up\naltar--we arrive under the Kremlin wall in time to find the mitred\nmonk in our front again, just dashing with his splendid coach and six\nblack horses through the Holy Gate!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nDISSENTING POLITICS.\n\n\nThe revolution made by Nikon, ending in the rupture of his Church,\ngave vast importance to dissenting bodies, while opening up a field\nfor missionaries and impostors of every kind. Before his reign as\npatriarch, the chief dissidents were the Eunuchs, the Self-burners,\nthe Flagellants, the Sabbath-keepers, and the Silent Men; all of whom\ncould trace their origin to foreign sources and distant times. They\nhad no strong grip on the public mind. But, in setting up a state\nreligion--an official religion--a persecuting religion--from which a\nmajority of the people held aloof, in scorn and fear, the patriarch\nprovided a common ground on which the wildest spirits could meet and\nmix. Aiming at one rule for all, the Government put these Old\nBelievers on a level with Flagellants and Eunuchs; the most\nconservative men in Russia with the most revolutionary men in Europe.\nAll shades of difference were confounded by an ignorant police,\ninspired in their malign activities by a band of ignorant monks. So\nlong as the persecution lasted, a man who would not go to his parish\nchurch, pray in the new fashion, cross himself in the legal way, and\nbend his knee to Baal, was classed as a separatist, and treated by the\ncivil power as a man false to his Emperor and his God.\n\nThus the Old Believers came to support such bodies as the Milk\nDrinkers and Champions of the Holy Spirit, much as the old English\nCatholics joined hands with Quakers and Millennialists in their common\nwar against a persecuting Church. These dissidents have learned to\nkeep their own secrets, and to fight the persecutor with his own\ncarnal weapons. They, too, keep spies. They have secret funds. They\nplace their friends on the press. They send agents to court whom the\nEmperor never suspects. They have relations with monks and ministers,\nwith bishops and aides-de-camp; they not unfrequently occupy the\nposition of monk and minister, bishop and aide-de-camp. They go to\nchurch; they confess their sins; they help the parish priest in his\nneed; they give money to adorn convents; and in some important cases\nthey don the cowl and take religious vows. These persons are not\neasily detected in their guile; unless, indeed, fanaticism takes with\nthem a visible shape. In passing through the province of Harkof, I\nhear in whispers of a frightful secret having come to light; no less\nthan a discovery by the police that in the great monastery of Holy\nMount, in that province, a number of Eunuchs are living in the guise\nof Orthodox monks!\n\nEvery day the council is surprised by reports that some man noted for\nhis piety and charity is a dissenter; nay, is a dissenting pope;\nthough he owns a great mill and seems to devote his energies to trade.\n\nThe reigning Emperor, hating deceit, and most of all self-deceit,\nlooks steadily at the facts. No doubt, if he could put these\ndissidents down he would; but, like a man of genius, he knows that he\nmust work in this field of thought by wit and not by power. \"No\nillusions, gentlemen.\" From the first year of his reign he has been\nasking for true reports, and searching into the statements made with a\nsteadfast yearning to find the truth.\n\nWhat comes of his study is now beginning to be seen of men. The\nOfficial Church has not ceased to be official, and even tyrannical;\nbut the violence of her persecution is going down; the regular clergy\nhave been softened; the monkish fury has been curbed; and lay opinion\nhas been coaxed into making a first display of strength.\n\nA minute was laid by the Emperor before his council of ministers so\nearly as Oct. 15 and 27, 1858, for their future guidance in dealing\nwith dissenters; under which title the Holy Governing Synod still\nclassed the Old Believers with the Flagellants and Eunuchs! The minute\nwritten by his father was not removed from the books; it was simply\nexplained and carried forward; yet the change was radical; since the\npolice, in all their dealings with religious bodies, were instructed\nto talk in a gentler tone, and to give accused persons the benefit of\nevery doubt which should occur on points of law. A change of spirit is\noften of higher moment than a change of phrase. Without implying that\neither his father was wrong, or the Holy Governing Synod unjust, the\nEmperor opened a door by which many of the nonconformists could at\nonce escape. But what was done only shows too plainly how much remains\nto do. The Emperor has checked the persecutor's arm; he has not\ncrushed the persecuting spirit.\n\nA special committee was named by him to study the whole subject of\ndissent; with the practical view of seeing how far it could be\nconscientiously tolerated, and in what way it could be honestly\nrepressed.\n\nThis committee made their report in August, 1864; a voluminous\ndocument (of which some folios only have been printed); and adopting\ntheir report, the Emperor added to the paper a second minute, which is\nstill the rule of his ministers in dealing with such affairs. In this\nminute he recognizes the existence of dissent. He acknowledges that\ndissidents may have civil and religious rights. Of course, as head of\nthe Church, he can not suffer that Church to be injured; but he\ndesires his ministers, after taking counsel with the Holy Governing\nSynod, and obtaining their consent at every step, to see that justice\nis always done.\n\nThe spirit of this imperial minute is so good that the monks attack\nit; not in open day and with honest words; for such is not their\nmethod and their manner; but with sly suggestions in the confessor's\ncloset and serpentine whispers near the sacred shrines. It is\nunpopular with the Holy Governing Synod. But the conservatives and\nsectaries, long cast down, look up into what they call a new heaven\nand a new earth. They say the day of peace has come, and finding a\ndoor of appeal thrown open to them in St. Petersburg, they are sending\nin hundreds of petitions; here requesting leave to open a cemetery,\nthere to construct an altar, here again to build a church. In\nthirty-two months (Jan. 1866 to Sept. 1868), the home ministry\nreceived no less than three hundred and sixty-seven petitions of\nvarious kinds.\n\nValouef, the minister in power when this imperial minute was first\ndrawn up, had a difficult part to play between his liberal master and\nthe retrograde monks. No man is strong enough to quarrel with the\ntribunal sitting in St. Isaac's Square; and Valouef was wrecked by his\nzeal in carrying out the imperial plan. The minister had to get these\nfathers to consent in every case to the petitioner's prayer; these\nfathers, who thought dissenters had no right to live, and kept on\nquoting to him the edicts of Nicolas, as though that sovereign were\nstill alive! On counting his papers at the end of those thirty-two\nmonths of trial, Valouef found that out of three hundred and\nsixty-seven petitions in his office, the Holy Governing Synod\nconsented to his granting twenty-one, postponing fifty, and rejecting\nall the rest.\n\nA man, who said he was born in the Official Church, begged leave to\nprofess dissenting doctrine, which he had come to see was right:\nrefused. A merchant offered to build a chapel for dissenters in a\ndissenting village: refused. A builder proposed to throw a wall across\na convent garden, so as to divide the male from the female part:\nrefused. A dissenting minister asked to be relieved from the daily\nsuperintendence of his city police: refused. Michaeloff, a rich\nmerchant of St. Petersburg, offered to found a hospital for the use of\ndissenters near the capital, at his personal charge: refused. Last\nyear an asylum for poor dissenters was opened at Kluga; an asylum\nbuilt by peasants for persons of their class: the Synod orders it to\nbe closed.\n\nHundreds of petitions come in from Archangel, Siberia, and the\nCaucasus, from men who were in other days transported to those\ndistricts for conscience' sake, requesting leave to come back. These\npetitions are divided by the Holy Governing Synod, into two groups:\n(1.) those of men who have been judged by some kind of court; (2.)\nthose of men who have been exiled by a simple order of the police. The\nfirst class are refused in mass without inquiry; a few of the second\nclass, after counsel taken with the provincial quorum, are allowed.\n\nFrom these examples, it will be seen that the liberal movement is not\nreckless; but the movement is along the line; the work goes on; and\nevery day some progress is being made. A minister who has to work with\na board of monks must feel his way.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nCONCILIATION.\n\n\nOne point has been gained in the mere fact of the imperial minute\nhaving drawn a distinction between things which may be thought and\nthings which may be done. The right of holding a particular article of\nfaith stands on a different ground to the right of preaching that\narticle of faith in open day. The first is private, and concerns one's\nself; the second is public, and concerns the general weal. What is\nprivate only may be left to conscience; what is public must be always\nsubject to the law.\n\nThe ministers have come to see that every man has a right to think for\nhimself about his duty to God; and under their directions the police\nhave orders to leave a man alone, so long as he refrains from exciting\nthe public mind, and disturbing the public peace. In fact, the\nRussians have been brought into line with their neighbors the Turks.\n\nIn Moscow a man is now as free to believe what he likes as he would be\nin Stamboul; though he must exercise his liberty in both these cities\nwith the deference due from the unit to the mass. He must not meddle\nwith the dominant creed. He must not trifle with the followers of that\ncreed; though his action on other points may be perfectly free. Having\nfull possession of the field, the Church will not allow herself to be\nattacked; even though it should please her to fall on you with fire\nand sword.\n\nIn Moscow, a Mussulman may try to convert a Jew; in Stamboul, an\nArmenian may try to convert a Copt; but woe to the Mussulman in Russia\nwho tempts a Christian to his mosque, to the Christian in Turkey who\ntempts a Mussulman to his church! As on the higher, so it stands on\nthe lower plane. The right of propagand lies with the ruling power. In\nRussia, a monk may try to convert a dissenter; the dissenter will be\nsent to Siberia should he happen to convert the monk. A rule exactly\nparallel holds in Turkey and in Persia, where a mollah may try to\nconvert a giaour; but the giaour will be beaten and imprisoned should\nhe have the misfortune to convert the mollah.\n\nSome men may fancy that little has been gained so long as toleration\nstops at free thought, and interdicts free speech. In England or\nAmerica that would seem true and even trite; but the rules applied to\nMoscow are not the rules which would be suitable in London or New\nYork. The gain is vast when a man is permitted to say his prayers in\npeace.\n\nOne day last week I came upon striking evidence of the value of this\nfreedom. Riding into a large village, known to me by fame for its\ndissenting virtues, I exclaimed, on seeing the usual Orthodox domes\nand crosses--\"Not many dissidents here!\" My companion smiled. A moment\nlater we entered the elder's house. \"Have you any Old Believers here?\"\n\n\"Yes, many.\"\n\n\"But here is a church, big enough to hold every man, woman, and child\nin your village.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is true. You find it empty now; in other times you might\nhave found it full.\"\n\n\"How was that? Were your people drawn away from their ancient rites?\"\n\n\"Never. We were driven to church by the police. When God gave us\nAlexander we left off going to mass.\"\n\n\"Was the persecution sharp?\"\n\n\"So sharp, that only four stout men lived through it; never going to\nchurch for a dozen years. When Nicolas died, the police pretended that\nwe had only those four Old Believers in this place; the next day it\nwas suspected, the next year it was known, that every soul in it was\nan Old Believer.\"\n\nAll these dissenting bodies are political parties, more or less openly\npronounced; and have to be dealt with on political, no less than on\nreligious grounds. Rejecting the State Church, they reject the\nEmperor, so far as he assumes to be head of that Church. A State\nChurch, they say, is Antichrist; a devil's kingdom, set up by Satan\nhimself in the form of Nikon the Monk. So far as Alexander is a royal\nprince they take him, and even pray for him; but they will not place\nhis image in their chapel; they refuse to pray for him as a true\nbeliever; and they fear he is dead to religion, and lost to God.\n\nThe Popular Church contends that since the reign of Peter the Great\nevery thing has been lawless and provisional. Peter, they say, was a\nbastard son of Nikon the Monk; in other words, of the devil himself.\nThe first object of this child of the Evil One being to destroy the\nRussian people, he abandoned the country, and built him a palace among\nthe Swedes and Finns. His second object being to destroy the Russian\nChurch, he abolished the office of Patriarch, and made himself her\nspiritual chief.\n\nThe consequences which they draw from these facts are instant and\nterrible; for these consequences touch with a deadly sorcery the\nbusiness of their daily lives.\n\nSince Satan began his reign in the person of Peter the Great, all\nauthorities and rules have been suspended on the earth. According to\nthem, nothing is lawful, for the reign of law is over. Contracts are\nwaste; no trust can be executed; no sacrament can be truly held; not\neven that of marriage. Hence, it is a matter of conscience with\nthousands of Old Believers, that they shall not undergo the nuptial\nrite. They live without it, in the hope of heaven providing them with\na remedy on earth for what would otherwise be a wrong in heaven. And\nthus their lives are passed in the shadow of a terrible doom.\n\nThe absence of marriage-ties among the best of these Old Believers is\nnot the most frightful evil. So far as the men and women are\nconcerned, the case is bad enough; but as regards their children, it\nis worse. These children are regarded by the law as basely born. \"By\nthe devil's law,\" say the Old Believers sadly; but the fact remains,\nthat under the Russian code these \"bastards\" do not inherit their\nfathers' wealth. In other states, an issue might be found in the\nmaking of a will, by which a father could dispose of his property to\nhis children as he pleased. But an Old Believer dares not make a will.\nA will is a public act, and he disclaims the present public powers.\nThe common course is, for an Old Believer to _give_ his money to some\nfriend whom he can trust, and for that friend to _give it back_ to his\nchildren when he is no more.\n\nThe Emperor, studying remedies for these grave disorders among his\npeople, has conceived the bold idea of legalizing in Russia the system\nof civil marriage, already established in every free country of\nEurope, and in each of the United States. A bill has been drawn, so as\nto spare the Orthodox clergy, as much as could be done. The Council of\nState is favorable to this bill; but the Holy Governing Synod,\nfrightened at all these changes, refuse to admit that a \"sacrament\"\ncan be given by a magistrate; and a bill which would bring peace and\norder into a million of households is delayed, though it is not likely\nto be sacrificed, in deference to their monastic doubts.\n\n\"What else would you have the Emperor do?\" I ask a man of confidence\nin this Popular Church.\n\n\"Do! Restore our ancient rights. In Nikon's time the crown procured\nour condemnation by a council of the Eastern Churches; we survive the\ncurse; and now we ask to have that ban removed.\"\n\n\"You stand condemned by a council?\"\n\n\"Yes; by a deceived and corrupted council. That curse must be taken\noff our heads.\"\n\n\"Is the Government aware of your demands?\"\n\n\"It is aware.\"\n\n\"Have any steps been taken to that end?\"\n\n\"A great one. Alexander has proposed to remove the ban; and even the\nSynod, calling itself holy, has consented to recall the curse; but we\nreject all offers from this band of monks; they have no power to bind\nand loose. The Eastern Churches put us in the wrong; the Eastern\nChurches must concur to set us right. They cursed us in their\nignorance; they must bless us in their knowledge. We have passed\nthrough fire, and know our weakness and our strength. No other method\nwill suffice. We ask a general council of the Oriental Church.\"\n\n\"Can the Emperor call that council?\"\n\n\"Yes; if Russia needs it for her peace; and who can say she does not\nneed it for her peace?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nROADS.\n\n\nA man who loads himself with common luggage would find these Russian\nroads rather rough, whether his journey lay through the forest or\nacross the steppe. An outfit for a journey is a work of art. A hundred\nthings useful to the traveller are needed on these roads, from candle\nand cushion down to knife and fork; but there are two things which he\ncan not live without--a tea-pot and a bed.\n\nMy line from the Arctic Sea to the southern slopes of the Ural range,\nfrom the Straits of Yeni Kale to the Gulf of Riga runs over land and\nlake, forest and fen, hill and steppe. My means of travel are those of\nthe country; drojki, cart, barge, tarantass, steamer, sledge, and\ntrain. The first stage of my journey from north to south is from\nSolovetsk to Archangel; made in the provision-boat, under the eyes of\nFather John. This stage is easy, the grouping picturesque, the weather\ngood, and the voyage accomplished in the allotted time. The second\nstage is from Archangel to Vietegra; done by posting in five or six\ndays and nights; a drive of eight hundred versts, through one vast\nforest of birch and pine. My cares set in at this second stage. There\nis trouble about the podorojna--paper signed by the police, giving you\na right to claim horses at the posting stations, at a regulated price.\nAs very few persons drive to Holmogory, the police make a fuss about\nmy papers, wondering why the gentleman could not sail in a boat up the\nDvina like other folk, instead of tearing through a region in which\nthere is hardly any road. Wish to see the birthplace of Lomonosof!\nWhat is there to see? A log cabin, a poor town, a scrubby\ncountry--that is all! Yet after some delays the police give in, the\npaper is signed. Then comes the question: carriage, cart, or sledge?\nNo public vehicle runs to the capital; nothing but a light cart, just\nbig enough to hold a bag of letters and a boy. That cart goes twice a\nweek through the forest-tracks, but no one save the boy in charge can\nride with the imperial mail. A stranger has to find his means of\ngetting forward, and his choice is limited to a cart, a tarantass, and\na sledge.\n\n\"A sledge is the thing,\" says a voice at my elbow; \"but to use a\nsledge you must wait until the snow is deep and the frost sets in. In\nsummer we have no roads; in some long reaches not a path; but from the\nday when we get five degrees of frost, we have the noblest roads in\nthe world.\"\n\n\"That may be six or seven weeks hence?\"\n\n\"Yes, true; then you must have a tarantass. Come over with me to the\nmaker's yard.\"\n\nA tarantass is a better sort of cart, with the addition of\nsplash-board, hood, and step. It has no springs; for a carriage slung\non steel could not be sent through these desert wastes. A spring might\nsnap; and a broken coach some thirty or forty miles from the nearest\nhamlet, is a vehicle in which very few people would like to trust\ntheir feet. A good coach is a sight to see; but a good coach implies a\nsmooth road, with a blacksmith's forge at every turn. A man with\nrubles in his purse can do many things; but a man with a million\nrubles in his purse could not venture to drive through forest and\nsteppe in a carriage which no one in the country could repair.\n\nA tarantass lies lightly on a raft of poles; mere lengths of green\npine, cut down and trimmed with a peasant's axe, and lashed on the\naxles of two pairs of wheels, some nine or ten feet apart. The body is\nan empty shell, into which you drop your trunks and traps, and then\nfill up with hay and straw. A leather blind and apron to match, keep\nout a little of the rain; not much; for the drifts and squalls defy\nall efforts to shut them out. The thing is light and airy, needing no\nskill to make and mend. A pole may split as you jolt along; you stop\nin the forest skirt, cut down a pine, smooth off the leaves and twigs;\nand there, you have another pole! All damage is repaired in half an\nhour.\n\nOn scanning this vehicle closely in and out, my mind is clear that the\ndrive to St. Petersburg should be done in a tarantass--not in a common\ncart. But I am dreaming all this while that the tarantass before me\ncan be hired. A sad mistake! No maker can be found to part from his\ncarriage on any terms short of purchase out and out. \"St. Petersburg\nis a long way off,\" says he; \"how shall I get my tarantass back?\"\n\n\"By sending your man along with it. Charge me for his time, and let\nhim bring it home.\"\n\nThe maker shakes his head.\n\n\"Too far! Will you send him to Vietegra, near the lake?\"\n\n\"No,\" says the man, after some little pause, \"not even to Vietegra.\nYou see, when you pay off my man, he has still to get back; his\njourney will be worse than yours, on account of the autumn rains; he\nmay sink in the marsh; he may stick in the sand; not to speak of his\nbeing robbed by bandits, and devoured by wolves.\"\n\n\"He is not afraid of robbers and wolves?\"\n\n\"Why not? The forests are full of wild men, runaways, and thieves; and\nthree weeks hence the wolves will be out in packs. How, then, can he\nbe sure of getting home with my tarantass?\"\n\nThings look as though the vehicle must be bought. How much will it\ncost? A strong tarantass is said to be worth three hundred and fifty\nrubles. But the waste of money is not all. What can you do with it,\nwhen it is yours? A tarantass in these northern forests is like the\nwhite elephant in the Eastern story. \"Can one sell such a thing in\nVietegra?\"\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" laughs my friend. \"In Vietegra, the people are not fools; in\nfact, they are rather sharp ones. They will say they have no use for a\ntarantass; they know you can't wait to chaffer about the price. Your\nbest plan will be to drive into a station, pay the driver, and run\naway.\"\n\n\"Leaving my tarantass in the yard?\"\n\n\"Exactly; that will be cheaper in the end. Some years ago I drove to\nVietegra in a fine tarantass; no one would buy it from me. One fellow\noffered me ten kopecks. Enraged at his impudence, I put up my carriage\nin a yard to be kept for me; and every six months I received a bill\nfor rent. In ten years' time that tarantass had cost me thrice its\noriginal price. In vain I begged the man to sell it; no buyer could be\nfound. I offered to give it him, out and out; he declined my gift. At\nlength I sent a man to fetch it home; but when my servant got to\nVietegra he could find neither keeper nor tarantass. He only learned\nthat in years gone by the yard was closed, and my tarantass sold with\nthe other traps.\"\n\nA God-speed dinner is the happy means of lifting this cloud of trouble\nfrom my mind. \"The man,\" says our helpful consul, \"thinks he will\nnever see his tarantass again. Now, take my servant, Dimitri, with\nyou; he is a clever fellow, not afraid of wolves and runaways; he may\nbe trusted to bring it safely back.\"\n\n\"If Dimitri goes with you,\" adds a friendly merchant, \"I will lend you\nmy tarantass; it is strong and roomy; big enough for two.\"\n\n\"You will!\" A grip of hands, a flutter of thanks, and the thing is\ndone.\n\n\"Why, now,\" cries my host, \"you will travel like a Tsar.\"\n\nThis private tarantass is brought round to the gates; an empty shell,\ninto which they toss our luggage; first the hard pieces--hat-box,\ngun-case, trunk; then piles of hay to fill up chinks and holes, and\nwisps of straw to bind the mass; on all of which they lay your\nbedding, coats and skins. A woodman's axe, a coil of rope, a ball of\nstring, a bag of nails, a pot of grease, a basket of bread and wine, a\njoint of roast beef, a tea-pot, and a case of cigars are afterwards\ncoaxed into nooks and crannies of the shell.\n\nStarting at dusk, so as to reach the ferry, at which you are to cross\nthe river by day-break, we plash the mud and grind the planks of\nArchangel beneath our hoofs. \"Good-bye! Look out for wolves! Take care\nof brigands! Good-bye, good-bye!\" shout a dozen voices; and then that\nfriendly and frozen city is left behind.\n\nAll night, under murky stars, we tear along a dreary path; pines on\nour right, pines on our left, and pines in our front. We bump through\na village, waking up houseless dogs; we reach a ferry, and pass the\nriver on a raft; we grind over stones and sand; we tug through slush\nand bog; all night, all day; all night again, and after that, all day;\nwinding through the maze of forest leaves, now burnt and sear, and\nswirling on every blast that blows. Each day of our drive is like its\nfellow. A clearing, thirty yards wide, runs out before us for a\nthousand versts. The pines are all alike, the birches all alike. The\nvillages are still more like each other than the trees. Our only\nchange is in the track itself, which passes from sandy rifts to slimy\nbeds, from grassy fields to rolling logs. In a thousand versts we\ncount a hundred versts of log, two hundred versts of sand, three\nhundred versts of grass, four hundred versts of water-way and marsh.\n\nWe smile at the Russians for laying down lines of rail in districts\nwhere they have neither a turnpike road nor a country lane. But how\nare they to blame? An iron path is the natural way in forest lands,\nwhere stone is scarce, as in Russia and the United States.\n\nIf the sands are bad, the logs are worse. One night we spend in a kind\nof protest; dreaming that our luggage has been badly packed, and that\non daylight coming it shall be laid in some easier way. The trunk\ncalls loudly for a change. My seat by day, my bed by night, this box\nhas a leading part in our little play; but no adjustment of the other\ntraps, no stuffing in of hay and straw, no coaxing of the furs and\nskins suffice to appease the fretful spirit of that trunk. It slips\nand jerks beneath me; rising in pain at every plunge. Coaxing it with\nskins is useless; soothing it with wisps of straw is vain. We tie it\nwith bands and belts; but nothing will induce it to lie down. How can\nwe blame it? Trunks have rights as well as men; they claim a proper\nplace to lie in; and my poor box has just been tossed into this\ntarantass, and told to lie quiet on logs and stones.\n\nStill more fretful than this trunk are the lumbar vertebr\u00e6 in my\nspine. They hate this jolting day and night; they have been jerked out\nof their sockets, pounded into dust, and churned into curds. But then\nthese mutineers are under more control than the trunk; and when they\nbegin to murmur seriously, I still them in a moment by hints of taking\nthem for a drive through Bitter Creek.\n\nHa! here is Holmogory! Standing on a bluff above the river, pretty and\nbright, with her golden cross, her grassy roads, her pink and white\nhouses, her boats on the water, and her stretches of yellow sands; a\nvillage with open spaces; here a church, there a cloister; gay with\ngilt and paint, and shanties of a better class than you see in such\nsmall country towns; and forests of pine and birch around\nher--Holmogory looks the very spot on which a poet of the people might\nbe born!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nA PEASANT POET.\n\n\nIn the grass-grown square of Archangel, between the fire-tower and the\ncourt of justice, stands a bronze figure on a round marble shaft; a\nfigure showing a good deal of naked chest, and holding (with a Cupid's\nhelp) a lyre on the left arm. A Roman robe flows down the back. You\nwonder what such a figure is doing in such a place; a bit of false\nFrench art in a city of monks and trade! The man in whose name it has\nbeen raised was a poet; a poet racy of the soil; a village genius;\nwho, among merits of many kinds, had the high quality of being a\ngenuine Russian, and of writing in his native tongue.\n\nFor fifty years Lomonosoff was called a fool--a clever fool--for\nhaving wasted his genius on coachmen and cooks. Court ladies laughed\nat his whimsy of writing verses for the common herd to read; and\nlearned dons considered him crazy for not doing all his more serious\nwork in French. A change has come; the court speaks Russ; and society\nsees some merit in the phrases which it once contemned. The language\nof books and science is no longer foreign to the soil; and all classes\nof the people have the sense to read and speak in their musical and\ncopious native speech. This happy change is due to Michael Lomonosoff,\nthe peasant boy!\n\nBorn in this forest village on the Dvina bluffs (in 1711), he sprang\nfrom that race of free colonists who had come into the north country\nfrom Novgorod the Great. His father, Vassili Lomonosoff, a boatman,\ngetting his bread by netting and spearing fish on the great river,\nbrought him up among nets and boats, until the lad was big enough to\nslip his chain, throw down his pole, and push into the outer sea. Not\nmany books were then to be got in a forest town like Holmogory, and\nsome lives of saints and a Slavonic Bible were his only reading for\nmany years. A good priest (as I learn on the spot) took notice of the\nchild, and taught him to read the old Slavonic words. These books he\ngot by heart; making heroes of the Hebrew prophets, and reading with\nardor of his native saints. The priest soon taught him all he knew,\nand being a man of good heart, he sought around him for the means of\nsending the lad to school. But where, in those dark ages, could a\nschool be found? He knew of schools for priests, and for the sons of\npriests; but schools for peasants, and for the sons of peasants, did\nnot then exist. Could he be placed with a priest and sent to school?\nThe village pastor wrote to a friend in Moscow, who, though poor\nhimself, agreed to take the lad into his house. A train of carts came\nthrough the village on its way to Moscow, carrying fur and fish for\nsale; and the priest arranged with the drivers that Michael should go\nwith them, trudging at their side, and helping them on the road. At\nten years old he left his forest home, and walked to the great city, a\ndistance of nearly a thousand miles.\n\nThe priest in Moscow sent him to the clerical school, where he learned\nsome Latin, French, and German; in all of which tongues, as well as in\nRussian, he afterwards spoke and wrote. He also learned to work for\nhis living as a polisher and setter of stones. A lad who can dine off\na crust of rye bread and a cup of cabbage broth, is easily fed; and\nMichael, though he stuck to his craft, and lived by it, found plenty\nof time for the cultivation of his higher gifts. He was a good artist;\nfor the time and place a very good artist; as the Jove-like head in\nthe great hall of the University of Moscow proves. This head--the\npoet's own gift--was executed in mosaic by his hands.\n\nAfter learning all that the monks could teach him in Moscow, he left\nthat city for Germany, where he lived some years as artist, teacher,\nand professor; mastering thoroughly the modern languages and the\nliberal arts. When he came back to his native soil he was one of the\ndeepest pundits of his time; a man of name and proof; respected in\nforeign universities for his wonderful sweep and grasp of mind.\nStudying many branches of science, he made himself a reputation in\nevery branch. A Russian has a variety of gifts, and Michael was in\nevery sense a Russ. While yet a lad it was said of him that he could\nmend a net, sing a ditty, drive a cart, build a cabin, and guide a\nboat with equal skill. When he grew up to be a man, it was said of him\nwith no less truth, that he could at the same time crack a joke and\nheat a crucible; pose a logician and criticise a poet; draw the human\nfigure and make a map of the stars. Coming back to Russia with such a\nname, he found the world at his feet; a professor's chair, with the\nrank of a nobleman, and the office of a councillor of state; dignities\nwhich a professor now enjoys by legal right. A strong Germanic\ninfluence met him, as a native intruder in a region of learning closed\nin that age to the Russ; but he joked and pushed, and fought his way\ninto the highest seats. He not only won a place in the academy which\nPeter the Great had founded on the Neva, but in a few years he became\nits living soul.\n\nYet Michael remained a peasant and a Russian all his days. He drank a\ngreat many drams, and was never ashamed of being drunk. One day--as\nthe members of that academy tell the tale--he was picked up from the\ngutter by one who knew him. \"Hush! take care,\" said the good Samaritan\nsoftly; \"get up quietly and come home, lest some one of the academy\nshould see us.\" \"Fool!\" cried the tipsy professor, \"Academy? I am the\nAcademy!\"\n\nNot without cause is this proud boast attributed to the peasant's son;\nfor Lomonosoff was the academy, at least on the Russian side. The\nbreadth of his knowledge seems a marvel, even in days when a special\nstudent is expected to be an encyclopedic man, with the whole of\nnature for his province. He wrote in Latin and in German before he\nwrote in Russ. He was a miner, a physician, and a poet. He was a\npainter, a carver, and draughtsman. He wrote on grammar, on drugs, on\nmusic, and on the theory of ice. One of his best books is a criticism\non the Varegs in Russia; one of his best papers is a treatise on\nmicroscopes and telescopes. He wrote on the aurora borealis, on the\nduties of a journalist, on the uses of a barometer, and on\nexplorations in the Polar Sea. In the records of nearly every science\nand art his name is found. Astronomy owes him something, chemistry\nsomething, metallurgy something. But the glory of Lomonosoff was his\nverse, of which he wrote a great deal, and in many different styles;\nlays, odes, tragedies, an unfinished epic, and moral pieces without\nend.\n\nThe rank of a great poet is not claimed for Michael Lomonosoff by\njudicious critics. No creation like Oneghin, not even like Lavretski,\ncame from his pen. His merit lies in the fact that he was the first\nwriter who dared to be Russian in his art. But though it is the chief,\nit is far from being the only distinction which Lomonosoff enjoys,\neven as a poet. The mechanism of literature owes to his daring a\nreform, of which no man now living will see the end. The Russ are a\nreligious people, to whom phrases of devotion are as their daily\nbread; but the language of their Church is not the language of their\nstreets; and their books, though calling themselves Russ, were printed\nin a dialect which few except their popes and the Old Believers could\nunderstand. This dialect Lomonosoff laid aside, and took up in its\nstead the fluent and racy idiom of the market and the quay. But he had\na poetic music to invent, as well as a poetic idiom to adapt. The\npoetry of a kindred race--the Poles--supplied him with a model, on\nwhich he built for the Russ that tonical lilt and flow, which ever\nsince his time has been adopted by writers of verse as the most\nperfect vehicle for their poetic speech.\n\nBut greater than his poetic merit is the fact on which writers like\nLamanski love to dwell, that Lomonosoff was a thorough Russian in his\nhabits and ideas; and that after his election into the academy, he set\nhis heart upon nationalizing that body, so as to render it Russian;\njust as the Berlin Academy was German, and the Paris Academy was\nFrench.\n\nIn his own time Lomonosoff met with little encouragement from the\ncourt. That court was German; the society nearest it was German; and\nGerman was the language of scientific thought. A Russian was a savage;\nand the speech of the common people was condemned to the bazars and\nstreets. Lomonosoff introduced that speech into literature and into\nthe discussions of learned men.\n\nA statue to such a peasant marks a period in the nation's upward\ncourse. A line on the marble shaft records the fact that this figure\nwas cast in 1829; and a second line states that it was removed in 1867\nto its present site. Here, too, is progress. Forty years ago, a place\nbehind the courts was good enough for a poet who was also a\nfisherman's son; even though he had done a fine thing in writing his\nverses in his native tongue; but thirty years later it had come to be\nunderstood by the people that no place is good enough for the man who\nhas crowned them with his own glory; and as they see that this figure\nof Michael Lomonosoff is an honor to the province even more than to\nthe poet, they have raised his pedestal in the public square.\n\nWould that it had fallen into native hands! Modelled by a French\nsculptor, in the worst days of a bad school, it is a stupid travestie\nof truth and art. The rustics and fishermen, staring at the lyre and\nCupid, at the naked shoulders and the Roman robe, wonder how their\npoet came to wear such a dress. This man is not the fellow whom their\nfathers knew--that laughing lad who laid down his tackle to become the\npeer of emperors and kings. Some day a native sculptor, working in the\nlocal spirit, will make a worthier monument of the peasant bard. A\ntall young fellow, with broad, white brow and flashing eyes, in shaggy\nsheep-skin wrap, broad belt, capacious boots, and high fur cap; his\nright hand grasping a pole and net, his left hand holding an open\nBible; that would be Michael as he lived, and as men remember him now\nthat he is dead.\n\nFour years ago (the anniversary of his death in 1765), busts were set\nup, and burses founded in many colleges and schools, in honor of the\npeasant's son. Moscow took the lead; St. Petersburg followed; and the\nexample spread to Harkof and Kazan. A school was built at Holmogory in\nthe poet's name; to smooth the path of any new child of genius who may\nspring from this virgin soil. May it live forever!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nFOREST SCENES.\n\n\nFrom Holgomory to Kargopol, from Kargopol to Vietegra, we pass through\nan empire of villages; not a single place on a road four hundred miles\nin length that could by any form of courtesy be called a town. The\ntrack runs on and on, now winding by the river bank, now eating its\nway through the forest growths; but always flowing, as it were, in one\nthin line from north to south; ferrying deep rivers; dragging through\nshingle, slime, and peat; crashing over broken rocks; and crawling up\ngentle heights. His horses four abreast, and lashed to the tarantass\nwith ropes and chains, the driver tears along the road as though he\nwere racing with his Chert--his Evil One; and all in the hope of\ngetting from his thankless fare an extra cup of tea. It is the joke of\na Russian jarvy, that he will \"drive you out of your senses for ten\nkopecks.\" From dawn to sunset, day by day, it is one long race through\nbogs and pines. The landscape shows no dikes, no hedges, and no gates;\nno signs that tell of a personal owning of the land. We whisk by a\nlog-fire, and a group of tramps, who flash upon us with a sullen\ngreeting, some of them starting to their feet. \"What are those\nfellows, Dimitri?\"\n\n\"They seem to be some of the runaways.\"\n\n\"Runaways! Who are the runaways, and what are they running away from?\"\n\n\"Queer fellows, who don't like work, who won't obey orders, who never\nrest in one place. You find them in the woods about here everywhere.\nThey are savages. In Kargopol you can learn about them.\"\n\nAt the town of Kargopol, on the river Onega, in the province of\nOlonetz, I hear something of these runaways, as of a troublesome and\ndangerous set of men, bad in themselves, and still worse as a sign. I\nhear of them afterwards in Novgorod the Great, and in Kazan. The\ncommunity is widely spread. Timashef is aware that these unsocial\nbodies exist in the provinces of Yaroslav, Archangel, Vologda,\nNovgorod, Kostroma, and Perm.\n\nThese runaways are vagabonds. Leaving house and land, throwing down\ntheir rights as peasants and burghers, they dress themselves in rags,\nassume the pilgrim's staff, retire from their families, push into\nforest depths, and dwell in quagmires and sandy rifts, protesting\nagainst the official empire and the official church. Some may lead a\nharmless life; the peasants helping them with food and drink; while\nthey spend their days in dozing and their nights in prayer. Even when\ntheir resistance to the world is passive only; it is a protest hard to\nbear and harder still to meet. They will not labor for the things that\nperish. They will not bend their necks to magistrate and prince. They\ndo not admit the law under which they live. They hold that the present\nimperial system is the devil's work; that the Prince of Darkness sits\nenthroned in the winter palace; that the lords and ladies who surround\nhim are the lying witnesses and the fallen saints. Their part is not\nwith the world, from which they fly, as Abraham fled from the cities\nof the plain.\n\nMany of the peasants, either sympathizing with their views or fearing\ntheir vengeance, help them to support their life in the woods. No door\nis ever closed on them; no voice is ever raised against them. Even in\nthe districts which they are said to ravage occasionally in search of\nfood, hardly any thing can be learned about them, least of all by the\nmasters of police.\n\nFifteen months ago the governor of Olonetz reported to General\nTimashef, minister of the interior, that a great number of these\nrunaways were known to be living in his province and in the adjoining\nprovinces, who were more or less openly supported by the peasantry in\ntheir revolt against social order and the reigning prince. On being\nasked by the minister what should be done, he hinted that nothing else\nwould meet the evil but a seizure of vagabonds on all the roads, and\nin all the forest paths, in the vast countries lying north of the\nVolga, from Lake Ilmen to the Ural crests. His hints were taken in St.\nPetersburg, and hundreds of arrests were made; but whether the real\nrunaways were caught by the police was a question open to no less\ndoubt than that of how to deal with them when they were caught--according\nto the new and liberal code.\n\nRoused by a sense of danger, the Government has been led into making\ninquiries far and near, the replies to which are of a kind to flutter\nthe kindest hearts and puzzle the wisest heads. To wit: the Governor\nof Kazan reports to General Timashef that he has collected proof--(1.)\nthat in his province the runaways have a regular organization; (2.)\nthat they have secret places for meeting and worship; (3.) that they\nhave chiefs whom they obey and trust. How can a legal minister deal\nwith cases of an aspect so completely Oriental? Is it a crime to give\nup house and land? Is it an offense to live in deserts and lonely\ncaves? What article in the civil code prevents a man from living like\nSeraphim in a desert; like Philaret the Less, in a grave-yard? Yet, on\nthe other side, how can a reforming Emperor suffer his people to fall\nback into the nomadic state? A runaway is not a weakness only, but a\nperil; since the spirit of his revolt against social order is\nprecisely that which the reformers have most cause to dread. In going\nback from his country, he is going back into chaos.\n\nThe mighty drama now proceeding in his country, turns on the question\nraised by the runaway. Can the Russian peasant live under law? If it\nshall prove on trial that any large portion of the Russian peasantry\nshares this passion for a vagabond life--as some folk hope, and still\nmore fear--the great experiment will fail, and civil freedom will be\nlost for a hundred years.\n\nThe facts collected by the minister have been laid before a special\ncommittee, named by the crown. That committee is now sitting; but no\nconclusion has yet been reached, and no suggestion for meeting the\nevil can be pointed out.\n\nVillage after village passes to the rear!\n\nRuss hamlets are so closely modelled on a common type, that when you\nhave seen one, you have seen a host; when you have seen two, you have\nseen the whole. Your sample may be either large or small, either\nlog-built or mud-built, either hidden in forest or exposed on steppe;\nyet in the thousands on thousands to come, you will observe no change\nin the prevailing forms. There is a Great Russ hamlet and a Little\nRuss hamlet; one with its centre in Moscow, as the capital of Great\nRussia; the second with its centre in Kief, the capital of Little\nRussia.\n\nA Great Russ village consists of two lines of cabins parted from each\nother by a wide and dirty lane. Each homestead stands alone. From ten\nto a hundred cabins make a village. Built of the same pine-logs,\nnotched and bound together, each house is like its fellow, except in\nsize. The elder's hut is bigger than the rest; and after the elder's\nhouse comes the whisky shop. Four squat walls, two tiers in height,\nand pierced by doors and windows; such is the shell. The floor is mud,\nthe shingle deal. The walls are rough, the crannies stuffed with moss.\nNo paint is used, and the log fronts soon become grimy with rain and\nsmoke. The space between each hut lies open and unfenced; a slough of\nmud and mire, in which the pigs grunt and wallow, and the wolf-dogs\nsnarl and fight. The lane is planked. One house here and there may\nhave a balcony, a cow-shed, an upper story. Near the hamlet rises a\nchapel built of logs, and roofed with plank; but here you find a flush\nof color, if not a gleam of gold. The walls of the chapel are sure to\nbe painted white, the roof is sure to be painted green. Some wealthy\npeasant may have gilt the cross.\n\nBeyond these dreary cabins lie the still more dreary fields, which the\npeople till. Flat, unfenced, and lowly, they have nothing of the\npoetry of our fields in the Suffolk and Essex plains; no hedgerow\nferns, no clumps of fruit-trees, and no hints of home. The patches set\napart for kitchen-stuff are not like gardens even of their homely\nkind; they look like workhouse plots of space laid out by yard and\nrule, in which no living soul had any part. These patches are always\nmean, and you search in vain for such a dainty as a flower.\n\nAmong the Little Russ--in the old Polish circles of the south and\nwest, you see a village group of another kind. Instead of the grimy\nlogs, you have a predominant mixture of green and white; instead of\nthe formal blocks, you have a scatter of cottages in the midst of\ntrees. The cabins are built of earth and reeds; the roof is thatched\nwith straw; and the walls of the homestead are washed with lime. A\nfence of mats and thorns runs round the group. If every house appears\nto be small, it stands in a yard and garden of its own. The village\nhas no streets. Two, and only two, openings pierce the outer\nfence--one north, one south; and in feeling your way from one opening\nin the fence to another, you push through a maze of lanes between\nreeds and spines, beset by savage dogs. Each new-comer would seem to\nhave pitched his tent where he pleased; taking care to cover his hut\nand yard by the common fence.\n\nA village built without a plan, in which every house is surrounded by\na garden, covers an immense extent of ground. Some of the Kozak\nvillages are as widely spread as towns. Of course there is a church,\nwith its glow of color and poetic charm.\n\nFrom Kief on the Dnieper to Kalatch on the Don, you find the villages\nof this second type. The points of difference lie in the house and in\nthe garden; and must spring from difference of education, if not of\nrace. The Great Russians are of a timid, soft, and fluent type. They\nlike to huddle in a crowd, to club their means, to live under a common\nroof, and stand or fall by the family tree. The Little Russians are of\na quick, adventurous, and hardy type; who like to stand apart, each\nfor himself, with scope and range enough for the play of all his\npowers. A Great Russian carries his bride to his father's shed; a\nLittle Russian carries her to a cabin of his own.\n\nThe forest melts and melts! We meet a woman driving in a cart alone; a\ngirl darts past us in the mail; anon we come upon a wagon, guarded by\ntroops on foot, containing prisoners, partly chained, in charge of an\nancient dame.\n\nThis service of the road is due from village to village; and on a\nparty of travellers coming into a hamlet, the elder must provide for\nthem the things required--carts, horses, drivers--in accordance with\ntheir podorojna; but in many villages the party finds no men, or none\nexcept the very young or the very old. Husbands are leagues away;\nfishing in the Polar seas, cutting timber in the Kargopol forests,\ntrapping fox and beaver in the Ural Mountains; leaving their wives\nalone for months. These female villages are curious things, in which a\nman of pleasant manners may find a chance of flirting to his heart's\ncontent.\n\nVillages, more villages, yet more villages! We pass a gang of soldiers\nmarching by the side of a peasant's cart, in which lies a prisoner,\nchained; we spy a wolf in the copse; we meet a pilgrim on his way to\nSolovetsk; we come upon a gang of boys whose clothes appear to be out\nat wash; we pass a broken wagon; we start at the howl of some village\ndogs; and then go winding forward hour by hour, through the silent\nwoods. Some touch of grace and poetry charms our eyes in the most\ndesolate scenes. A virgin freshness crisps and shakes the leaves. The\nair is pure. If nearly all the lines are level, the sky is blue, the\nsunshine gold. Many of the trees are rich with amber, pink and brown;\nand every vagrant breeze makes music in the pines. A peasant and his\ndog troop past, reminding me of scenes in Kent. A convent here and\nthere peeps out. A patch of forest is on fire, from the burning mass\nof which a tongue of pale pink flame laps out and up through a pall of\npurple smoke. A clearing, swept by some former fire, is all aglow with\nautumnal flowers. A bright beck dashes through the falling leaves. A\ncomely child, with flaxen curls and innocent northern eyes, stands\nbowing in the road, with an almost Syrian grace. A woman comes up with\na bowl of milk. A group of girls are washing at a stream, under the\ncare of either the Virgin Mother or some local saint. On every point,\nthe folk, if homely, are devotional and polite; brightening their\nforest breaks with chapel and cross, and making their dreary road, as\nit were, a path of light towards heaven.\n\nWe dash into a village near a small black lake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nPATRIARCHAL LIFE.\n\n\n\"No horses to be got till night!\"\n\n\"You see,\" smirks the village elder, \"we are making holiday; it is a\nbridal afternoon, and the patriarch gives a feast on account of\nVanka's nuptials with Nadia.\"\n\n\"Nadia! Well, a pretty name. We shall have horses in the evening, eh?\nThen let it be so. Who are yon people? Ha! the church! Come, let us\nfollow them, and see the crowning. Is this Vanka a fine young fellow?\"\n\n\"Vanka! yes; in the bud. He is a lad of seventeen years; said to be\neighteen years--the legal age--but, hem! he counts for nothing in the\nmatch.\"\n\n\"Why, then, is he going to take a wife?\"\n\n\"Hem! that is the patriarch's business. Daniel wants some help in the\nhouse. Old Dan, you see, is Vanka's father, and the poor old motherkin\nhas been worn by him to the skin and bone. She is ten years older than\nhe, and the patriarch wants a younger woman at his beck and call; a\nwoman to milk his cow, to warm his stove, and to make his tea.\"\n\n\"He wants a good servant?\"\n\n\"Yes; he wants a good servant, and he will get one in Nadia.\"\n\n\"Then this affair is not a love-match?\"\n\n\"Much as most. The lad, though young, is said to have been in love;\nfor lads are silly and girls are sly; but he is not in love with the\nwoman whom his father chooses for him.\"\n\n\"One of your village girls?\"\n\n\"Yes, Lousha; a pretty minx, with round blue eyes and pouting lips;\nand not a ruble in the world. Now, Nadia has five brass samovars and\nfifteen silver spoons. The heart of Daniel melted towards those\nfifteen silver spoons.\"\n\n\"And what says Vanka to the match?\"\n\n\"Nothing. What can he say? The patriarch has done it all: tested the\nspoons, accepted the bride, arranged the feast, and fixed the day.\"\n\n\"Russia is the land for you fathers, eh?\"\n\n\"Each in his time; the father first, the offspring next. Each in his\nday; the boy will be a patriarch in his turn. A son is nobody till his\nparent dies.\"\n\n\"Not in such an affair as choosing his own wife?\"\n\n\"No; least of all in choosing his own wife. You see our ways are old\nand homely, like the Bible ways. A patriarch rules under every\nroof--not only lives but rules; and where in the patriarchal times do\nyou read that the young men went out into the world and chose them\npartners for themselves? Our patriarch settles such things; he and the\nproposeress.\"\n\n\"Proposeress! Pray what is a proposeress?\"\n\n\"An ancient crone, who lives in yon cabin, near the bridge; a poor old\nwaif, who feeds upon her craft, who tells your fortune by a card, who\nacts as agent for the girls, and is feared by every body as a witch.\"\n\n\"Have you such a proposeress in every village?\"\n\n\"Not in every one. Some villages are too poor, for these old women\nmust be paid in good kopecks. The craftier sisters live in towns,\nwhere they can tell you a good deal more. These city witches can rule\nthe planets, while the village witches can only rule the cards.\"\n\n\"You really think they rule the planets?\"\n\n\"Who can tell? We see they rule the men and women; yet every man has\nhis planet and his angel. You must know, the girls who go to the\nproposeress leave with her a list of what they have--so many samovars,\nso much linen and household stuff. It is not often they have silver\nspoons. These lists the patriarchs come to her house and read. A sly\nfellow, like Old Dan, will steal to her door at dusk, when no one is\nabout, and putting down his flask of whisky on the table, ask the old\ncrone to drink. 'Come, motherkin,' he will giggle, 'bring out your\nlist, and let us talk it over.' 'What are you seeking, Father Daniel?'\nleers the crone. 'A wife for Vanka, motherkin, a wife! Here, take a\ndrink; the dram will do you good; and now bring out your book. A fine\nstout lass, with plenty of sticks and stones for me!' 'Ha!' pouts the\nwitch, her finger on the glass, 'you want to see my book! Well,\nfatherkin, I have two nice lasses on my hands--good girls, and well to\ndo; either one or other just the bride for Vanka. Here, now, is\nLousha; pretty thing, but no household stuff; blue eyes, but not yet\ntwenty; teeth like pearls, but shaky on her feet. Not do for you and\nyour son? Why not? Well, as you please; I show my wares, you take them\nor you leave them. Lousha is a dainty thing--you need not blow the\nshingles off! Come, come, there's Dounia; well-built, buxom lassie;\nnever raised a scandal in her life; had but one lover, a neighbor's\nboy. What sticks and stones? Dounia is a prize in herself--she eats\nvery little, and she works like a horse. She has four samovars\n(Russian tea-urns). Not do for you! Well, now you _are_ in luck\ntonight, little father. Here's Nadia!'--on which comes out the story\nof her samovars and her silver spoons.\"\n\n\"And so the match is made?\"\n\n\"A fee is paid to the parish priest, a day for the rite is fixed, and\nall is over--except the feast, the drinking, and the headache.\"\n\n\"Tell me about Nadia?\"\n\n\"You think Nadia such a pretty name. For my part, I prefer Marfousha.\nMy wife was Marfa; called Marfousha when the woman is a pet.\"\n\n\"Is Nadia young and fair?\"\n\n\"Young? Twenty-nine. Fair? Brown as a turf.\"\n\n\"Twenty-nine, and Vanka seventeen!\"\n\n\"But she is big and bony; strong as a mule, and she can go all day on\nvery little food.\"\n\n\"All that would be well enough, if what you wanted was a slave to\nthrust a spade and drive a cart.\"\n\n\"That is what the patriarch wants; a servant for himself, a partner\nfor his boy.\"\n\n\"How came Vanka to accept her?\"\n\n\"Daniel shows him her silver spoons, her shining urns, and her chest\nof household stuff. The lad stares wistfully at these fine things;\nLousha is absent, and the old man nods. The woman kisses him, and all\nis done.\"\n\n\"Poor Lousha! where is she to-day?\"\n\n\"Left in the fields to grow. She is not strong enough yet to marry.\nShe could not work for her husband and her husband's father as a wife\nmust do. Far better wait awhile. At twenty-nine she will be big and\nbony like Nadia; then she will be fit to marry, for then her wild\nyoung spirits will be gone.\"\n\nWe walk along the plank-road from the station to the church; which is\ncrowded with men and women in their holiday attire; the girls in red\nskirts and bodices, trimmed with fur, and even with silver lace; the\nmen in clean capotes and round fur caps, with golden tassels and\nscarlet tops. The rite is nearly over; the priest has joined the pair\nin holy matrimony; and the bride and groom come forth, arrayed in\ntheir tinsel crowns. The king leads out the queen, who certainly looks\nold enough to be his dam. One hears so much about marital rights in\nRussia, and the claim of women to be thrashed in evidence of their\nhusband's love, that one can hardly help wondering how long it will be\nbefore Vanka can beat his wife. Not at present, clearly; so that one\nwould feel some doubt of their \"sober certainty of bliss,\" except for\nour knowledge that if Vanka fails, the patriarch will not scruple to\nuse his whip.\n\nCrowned with her rim of gilt brass, the bony bride, in stiff brocade\nand looking her fifteen silver spoons, slides down the sloppy lane to\nher future home.\n\nThe whisky-shops--we have two in our village for the comfort of eighty\nor ninety souls--are loud and busy, pouring out nips and nippets of\ntheir liquid death. Fat, bearded men are hugging and kissing each\nother in their pots, while the younger fry of lads and lasses wend in\ndemure and pensive silence to an open ground, where they mean to wind\nup the day's festivities with a dance. This frolic is a thing to see.\nA ring of villagers, old and young, get ready to applaud the sport.\nThe dancers stand apart; a knot of young men here, a knot of maidens\nthere, each sex by itself, and silent as a crowd of mutes. A piper\nbreaks into a tune; a youth pulls off his cap, and challenges his girl\nwith a wave and bow. If the girl is willing, she waves her\nhandkerchief in token of assent; the youth advances, takes a corner of\nthe kerchief in his hand, and leads his lassie round and round. No\nword is spoken, and no laugh is heard. Stiff with cords and rich with\nbraid, the girl moves heavily by herself, going round and round, and\nnever allowing her partner to touch her hand. The pipe goes droning on\nfor hours in the same sad key and measure; and the prize of merit in\nthis \"circling,\" as the dance is called, is given by spectators to the\nlassie who in all that summer revelry has never spoken and never\nsmiled!\n\nMen chat with men, and laugh with men; but if they approach the women,\nthey are speechless; making signs with their caps only; and their dumb\nappeal is answered by a wave of the kerchief--answered without words.\nThese romps go on till bed-time; when the men, being warm with drink,\nif not with love, begin to reel and shout like Comus and his tipsy\ncrew.\n\nThe patriarch stops at home, delighted to spend his evening with Nadia\nand her silver spoons.\n\nEven when her husband is a grown-up man, a woman has to come under the\ncommon roof, and live by the common rule. If she would like to get her\nshare of the cabbage soup and the buckwheat pudding, not to speak of a\nnew bodice now and then, she must contrive to please the old man, and\nshe can only please him by doing at once whatever he bids her do. The\nGreek church knows of no divorce; and once married, you are tied for\nlife: but neither party has imagination enough to be wretched in his\nlot, unless the beans should fail or the patriarch lay on the whip.\n\n\"Would not a husband protect his wife?\"\n\n\"No,\" says the elder, \"not where his father is concerned.\"\n\nA patriarch is lord in his own house and family, and no man has a\nright to interfere with him; not even the village elder and the\nimperial judge. He stands above oral and written law. His cabin is not\nonly a castle, but a church, and every act of his done within that\ncabin is supposed to be private and divine.\n\n\"If a woman flew to her husband from blows and stripes?\"\n\n\"The husband must submit. What would you have? Two wills under one\nroof? The shingles would fly off.\"\n\n\"The young men always yield?\"\n\n\"What should they do but yield? Is not old age to be revered? Is not\nexperience good? Can a man have lived his life and not learned wisdom\nwith his years? Now, it is said, the fashion is about to change; the\nyoung men are to rule the house; the patriarchs are to hide their\nbeards. But not in my time; not in my time!\"\n\n\"Do the women readily submit to what the patriarch says?\"\n\n\"They must. Suppose Nadia beaten by Old Dan. She comes to me with her\nshoulders black and blue. I call a meeting of patriarchs to hear her\ntale. What comes of it? She tells them her father beats her. She shows\nher scars. The patriarchs ask her why he beats her? She owns that she\nrefused to do this or that, as he bade her; something, it may be,\nwhich he ought not to have asked, and she ought not to have done; but\nthe principle of authority is felt to be at stake; for, if a patriarch\nis not to rule his house, how is the elder to rule his village, the\ngovernor his province, the Tsar his empire? All authorities stand or\nfall together; and the patriarchs find that the woman is a fool, and\nthat a second drubbing will do her good.\"\n\n\"They would not order her to be flogged?\"\n\n\"Not now; the new law forbids it; that is to say, in public. In his\nown cabin Daniel may flog Nadia when he likes.\"\n\nThis \"new law\" against flogging women in public is an edict of the\npresent reign; a part of that mighty scheme of social reform which the\nEmperor is carrying out on every side. It is not popular in the\nvillage, since it interferes with the rights of men, and cripples the\npatriarchs in dealing with the defenseless sex. Since this edict put\nan end to the open flogging of women, the men have been forced to\ninvent new modes of punishing their wives, and their sons' wives,\nsince they fancy that a private beating does but little good, because\nit carries no sting of shame. A news-sheet gives the following as a\nsample: Euphrosine M----, a peasant woman living in the province of\nKherson, is accused by her husband of unfaithfulness to her vows. The\nrustic calls a meeting of patriarchs, who hear his story, and without\nhearing the wife in her defense, condemn her to be walked through the\nvillage stark naked, in broad daylight, in the presence of all her\nfriends. That sentence is executed on a frosty day. Her guilt is never\nproved; yet she has no appeal from the decision of that village court!\n\nA village is an original and separate power; in every sense a state\nwithin the state.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nVILLAGE REPUBLICS.\n\n\nA village is a republic, governed by a law, a custom, and a ruler of\nits own.\n\nIn Western Europe and the United States a hamlet is no more than a\nlittle town in which certain gentlefolk, farmers, tradesmen, and their\ndependents dwell; people who are as free to go away as they were free\nto come. A Russian village is not a small town, with this mixture of\nranks, but a collection of cabins, tenanted by men of one class and\none calling; men who have no power to quit the fields they sow; who\nhave to stand and fall by each other; who hold their lands under a\ncommon bond; who pay their taxes in a common sum; who give up their\nsons as soldiers in the common name.\n\nThese village republics are confined in practice to Great Russia, and\nthe genuine Russ. In Finland, in the Baltic provinces, they are\nunknown; in Astrakhan, Siberia, and Kazan, they are unknown; in Kief,\nPodolia, and the Ukraine steppe, they are unknown; in the Georgian\nhighlands, in the Circassian valleys, on the Ural slopes, they are\nequally unknown. In fact, the existence of these peasant republics in\na province is the first and safest test of nationality. Wherever they\nare found, the soil is Russian, and the people Russ.\n\nThe provinces over which they spread are many in number, vast in\nextent, and rich in patriotic virtue. They extend from the walls of\nSmolensk to the neighborhood of Viatka; from the Gulf of Onega to the\nKozak settlements on the Don. They cover an empire fifteen or sixteen\ntimes as large as France; the empire of Ivan the Terrible; that Russia\nwhich lay around the four ancient capitals--Novgorod, Vladimir,\nMoscow, Pskoff.\n\nWhat is a village republic?\n\nIs it Arcady, Utopia, New Jerusalem, Brook Farm, Oneida Creek, Abode\nof Love? Not one of these societies can boast of more than a passing\nresemblance to a Russian commune.\n\nA village republic is an association of peasants, living like a body\nof monks and nuns, in a convent; living on lands of their own,\nprotected by chiefs of their own, and ruled by customs of their own;\nbut here the analogy between a commune and a convent ends; for a\npeasant marries, multiplies, and fills the earth. It is an\nagricultural family, holding an estate in hand like a Shaker union;\nbut instead of flying from the world and having no friendship beyond\nthe village bounds, they knit their interests up, by marrying with\nthose of the adjacent communes. It is an association of laymen like a\nphalanx; but instead of dividing the harvest, they divide the land;\nand that division having taken place, their rule is for every man to\ndo the best he can for himself, without regard to his brother's needs.\nIt is a working company, in which the field and forest belong to all\nthe partners in equal shares, as in a Gaelic clan and a Celtic sept;\nbut the Russian rustic differs from a Highland chiel, and an Irish\nkerne, in owning no hereditary chief. It is a socialistic group, with\nproperty--the most solid and lasting property--in common, like the\nBible votaries at Oneida Creek; but these partners in the soil never\ndream of sharing their goods and wives. It is a tribal unit, holding\nwhat it owns under a common obligation, like a Jewish house; but the\nassociates differ from a Jewish house in bearing different names, and\nnot affecting unity of blood.\n\nBy seeing what a village republic is not, we gain some insight into\nwhat it is.\n\nWe find some sixty or eighty men of the same class, with the same\npursuits; who have consented, they and their fathers for them, to stay\nin one spot; to build a hamlet; to elect an elder with unusual powers;\nto hold their land in general, not in several; and to dwell in cabins\nnear each other, face to face. The purpose of their association is\nmutual help.\n\nA pack of wolves may have been the founders of the first village\nrepublic. Even now, when the forests are thinner, and the villages\nstronger than of yore, the cry of \"wolf\" is no welcome sound; and when\nthe frost is keen, the village homesteads have to be watched in turns,\nby day and night. A wolf in the Russian forests is like a red-skin on\nthe Kansas plains. The strength of a party led by an elder, fighting\nin defense of a common home, having once been proved by success\nagainst wolves, it would be easy to rouse that strength against the\nfox and the bear, the vagabond and the thief. In a region full of\nforests, lakes, and bogs, a lonely settler has no chance, and Russia\nis even yet a country of forests, lakes, and bogs. The settlers must\nclub their means and powers, and bind themselves to stand by each\nother in weal and woe. Wild beasts are not their only foes. A fall of\nsnow is worse than a raid of wolves; for the snow may bury their\nsheds, destroy their roads, imprison them in tombs, from which a\nsingle man would never be able to fight his way. The wolves are now\ndriven into the woods, but the snow can never be beaten back into the\nsky; and while the northern storms go raging on, a peasant who tills\nthe northern soil will need for his protection an enduring social\nbond.\n\nThese peasant republicans find this bond of union in the soil. They\nown the soil in common, not each in his own right, but every one in\nthe name of all. They own it forever, and in equal shares. A man and\nhis wife make the social unit, recognized by the commune as a house,\nand every house has a claim to a fair division of the family estate;\nto so much field, to so much wood, to so much kitchen-ground, as that\nestate will yield to each. Once in three years all claims fall in, all\nholdings cease, a fresh division of the land is made. A commune being\na republic, and the men all peers, each voice must be heard in\ncouncil, and every claim must be considered in parcelling the estate.\nThe whole is parted into as many lots as there are married couples in\nthe village; so much arable, so much forest, so much cabbage-bed for\neach. Goodness of soil and distance from the home are set against each\nother in every case.\n\nBut the principle of association passes, like the needs out of which\nit springs, beyond the village bounds. Eight or ten communes join\nthemselves into a canton (a sort of parish); ten or twelves cantons\nform a volost, (a sort of hundred). Each circle is self-governed; in\nfact, a local republic.\n\nFrom ancient times the members of these village democracies derive a\nbody of local rights; of kin to those family rights which reforming\nministers and judges think it wiser to leave alone. They choose their\nown elders, hold their own courts, inflict their own fines. They have\na right to call meetings, draw up motions, and debate their communal\naffairs. They have authority over all their members, whether these are\nrich or poor. They can depose their elders, and set up others in their\nstead. A peasant republic is a patriarchal circle, exercising powers\nwhich the Emperor has not given, and dares not take away.\n\nThe elder--called in Russian starosta--is the village chief.\n\nThis elder is elected by the peasants from their own body; elected for\nthree years; though he is seldom changed at the end of his term; and\nmen have been known to serve their neighbors in this office from the\nage of forty until they died. Every one is qualified for the post;\nthough it seldom falls, in practice, to a man who is either unable or\nunwilling to pay for drink. The rule is, for the richest peasant of\nthe village to be chosen, and a stranger driving into a hamlet in\nsearch of the elder will not often be wrong in pulling up his\ntarantass at the biggest door. These peasants meet in a chapel, in a\nbarn, in a dram-shop, as the case may be; they whisper to each other\ntheir selected name; they raise a loud shout and a clatter of horny\nhands; and when the man of their choice has bowed his head, accepting\ntheir vote, they sally to a drinking-shop, where they shake hands and\nkiss each other over nippets of whisky and jorums of quass. An unpaid\nservant of his village, the Russian elder, like an Arab sheikh, is\nheld accountable for every thing that happens to go wrong. Let the\nsummer be hot, let the winter be dure, let the crop be scant, let the\nwhisky be thin, let the roads be unsafe, let the wolves be out--the\nelder is always the man to blame. Sometimes, not often, a rich peasant\ntries to shirk this office, as a London banker shuns the dignity of\nlord mayor. But such a man, if he escape, will not escape scot free. A\ncommune claims the service of her members, and no one can avoid her\ncall without suffering a fine in either meal or malt. The man who\nwishes to escape election has to smirk and smile like the man who\nwishes to win the prize. He has to court his neighbor in the\ngrog-shop, in the church, and in the field; flattering their weakness,\ntreating them to drink, and whispering in their ear that he is either\ntoo young, too old, or too busy, for the office they would thrust upon\nhim. When the time comes round for a choice to be made, the villagers\npass him by with winks and shrugs, expecting, when the day is over, to\nhave one more chance of drinking at his expense.\n\nAn elder chosen by this village parliament is clothed with strange,\nunclassified powers; for he is mayor and sheikh in one; a personage\nknown to the law, as well as a patriarch clothed with domestic rights.\nSome of his functions lie beyond the law, and clash with articles in\nthe imperial code.\n\nTo wit: an elder sitting in his village court, retains the power to\nbeat and flog. No one else in Russia, from the lord on his lawn and\nthe general on parade, down to the merchant in his shop and the rider\non a sledge, can lawfully strike his man. By one wise stroke of his\npen, the Emperor made all men equal before the stick; and breaches of\nthis rule are judged with such wholesome zeal, that the savage energy\nof the upper ranks is completely checked. Once only have I seen a man\nbeat another--an officer who pushed, and struck a soldier, to prevent\nhim getting entangled in floes of ice. But a village elder, backed by\nhis meeting, can defeat the imperial will, and set the beneficent\npublic code aside.\n\nA majority of peasants, meeting in a barn, or even in a whisky-shop,\ncan fine and flog their fellows beyond appeal. Some rights have been\ntaken from these village republicans in recent years; they are not\nallowed, as in former times, to lay the lash on women; and though they\ncan sentence a man to twenty blows, they may not club him to death.\nYet two-thirds of a village mob, in which every voter may be drunk,\ncan send a man to Siberia for his term of life!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nCOMMUNISM.\n\n\nSuch cases of village justice are not rare. Should a man have the\nmisfortune, from any cause, to make himself odious to his neighbors,\nthey can \"cry a meeting,\" summon him to appear, and find him worthy to\nbe expelled. They can pass a vote which may have the effect of sending\nfor the police, give the expelled member into custody, and send him up\nto the nearest district town. He is now a waif and stray. Rejected\nfrom his commune, he has no place in society; he can not live in a\ntown, he can not enter a village; he is simply a vagabond and an\noutcast, living beyond the pale of human law. The provincial governor\ncan do little for him, even if he be minded to do any thing at all. He\nhas no means of forcing the commune to receive him back; in fact, he\nhas no choice, beyond that of sending such a waif to either the army\nor the public works. If all the forms have been observed, the village\njudgment is final, and the man expelled from it by such a vote is\npretty sure of passing the remainder of his days on earth in either a\nCircassian regiment or a Siberian mine.\n\nIn the more serious cases dealt with by courts of law, a commune has\nthe power of reviewing the sentence passed, and even of setting it\naside.\n\nSome lout (say) is suspected of setting a barn on fire. Seized by his\nelder and given in charge to the police, he is carried up to the\nassize town, where he is tried for his alleged offense, and after\nproof being given on either side, he is acquitted by the jury and\ndischarged by the judge. It might be fancied that such a man would\nreturn to his cabin and his field, protected by the courts. But no;\nthe commune, which has done him so much wrong already, may complete\nthe injury by refusing to receive him back. A meeting may review the\njurors and the judge, decline their verdict, try the man once more in\nsecret, and condemn him, in his absence, to the loss--not simply of\nhis house and land--but of his fame and caste.\n\nThe communes have other, and not less curious, rights. No member of a\ncommune can quit his village without the general leave, without a\npassport signed by the elder, who can call him home without giving\nreasons for his acts. The absent brother must obey, on penalty of\nbeing expelled from his commune: that is to say--in a Russian village,\nas in an Indian caste--being flung out of organized society into\ninfinite space.\n\nNor can the absent member escape from this tribunal by forfeiting his\npersonal rights. An elder grants him leave to travel in very rare\ncases, and for very short terms; often for a month, now and then a\nquarter, never for more than a year. That term, whether long or short,\nis the limit of a man's freedom; when it expires, he must return to\nhis commune, under penalty of seizure by the police as a vagabond\nliving without a pass.\n\nA village parliament is holden once a year, when every holder of house\nand field has the right to be heard. The suffrage is general, the\nvoting by ballot. Any member can bring up a motion, which the elder is\ncompelled to put. An unpopular elder may be deposed, and some one else\nelected in his stead. Subjects of contention are not lacking in these\npeasant parliaments; but the fiercest battles are those fought over\nroads, imperial taxes, conscripts, wood-rights, water-rights, whisky\nlicenses, and the choice of lots.\n\nWhat may be termed the external affairs of the village--highways,\nfisheries, and forest-rights--are settled, not with imperial officers,\nbut with their neighbors of the canton and the volost. The canton and\nthe volost treat with the general, governor, and police. A minister\nlooks for what he needs to the association, not to the separate\nmembers, and when rates are levied and men are wanted, the canton and\nthe volost receive their orders and proceed to raise alike the money\nand the men. The crown has only to send out orders; and the money is\npaid, the men are raised. A system so effective and so cheap, is a\nconvenience to the ministers of finance and war so great that the\nhaughtiest despots and the wisest reformers have not dared to touch\nthe interior life of these peasant commonwealths.\n\nThus the village system remains a thing apart, not only from the outer\nworld, but from the neighboring town. The men who live in these sheds,\nwho plough these fields, who angle in this lake, are living by an\nunderived and original light. Their law is an oral law, their charter\nbears no seat, their franchise knows no date. They vote their own\ntaxes, and they frame their own rules. Except in crimes of serious\ndye, they act as an independent court. They fine, they punish, they\nexpel, they send unpopular men to Siberia; and even call up the civil\narm in execution of their will.\n\nFriends of these rustic republics urge as merits in the village\nsystem, that the men are peers, that public opinion governs, that no\none is exempt from the general law, that rich men find no privilege in\ntheir wealth. All this sounds well in words; and probably in seven or\neight cases out of ten the peasants treat their brethren fairly;\nthough it will not be denied that in the other two or three cases\ngross and comical burlesques of justice may be seen. I hear of a man\nbeing flogged for writing a paragraph in a local paper, which half, at\nleast, of his judges could not read. Still worse, and still more\nflagrant, is the abuse of extorting money from the rich. A charge is\nmade, a meeting cried, and evidence heard. If the offender falls on\nhis knees, admits his guilt, and offers to pay a fine, the charge is\ndropped. The whole party marches to the whisky shop, and spends the\nfine in drams. Now the villagers know pretty well the brother who is\nrich enough to give his rubles in place of baring his back; and when\nthey thirst for a dram at some other man's cost, they have only to get\nup some flimsy charge on which that yielding brother can be tried. The\nman is sure to buy himself off. Then comes the farce of charge and\nproof, admission and fine; followed by the drinking bout, in which\nfrom policy the offender joins; until the virtuous villagers, warm\nwith the fiery demon, kiss and slobber upon each other's beards, and\ndarkness covers them up in their drunken sleep.\n\nIn Moscow I know a man, a clerk, a thrifty fellow, born in the\nprovince of Tamboff, who has saved some money, and the fact coming\nout, he has been thrice called home to his village, thrice accused of\ntrumpery offenses, thrice corrected by a fine. In every case, the man\nwas sentenced to be flogged; and he paid his money, as they knew he\nwould, to escape from suffering and disgrace. His fines were instantly\nspent in drink. A member of a village republic who has prospered by\nhis thrift and genius finds no way of guarding himself from such\nassaults, except by craftily lending sums of money to the heads of\nhouses, so as to get the leading men completely into his power.\n\nIn spite of some patent virtues, a rural system which compels the more\nenterprising and successful men to take up such a position against\ntheir fellows in actual self-defense, can hardly be said to serve the\nhigher purposes for which societies exist.\n\nThese village republics are an open question; one about which there is\ndaily strife in every office of Government, in every organ of the\npress. Men who differ on every other point, agree in praising the\nrural communes. Men who agree on every other point, part company on\nthe merits and vices of the rural communes.\n\nNot a few of the ablest reformers wish to see them thrive; royalists,\nlike Samarin and Cherkaski, and republicans, like Herzen and Ogareff,\nsee in these village societies the germs of a new civilization for\nEast and West. Men of science, like Valouef, Bungay, and Besobrazof,\non the contrary, find in these communes nothing but evil, nothing but\na legacy from the dark ages, which must pass away as the light of\npersonal freedom dawns.\n\nThat the village communes have some virtues may be safely said. A\nminister of war and a minister of finance are keenly alive to these\nvirtues, since a man who wishes to levy troops and taxes in a quick,\nuncostly fashion, finds it easier to deal with fifty thousand elders,\nthan with fifty million peasants. A minister of justice thinks with\ncomfort of the host of watchful, unpaid eyes that are kept in\nself-defense on such as are suspected of falling into evil ways. These\nvirtues are not all, not nearly all. A rural system, in which every\nmarried man has a stake in the soil, produces a conservative and\npacific people. No race on earth either clings to old ways or prays\nfor peace so fervently as the Russ. Where each man is a landholder,\nabject poverty is unknown; and Russia has scant need for poor-laws and\nwork-houses, since she has no such misery in her midst as a permanent\npauper class. Every body has a cabin, a field, a cow; perhaps a horse\nand cart. Even when a fellow is lazy enough and base enough to ruin\nhimself, he can not ruin his sons. They hold their place in the\ncommune, as peers of all, and when they grow up to man's estate, they\nwill obtain their lots, and set up life on their own account. The bad\nman dies, and leaves to his province no legacy of poverty and crime.\nThe communes cherish love for parents, and respect for age. They keep\nalive the feeling of brotherhood and equality, and inspire the country\nwith a sentiment of mutual dependence and mutual help.\n\nOn the other side, they foster a parish spirit, tend to separate\nvillage from town, strengthen the ideas of class and caste, and favor\nthat worst delusion in a country--of there being a state within a\nstate! Living in his own republic, a peasant is apt to consider the\nburgher as a stranger living under a different and inferior rule. A\npeasant hears little of the civil code, except in his relations with\nthe townsfolk; and he learns to despise the men who are bound by the\nletter of that civil code. Between his own institutions and those of\nhis burgher neighbors there is a chasm, like that which separates\nAmerica from France.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\nTOWNS.\n\n\nA town is a community lying beyond the canton and volost, in which\npeople live by burgher right and not by communal law. Unlike the\npeasant, a burgher has power to buy and sell, to make and mend, to\nenter crafts and guilds; but he is chained to his trade very much as\nthe rustic is chained to his field. His house is built of logs, his\nroads are laid with planks; but then his house is painted green or\npink, and his road is wide and properly laid out. In place of a free\nlocal government, the town finds a master in the minister, in the\ngovernor, in the chief of police. While the village is a separate\nrepublic, the town is a parcel of the empire; and as parcel of the\nempire it must follow the imperial code.\n\nSaving the great cities, not above five or six in number, all Russian\ntowns have a common character, and when you have seen two or three in\ndifferent parts of the empire, you have seen them all. Take any\nriverside town of the second class (and most of these towns are built\non the banks of streams) from Onega to Rostoff, from Nijni to\nKremenchug. A fire-tower, a jail, a fish-market, a bazar, and a\ncathedral, catch the eye at once. Above and below the town you see\nmonastic piles. A bridge of boats connects the two banks, and a poorer\nsuburb lies before the town. The port is crowded with smacks and\nrafts; the smacks bringing fish, the rafts bringing pines. What swarms\nof people on the wharf! How grave, how dirty, and how pinched, they\nlook! Their sadness comes of the climate, and their dirt is of the\nEast. \"Yes, yes!\" you may hear a mujik say to his fellow, speaking of\nsome neighbor, \"he is a respectable man--quite; he has a clean shirt\nonce a week.\" The rustic eats but little flesh; his dinner, even on\ndays that are not kept as fasts, being a slice of black bread, a\ngirkin, and a piece of dried cod. Just watch them, how they higgle for\na kopeck! A Russ craftsman is a fellow to deal with; ever hopeful and\nacquiescent; ready to please in word and act; but you are never sure\nthat he will keep his word. He has hardly any sense of time and space.\nTo him one hour of the day is like another, and if he has promised to\nmake you a coat by ten in the morning, he can not be got to see the\nwrong of sending it home by eleven at night.\n\nThe market reeks with oil and salt, with vinegar and fruit, with the\nrefuse of halibut, cod, and sprats. The chief articles of sale are\nrings of bread, salt girkins, pottery, tin plates, iron nails, and\nimages of saints. The street is paved with pools, in which lie a few\nrough stones, to help you in stepping from stall to stall. To walk is\nan effort; to walk with clean feet a miracle. Such filth is too deep\nfor shoes.\n\nA fish-wife is of either sex; and even when she belongs of right to\nthe better side of human nature, she is not easy to distinguish from\nher lord by any thing in her face and garb. Seeing her in the sharp\nwind, quilted in her sheep-skin coat, and legged in her deer-skin\nhose, her features pinched by frost, her hands blackened by toil, it\nwould be hard to say which was the female and which the male, if\nProvidence had not blessed the men with beards. By these two signs a\nRuss may be known from all other men--by his beard and by his boots;\nbut since many of his female folk wear boots, he is only to be safely\nknown from his partner in life by the bunch of hair upon his chin.\n\nIn the bazar stand the shops; dark holes in the wall, like the old\nMoorish shops in Seville and Granada; in which the dealer stands\nbefore his counter and shows you his poor assortment of prints and\nstuffs, his pots and pans, his saints, his candles, and his packs of\ncards. Next to rye-bread and salt fish, saints and cards are the\narticles mostly bought and sold; for in Russia every body prays and\nplays; the noble in his club, the dealer at his shop, the boatman on\nhis barge, the pilgrim by his wayside cross. The propensities to pray\nand gamble may be traced to a common root; a kind of moral fetichism,\na trust in the grace of things unseen, in the merit of dead men, and\neven in the power of chance. A Russian takes, like a child, to every\nstrange thing, and prides himself on the completeness of his faith.\nWhen he is not kneeling to his angel, nothing renders him so happy as\nthe sight of a pack of cards.\n\nNearly every one plays high for his means; and nothing is more common\nthan for a burgher to stake and lose, first his money, then his boots,\nhis cap, his caftan, every scrap of his garments, down to his very\nshirt. Whisky excepted, nothing drives a Russian to the devil so\nquickly as a pack of cards.\n\nBut see, these gamblers throw down their cards, unbonnet their heads,\nand fall upon their knees. The priest is coming down the street with\nhis sacred picture and his cross. It is market-day in the town, and he\nis going to open and bless some shop in the bazar; and fellows who\nwere gambling for their shirts are now upon their knees in prayer.\n\nThe rite by which a shop, a shed, a house, is dedicated to God is not\nwithout touches of poetic beauty. Notice must be given aforetime to\nthe parish priest, who fixes the hour of consecration, so that a man's\nkinsfolk and neighbors may be present if they like. The time having\ncome, the priest takes down his cross from the altar, a boy lights the\nembers in his censer, and, preceded by his reader and deacon, the pope\nmoves down the streets through crowds of kneeling men and women, most\nof whom rise and follow in his wake, only too eager to catch so easily\nand cheaply some of the celestial fire.\n\nEntering the shop or house, the pope first purges the room by prayer,\nthen blesses the tenant or dweller, and lastly sanctifies the place by\nhanging in the \"corner of honor\" an image of the dealer's guardian\nangel, so that in the time to come no act can be done in that house or\nshop except under the eyes of its patron saint.\n\nThough poor as art, such icons, placed in rooms, have power upon men's\nminds. Not far from Tamboff lived an old lady who was more than\ncommonly hard upon her serfs, until the poor wretches, maddened by her\nuse of the whip and the black hole, broke into her room at night, some\ndozen men, and told her, with a sudden brevity, that her hour had come\nand she must die. Springing from her bed, she snatched her image from\nthe wall, and held it out against her assailants, daring them to\nstrike the Mother of God. Dropping their clubs, they fled from before\nher face. Taking courage from her victory, she hung up the picture,\ndrew on her wrapper, and followed her serfs into the yard, where,\nseeing that she was unprotected by her image, they set upon her with a\nshout, and clubbed her instantly to death.\n\nIn driving through the town we note how many are the dram-shops, and\nhow many the tipsy men. Among the smaller reforms under which the\nburgher has now to live is that of a thinner drink. The Emperor has\nput water into the whisky, and reduced the price from fifteen kopecks\na glass to five. The change is not much relished by the topers, who\ncall their thin potation, dechofka--cheap stuff; but simpler souls\ngive thanks to the reformer for his boon, saying, \"Is he not good--our\nTsar--in giving us three glasses of whisky for the price of a single\nglass!\" Yet, thin as it is, a nippet of the fiery spirit throws a\nsinner off his legs, for his stomach is empty, his nerves are lax, and\nhis blood is poor. If he were better fed he would crave less drink.\nHappily a Russian is not quarrelsome in his cups; he sings and smiles,\nand wishes to hug you in the public street. No richer comedy is seen\non any stage than that presented by two tipsy mujiks riding on a\nsledge, putting their beards together and throwing their arms about\neach other's neck. A happy fellow lies in the gutter, fast asleep;\nanother, just as tipsy, comes across the roadway, looks at his\nbrother, draws his own wrapper round his limbs, and asking gods and\nmen to pardon him, lies down tenderly in the puddle by his brother's\nside.\n\nThe social instincts are, in a Russian, of exceeding strength. He\nlikes a crowd. The very hermits of his country are a social crew--not\nmen who rush away into lonely nooks, where, hidden from all eyes, they\ngrub out caves in the rock and burrow under roots of trees; but\nbrothers of some popular cloister, famous for its saints and pilgrims,\nwhere they drive a shaft under the convent wall, secrete themselves in\na hole, and receive their food through a chink, in sight of wondering\nvisitors and advertising monks. Such were the founders of his church,\nthe anchorets of Kief.\n\nThe first towns of Russia are Kief and Novgorod the Great; her\ncapitals and holy places long before she built herself a kremlin on\nthe Moskva, and a winter palace on the Neva. Kief and Novgorod are\nstill her pious and poetic cities; one the tower of her religious\nfaith, the other of her imperial power. From Vich Gorod at Kief\nsprings the dome which celebrates her conversion to the Church of\nChrist; in the Kremlin of Novgorod stands the bronze group which\ntypifies her empire of a thousand years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nKIEF.\n\n\nKief, the oldest of Russian sees, is not in Russia Proper, and many\nhistorians treat it as a Polish town. The people are Ruthenians, and\nfor hundreds of years the city belonged to the Polish crown. The plain\nin front of it is the Ukraine steppe; the land of hetman and\nzaporogue; of stirring legends and riotous song. The manners are\nPolish and the people Poles. Yet here lies the cradle of that church\nwhich has shaped into its own likeness every quality of Russian\npolitical and domestic life.\n\nThe city consists of three parts, of three several towns--Podol, Vich\nGorod, Pechersk; a business town, an imperial town, and a sacred town.\nAll these quarters are crowded with offices, shops, and convents; yet\nPodol is the merchant quarter, Vich Gorod the Government quarter, and\nPechersk the pilgrim quarter. These towns overhang the Dnieper, on a\nrange of broken cliffs; contain about seventy thousand souls; and\nhold, in two several places of interment, all that was mortal of the\nPagan duke who became her foremost saint.\n\nKief is a city of legends and events; the preaching of St. Andrew, the\npiety of St. Olga, the conversion of St. Vladimir; the Mongolian\nassault, the Polish conquest, the recovery by Peter the Great. The\nprovinces round Kief resemble it, and rival it, in historic fame.\nCountry of Mazeppa and Gonta, the Ukraine teems with story; tales of\nthe raid, the flight, the night attack, the violated town. Every\nvillage has its legend, every town its epic, of love and war. The land\nis aglow with personal life. Yon chapel marks the spot where a grand\nduke was killed; this mound is the tomb of a Tartar horde; that field\nis the site of a battle with the Poles. The men are brighter and\nlivelier, the houses are better built, and the fields are better\ntrimmed than in the North and East. The music is quicker, the brandy\nis stronger, the love is warmer, the hatred is keener, than you find\nelsewhere. These provinces are Gogol's country, and the scenery is\nthat of his most popular tales.\n\nLike all the southern cities, Kief fell into the power of Batu Khan,\nthe Mongol chief, and groaned for ages under the yoke of Asiatic begs.\nThese begs were idol-worshippers, and under their savage and\nidolatrous rule the children of Vladimir had to pass through heavy\ntrials; but Kief can boast that in the worst of times she kept in her\nhumble churches and her underground caves the sacred embers of her\nfaith alive.\n\nBelow the tops of two high hills, three miles from that Vich Gorod in\nwhich Vladimir built his harem, and raised the statue of his Pagan\ngod, some Christian hermits, Anton, Feodosie, and their fellows, dug\nfor themselves in the loose red rock a series of corridors and caves,\nin which they lived and died, examples of lowly virtue and the\nChristian life. The Russian word for cave is pechera, and the site of\nthese caves was called Pechersk. Above the cells in which these\nhermits dwelt, two convents gradually arose, and took the names of\nAnton and Feodosie, now become the patron saints of Kief, and the\nreputed fathers of all men living in Russia a monastic life.\n\nA green dip between the old town, now trimmed and planted, parts the\nfirst convent--that of Anton--from the city; a second dip divides the\nconvent of Feodosie, from that of his fellow-saint. These convents,\nnobly planned and strongly built, take rank among the finest piles in\nEastern Europe. Domes and pinnacles of gold surmount each edifice; and\nevery wall is pictured with legends from the lives of saints. The\nground is holy. More than a hundred hermits lie in the catacombs, and\ncrowds of holy men lie mouldering in every niche of the solid wall.\nMouldering! I crave their pardons. Holy men never rust and rot. For\npurity of the flesh in death is evidence of purity of the flesh in\nlife; and saints are just as incorruptible of body as of soul. In\nAnton's Convent you are shown the skull of St. Vladimir; that is to\nsay, a velvet pall in which his skull is said to be wrapped and\nswathed. You are told that the flesh is pure, the skin uncracked, the\nodor sweet. A line of dead bodies fills the underground passages and\nlanes--each body in a niche of the rock; and all these martyrs of the\nfaith are said to be, like Vladimir, also fresh and sweet.\n\nA stranger can not say whether this tale of the incorruptibility of\nearly saints and monks is true or not; since nothing can be seen of\nthe outward eye except a coffin, a velvet pall, and an inscription\nnewly painted in the Slavonic tongue. A great deal turns on the amount\nof faith in which you seek for proof. For monks are men, and a critic\ncan hardly press them with his doubts. Suppose you try to persuade\nyour guides to lift the pall from St. Anton's face. Your own opinion\nis that even though human frames might resist the dissolving action of\nan atmosphere like that of Sicily and Egypt, nothing less than a\nmiracle could have preserved intact the bodies of saints who died a\nthousand years ago, in a cold, damp climate like that of Kief. You\nwish to put your science to the test of fact. You wish in vain. The\nmonk will answer for the miracle, but no one answers for the monk.\n\nFifty thousand pilgrims, chiefly Ruthenians from the populous\nprovinces of Podolia, Kief, and Volhynia, come in summer to these\nshrines.\n\nWhen Kief recovered her freedom from the Tartar begs, she found\nherself by the chance of war a city of Polonia, not of Moscovy--a\nmember of the Western, not of the Eastern section of her race. Kief\nhad never been Russ, as Moscow was Russ; a rude, barbaric town, with\ncrowds of traders and rustics, ruled by a Tartarized court; and now\nthat her lot was cast with the more liberal and enlightened West, she\ngrew into a yet more Oriental Prague. For many reigns she lay open to\nthe arts of Germany and France; and when she returned to Russia, in\nthe times of Peter the Great, she was not alone the noblest jewel in\nhis crown, but a point of union, nowhere else to be found, for all the\nSlavonic nations in the world.\n\nAs an inland city Kief has the finest site in Russia. Standing on a\nrange of bluffs, she overlooks a splendid length of steppe, a broad\nand navigable stream. She is the port and capital of the Ukraine; and\nthe Malo-Russians, whether settled on the Don, the Ural, or the\nDniester, look to her for orders of the day. She touches Poland with\nher right hand, Russia with her left; she flanks Galicia and Moldavia,\nand keeps her front towards the Bulgarians, the Montenegrins, and the\nSerbs. In her races and religions she is much in little; an epitome of\nall the Slavonic tribes. One-third of her population is Moscovite,\none-third Russine, and one-third Polack; while in faith she is\nOrthodox, Roman Catholic, and United Greek. If any city in Europe\noffers itself to Panslavonic dreamers as their natural capital, it is\nKief.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\nPANSLAVONIA.\n\n\nUntil a year ago, these Panslavonic dreamers were a party in the\nState; and even now they have powerful friends at Court. Their cry is\nPanslavonia for the Slavonians. Last year the members of this party\ncalled a congress in Moscow, to which they invited--first, their\nfellow-countrymen, from the White Sea to the Black, from the Vistula\nto the Amoor; and next, the representatives of their race who dwell\nunder foreign sceptres--the Czeck from Prague, the Pole from Cracow,\nthe Bulgar from Shumla, the Montenegrin from Cettigne, the Serb from\nBelgrade; but this gathering of the clans in Moscow opened the eyes of\nmoderate men to the dangerous nature of this Panslavonic dream. A deep\ndistrust of Russian life, as now existing, lies at the root of it; the\ndreamers hoping to fall back upon forms inspired by what they call a\nnobler national spirit. They read the chronicles of their race, they\ncollect popular songs, they print peasant tales; and in these Ossianic\nlegends of the steppe they find the germ of a policy which they call a\nnatural product of their soil.\n\nLike the Old Believers, these Panslavonians deny the Emperor and own\nthe Tsar. To them Peter the Great is Antichrist, and the success of\nhis reforms a temporary triumph of the Evil Spirit. He left his\ncountry, they allege, in order to study in foreign lands the arts by\nwhich it could be overthrown. On his return to Russia no one\nrecognized him as their prince. He came with a shaven face, a pipe in\nhis mouth, a jug of beer in his hand. A single stroke of his pen threw\ndown an edifice which his people had been rearing for a thousand\nyears. He carried his government beyond the Russian soil; and, in a\nstrange swamp, by the shores of a Swedish gulf, he built a palace for\nhis court, a market for his purveyors, a fortress for his troops. This\ncity he stamped with a foreign genius and baptized with a foreign\nname.\n\nFor these good reasons, the Panslavonians set their teeth against all\nthat Peter did, against nearly all that his followers on the throne\nhave done. They wish to put these alien things away, to resume their\ncapital, to grow their beards, to wear their fur caps, to draw on\ntheir long boots, without being mocked as savages, and coerced like\nserfs. They deny that civilization consists in a razor and a felt hat.\nFinding much to complain of in the judicial sharpness of German rule,\nthey leaped to the conclusion that every thing brought from beyond the\nVistula is bad for Russia and the Russ. In the list of things to be\nkept out of their country they include German philosophy, French\nmorals, and English cotton-prints.\n\nA thorough Panslavonian is a man to make one smile; with him it is\nenough that a thing is Russian in order to be sworn the best of its\nkind. Now, many things in Russia are good enough for proud people to\nbe proud of. The church-bells are musical, the furs warm and handsome,\nthe horses swift, the hounds above all praise. The dinners are\nwell-served; the sterlet is good to eat; but the wines are not\nfirst-rate and the native knives and forks are bad. Yet patriots in\nKief and Moscow tell you, with gravest face, that the vintage of the\nDon is finer than that of the Garonne, that the cutlery of Tula is\nsuperior to that of Sheffield. Yet these dreamers say and unsay in a\nbreath, as seems for the moment best; for while they crack up their\ncountry right and wrong, in the face of strangers; they abuse it right\nand wrong when speaking of it among themselves. \"We are sick, we are\nsick to death,\" was a saying in the streets, a cry in the public\njournals, long before Nicolas transferred the ailment of his country\nto that of his enemy the Turk. \"We have never done a thing,\" wrote\nKhomakof, the Panslavonic poet; \"not even made a rat-trap.\"\n\nA Panslavonian fears free trade. He wants cheap cotton shirts, he\nwants good knives and forks; but then he shudders at the sight of a\ncheap shirt and a good fork on hearing from his priest that Manchester\nand Sheffield are two heretical towns, in which the spinners who weave\ncloth, the grinders who polish steel, have never been taught by their\npastors how to sign themselves with the true Greek cross. What shall\nit profit a man to have a cheap shirt and lose his soul? The Orthodox\nclergy, seizing the Panslavonic banner, wrote on its front their own\nexclusive motto: \"Russia and the Byzantine Church;\" and this priestly\nmotto made a Panslavistic unity impossible; since the Western branches\nof the race are not disciples of that Byzantine Church. At Moscow\nevery thing was done to keep down these dissensions; and the question\nof a future capital was put off, as one too dangerous for debate. Nine\nmen in ten of every party urge the abandonment of St. Petersburg; but\nMoscow, standing in the heart of Russia, can not yield her claims to\nKief.\n\nThe partisans of Old Russia join hands with those of Young Russia in\nassailing these Panslavistic dreamers, who prate of saving their\ncountry from the vices and errors of Europe, and offer--these\nassailants say--no other plan than that of changing a German yoke for\neither a Byzantine or a Polish yoke.\n\nThe clever men who guide this party are well aware that the laws and\nceremonies of the Lower Empire offer them no good models; but in\nreturning to the Greeks, they expect to gain a firmer hold on the\npractices of their Church. For the rest, they are willing to rest in\nthe hands of God, in the Oriental hope of finding that all is well at\nlast. If nothing else is gained, they will have saved their souls.\n\n\"Their souls!\" laugh the Young Russians, trained in what are called\nthe infidel schools of France; \"these fellows who have no souls to be\nsaved!\" \"Their souls!\" frown the Old Believers, strong in their\nancient customs and ancient faith; \"these men whose souls are already\ndamned!\" With a pitiless logic, these opponents of the Panslavonic\ndreamers call on them to put their thoughts into simple words. What is\nthe use of dreaming dreams? \"How can you promote Slavonic\nnationality,\" ask the Young Russians, \"by excluding the most liberal\nand enlightened of our brethren? How can you promote civilization by\nexcluding cotton-prints?\" The Old Believers ask, on the other side,\n\"How can you extend the true faith by going back to the Lower Empire,\nin which religion was lost? How can you, who are not the children of\nChrist, promote his kingdom on the earth? You regenerate Russia! you,\nwho are not the inheritors of her ancient and holy faith!\"\n\nReformers of every school and type have come to see the force which\nlies in a Western idea--not yet, practically, known in Russia--that of\nindividual right. They ask for every sort of freedom; the right to\nlive, the right to think, the right to speak, the right to hold land,\nthe right to travel, the right to buy and sell, _as personal rights_.\n\"How,\" they demand from the Panslavonians, \"can the Russian become a\nfree man while his personality is absorbed in the commune, in the\nempire, and in the church?\"\n\n\"An old Russian,\" replies the Panslavonian, \"was a free man, and a\nmodern Russian is a free man, but in a higher sense than is understood\nby a trading-people like the English, an infidel people like the\nFrench. Inspired by his Church, a Russian has obtained the gifts of\nresignation and of sacrifice. By an act of devotion he has conveyed\nhis individual rights to his native prince, even as a son might give\nup his rights to a father in whose love and care he had perfect trust.\nA right is not lost which has been openly lodged in the hands of a\ncompassionate and benevolent Tsar. The Western nations have retained a\nliberty which they find a curse, while the Russians have been saved by\nobeying the Holy Spirit.\"\n\nImagine the mockery by which an argument so patriarchal has been met!\n\n\"No illusion, gentlemen,\" said the Emperor to his first deputation of\nPoles. So far as they are linked in fortune with their Eastern\nbrethren, the Poles are invited to an equal place in a great empire,\nhaving its centre of gravity in Moscow, its port of communication in\nSt. Petersburg; not to a Japanese kingdom of the Slavonic tribes, with\na mysterious and secluded throne in Kief.\n\nYet the Poles and Ruthenians who people the western provinces and the\nsouthern steppe will not readily give up their dream; and their genius\nfor affairs, their oratorical gifts, their love of war, all tend to\nmake them enemies equally dangerous in the court and in the field.\nPlastic, clever, adroit, with the advantage of speaking the language\nof the country, these dreamers get into places of high trust; into\nthe professor's chair, into the secretary's office, into the\naide-de-camp's saddle; in which they carry on their plot in favor of\nsome form of government other than that under which they live.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\nEXILE.\n\n\nA week before the last rising of the Poles took place, an officer of\nhigh rank in the Russian service came in the dead of night, and\nwrapped in a great fur cloak, to a friend of mine living in St.\nPetersburg, with whom he had little more than a passing acquaintance--\n\n\"I am going out,\" he said, \"and I have come to ask a favor and say\ngood-bye.\"\n\n\"Going out!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his visitor. \"My commission is signed, my post is marked.\nNext week you will hear strange news.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried my friend; \"think better of it. You, an officer of\nstate, attached to the ministry of war!\"\n\n\"I am a Pole, and my country calls me. You, a stranger, can not feel\nwith the passions burning in my heart. I know that by quitting the\nservice I disgrace my general; that the Government will call me a\ndeserter; that if we fail, I shall be deemed unworthy of a soldier's\ndeath. All this I know, yet go I must.\"\n\n\"But your wife--and married one year!\"\n\n\"She will be safe. I have asked for three months' leave. Our passes\nhave been signed; in a week she will be lodged in Paris with our\nfriends. You are English; that is the reason why I seek you. In the\ndrojki at your door is a box; it is full of coin. I want to leave this\nbox with you; to be given up only in case we fail; and then to a man\nwho will come to you and make this sign. I need not tell you that the\nmoney is all my own, and that the charge of it will not compromise\nyou, since it is sacred to charity, and not to be used for war.\"\n\n\"It is a part, I suppose,\" said my friend, \"of your Siberian fund?\"\n\n\"It is,\" said the soldier; \"you will accept my trust?\"\n\nThe box was left; the soldier went his way. In less than a week the\nrevolt broke out in many places; slight collisions took place, and the\nPoles, under various leaders, met with the success which always\nattends surprise. Three or four names, till then unknown, began to\nattract the public eye; but the name of my friend's midnight visitor\nwas not amongst them. General ---- grew into sudden fame; his rapid\nmarch, his dashing onset, his daily victory, alarmed the Russian\ncourt, until a very strong corps was ordered to be massed against him.\nThen he was crushed; some said he was slain. One night, my friend was\nseated in his chamber, reading an account of this action in a journal,\nwhen his servant came into the room with a card, on which was printed:\n\nTHE COUNTESS R----.\n\nThe lady was below, and begged to see my friend that night. Her name\nwas strange to him; but he went out into the passage, where he found a\npale, slim lady of middle age, attired in the deepest black.\n\n\"I have come to you,\" she said at once, \"on a work of charity. A young\nsoldier crawled to my house from the field of battle, so slashed and\nshot that we expected him to die that night. He was a patriot; and his\npapers showed that he was the young General ----. He lived through the\nnight, but wandered in his mind. He spoke much of Marie; perhaps she\nis his wife. By daylight he was tracked, and carried from my house;\nbut ere he was dragged away, he gave me this card, and with the look\nof a dying man, implored me to place it in your hands.\"\n\n\"You have brought it yourself from Poland?\"\n\n\"I am a sufferer too,\" she said; \"no time could be lost; in three days\nI am here.\"\n\n\"You knew him in other days?\"\n\n\"No; never. He was miserable, and I wished to help him. I have not\nlearned his actual name.\"\n\nGlancing at the card, my friend saw that it contained nothing but his\nown name and address written in English letters; as it might be:\n\n _George Herbert,\n Sergie Street,\n St. Petersburg._\n\nHe knew the handwriting. \"Gracious heavens!\" he exclaimed, \"was this\ncard given to you by General ----?\"\n\n\"It was.\"\n\nIn half an hour my friend was closeted with a man who might intervene\nwith some small hope. The minister of war was reached. Surprised and\ngrieved at the news conveyed to him, the minister said he would see\nwhat could be done. \"General Mouravieff,\" he explained, \"is stern, his\npower unlimited; and my poor adjutant was taken on the field.\nDeserter, rebel--what can be urged in arrest of death?\" In truth, he\nhad no time to plead, for Mouravieff's next dispatch from Poland gave\nan account of the execution of General ---- _by the rope_. On my\nfriend calling at the war-office to hear if any thing could be done,\nhe was told the story by a sign.\n\n\"Can you tell me,\" inquired the minister, \"under what name my second\nadjutant is in the field? He also is missing.\" The caller could not\nhelp a smile. \"You are thinking,\" said the minister, \"that this Polish\nrevolt was organized in my office? You are not far wrong.\"\n\nArchangel, Caucasus, Siberia--every frontier of the empire had her\nbatch of hapless prisoners to receive. The present reign has seen the\nsystem of sending men to the frontiers much relaxed; and the public\nworks of Archangel occupied, for a time, the place once held in the\npublic mind by the Siberian mines. Not that the Asiatic waste has been\nabandoned as an imperial Cayenne. Many great criminals, and some\nunhappy politicians, are still sent over the Ural heights; but the\nsystem has been much relaxed of late, and the name of Siberia is no\nlonger that word of fear which once appalled the imagination like a\nliving death. It is no uncommon thing to meet bands of young fellows\ngoing up the Ural slopes from Mesen and Archangel, in search of\nfortune; going over into Siberia as into a promised land!\n\nMany of the terrors which served to shroud Siberia in a pall have been\nswept away by science. The country has been opened up. The tribes have\nbecome better known. Tomsk, a name at which the blood ran cold, is\nseen to be a pleasant town, lying in a green valley at the foot of a\nnoble range of heights. It is not far from Perm, which may be regarded\nas a distant suburb of Kazan. The tracks have been laid down, and in a\nfew months a railroad will be made from Perm to Tomsk.\n\nThe world, too, has begun to see that a penal settlement has, at best,\na limited lease of life. A man will make his home anywhere, and when a\nplace has become his home, it must have already ceased to be his jail.\nIt is in the nature of every penal settlement to become unsafe in\ntime; and a province of Siberia, peopled by Poles, would be a vast\nembarrassment to the empire, a second Poland in her rear. Even now,\nlong heads are counting the years when the sons of political exiles\nwill occupy all the leading posts in Asia. Will they not plant in that\nregion the seeds of a Polish power, and of a Catholic Church? It is\nthe opinion of liberal Russians that Siberia will one day serve their\ncountry as England is served by the United States.\n\nThe exiles sent to the frontiers are of many kinds; noble, ignoble;\nclerical, lay; political offenders, cut-throats, heretics, coiners,\nschismatics; prisoners of the Court, prisoners of the Law, and\nprisoners of the Church. The exiles sent away by a minister of police,\nby the governor of a province, are not kept in jail, are not compelled\nto work. The police has charge of them in a certain sense; they are\nnumbered, and registered in books; and they have to report themselves\nat head-quarters from time to time. Beyond these limits they are free.\nYou meet them in society; and if you guess they are exiles, it is\nmainly on account of their keener intelligence and their greater\nreserve of words. They either live on their private means, or follow\nthe professions to which they have been trained. Some teach music and\nlanguages, some practise medicine or law; still more become\nsecretaries and clerks to the official Russ. A great many occupy\noffices in the village system. In one day's drive in a tarantass I saw\na dozen hamlets, in which every man serving as a justice of the peace\nwas a Pole.\n\nNot less than three thousand of the insurgents taken with arms in\ntheir hands during the last rising at Warsaw, were sent on to\nArchangel. At first the number was so great that an insurrection of\nprisoners threatened the safety of the town. The governor had to call\nin troops from the surrounding country, and the war-office had to\nfetch back all the Prussian and Austrian Poles whom, in the first\nhours of repression, they had hurried to the confines of the Frozen\nSea.\n\nThey lived in a great yellow building, once used as the arsenal of\nArchangel, before the Government works were carried to the South; and\ntheir lot, though hard enough, was not harder than that of the people\namongst whom they lived. They were gently used by the officers, who\nfelt a soldierly respect for their courage, and a committee of foreign\nresidents was allowed to visit them in their rooms. The food allowed\nto them was plentiful and good, and many a poor sentinel standing with\nhis musket in their doorways must have envied them the abundance of\nbread and soup.\n\nIn squads and companies these prisoners have been brought back to\ntheir homes; some to their families, others to the provinces in which\nthey had lived. Many have been freed without terms; some have been\nsuffered to return to Poland on the sole condition of their not going\nto Warsaw. A hundred, perhaps, remain in the arsenal building, waiting\nfor their turn to march. Their lot is hard, no doubt; but where is the\ncountry in which the lot of a political prisoner is not hard? Is it\nVirginia? is it Ireland? is it France?\n\nThese prisoners are closely watched, and the chances of escape are\nfaint; not one adventurer getting off in a dozen years. A Pole of\ndesperate spirit, who had been sent to Mesen as a place of greater\nsecurity than the open city of Archangel, slipped his guard, crawled\nthrough the pine woods to the sea, hid himself in the forest, until he\nfound an opportunity of stealing a fisherman's boat, and then pushed\nboldly from the shore in his tiny craft, in the hope of being picked\nup by some English or Swedish ship on her outward voyage. Four days\nand nights he lived on the open sea; suffering from chill and damp,\nand torn by the pangs of hunger and thirst, until the paddle dropped\nfrom his hands. His strength being spent, he drifted with the tide on\nshore, only too glad to exchange his liberty for bread. When the\nofficer sent to make inquiries drove into Mesen, he found the poor\nfellow lying half dead in the convict ward.\n\nBeyond this confinement in a bleak and distant land, the Polish\ninsurgents do not seem to be physically ill-used. Their tasks are\nlight, their pay is higher than that of the soldiers guarding them,\nand some of the better class are allowed to work in cities as\nmessengers and clerks. At one time they were allowed to teach--one man\ndancing, a second drawing, a third languages; but this privilege has\nbeen taken from them on the ground that in the exercise of these arts\nthey were received into families, and abused their trust.\n\nIt is no easy thing to mix these Polish malcontents with the general\nrace, without producing these results which a jealous police regard as\na \"corruption\" of youth.\n\nMan for man, a Pole is better taught than a Russian. He has more\nideas, more invention, more practical talent. Having more resources,\nhe can not be thrown in the midst of his fellows without taking the\nlead. He can put their wishes into words, and show them how to act. A\nprisoner, he becomes a clerk: an exile, he becomes on overseer, a\nteacher--in fact, a leader of men. Sent out into a distant province,\nhe gradually but surely asserts his rank. An order from the police can\nnot rob him of his genius; and when the ban is taken from his name, he\nmay remain as a citizen in the town which gives him a career and\nperhaps supplies him with a wife. He may get a professor's chair; he\nmay be made a judge; if he has been a soldier, he may be put on the\ngeneral's staff.\n\nAll this time, and through all these changes, he may hold on to his\nhope; continuing to be a Pole at heart, and cherishing the dream of\nindependence which has proved his bane. The country that employs him\nin her service is not sure of him. In her hour of trial he may betray\nher to an enemy; he may use the power in which she clothes him to deal\nher a mortal blow. She can not trust him. She fears his tact, his\nsuppleness, his capacity for work. In fact, she can neither get on\nwith him nor without him.\n\nIn the mean time, Poles who have passed through years of exile into a\nsecond freedom are coming to be known as a class apart, with qualities\nand virtues of their own--the growth of suffering and experience\nacting on a sensitive and poetic frame. These men are known as the\nSiberians. A Pole with whom I travel some days is one of these\nSiberians, and from his lips I hear another side of this strange story\nof exile life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\nTHE SIBERIANS.\n\n\n\"He is one of the Siberians,\" says my comrade of the road, after\nquoting some verses from a Polish poet.\n\n\"One of the Siberians?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replies the Pole. \"In these countries you find a people of whom\nthe world has scarcely heard; a new people, I might say; for, while in\nphysique they are like the fighting men who followed Sobieski to the\nwalls of Vienna, they are in mind akin to the patient and laborious\nmonks who have built up the shrines of Solovetsk. Time has done his\nwork upon them. A sad and sober folk, they go among us by the name of\nour Siberians.\"\n\n\"They are Poles by birth?\"\n\n\"Yes, Poles by genius and by birth. They are our children who have\npassed through fire; our children whom we never hoped to see in the\nliving world. Once they were called our Lost Ones. In Poland we have a\ntragic phrase, much used by parting friends: 'We never meet again!'\nFor many years that parting phrase was fate. An exile, sent beyond the\nUral Mountains, never came back; he was said to have joined our Lost\nOnes; he became to us a memory like the dead. We could not hope to see\nhis face again, except in dreams. To-day that line is but a song, a\nrecollection of the past; a refrain sung by the waters of Babylon. In\nVilna, in Kazan, in Kief, in a hundred cities widely parted from each\nother, you will find a colony of Poles, now happy in their homes, who\nhave crossed and recrossed those heights; men of high birth, and of\nhigher culture than their birth; men who have ploughed through the\nsnows of Tomsk; who have brought back into the West a pure and\nbruised, though not a broken spirit.\"\n\n\"Are these pardoned men reconciled to the Emperor?\"\n\n\"They are reconciled to God. Do not mistake me. No one doubts that the\nreigning Emperor is a good and brave man; high enough to see his duty;\nstrong enough to face it, even though his feet should have to stumble\nlong and often on the rocks. But God is over all, and his Son died for\nall. Alexander is but an instrument in His hands. You think me\nmystical! Because my countrymen believe in the higher powers, they are\ndescribed by Franks, who believe in nothing, as dreamers and\nspiritualists. We dream our dreams, we see our signs, we practise our\nreligion, we respect our clergy, we obey our God.\"\n\n\"I have heard the Poles described as women in prayer, as gods in\nbattle!\"\n\n\"Like the young men of my circle,\" he continues, after a pause, \"I\ntook a part in the rising of '48; a poor affair, without the merit of\nbeing either Polish or Slavonic. That rising was entirely French.\nWhile young in years I had travelled with a comrade in the west of\nEurope; living on the Rhine, and on the Seine, where we forgot the\nreligion of our mothers and our country, and learned to think and to\nspeak of Poland as of a northern France. We called ourselves\nrepublicans, and thought we were great philosophers; but the idol of\nour fancies was Napoleon the Great, under whose banner so many of our\ncountrymen threw away their lives. We ceased to appear at church, and\neven denied ourselves to the Polish priest. We hated the Tsar, and we\ndespised the Russians with all our souls. Two years before the\nrepublic was proclaimed in the streets of Paris, we returned to\nWarsaw, in the hope of finding some field of service against the Tsar;\nbut the powers had been too swift for us; and Cracow, the last free\ncity of our country, was incorporated with the kaisar's empire on the\nday when I was dropped from the tarantass at my father's door. France\nbade us trust in her, and in the secret meetings which we called among\nour youthful friends, we gave up the good old Polish psalms and signs\nfor Parisian songs and passwords. In other days we sang 'The Babe in\nBethlehem,' but now, inspired with a foreign hope, we rioted through\nthe Marseillaise. We had become strangers in the land, and the hearts\nof our people were not with us. The women fell away, the clergy looked\naskance, but the unpopularity of our new devices only made us laugh.\nWe said to ourselves, we could do without these priests and fools; men\nwho were always slaves, and women who were always dupes. As to the\ncrowd of grocers and bakers--we thought of them only with contempt.\nWho ever heard of a revolution made by chandlers? We were noble, and\nhow could we accept their help? The year of illusion came at length.\nThat France to which every Polish eye was strained, became a republic;\nand then a troop of revellers, strong enough to whirl through a polka,\nthrew themselves on the Russian guns, and were instantly sabred and\nshot down. Ridden over in the street, I was carried into a house; and,\nwhen my wounds were dressed, was taken to the castle royal, with a\nhundred others like myself, to await our trial by commission, and our\nsentence of degradation from nobility, exile to Siberia, and perpetual\nservice in the mines. My friend was with me in the street, and shared\nmy doom.\"\n\n\"Had you to go on foot?\"\n\n\"Well--no. For Nicolas, though stern in temper, was not a man to break\nthe law. Himself a prince, he felt a proud respect for the rights of\nbirth; and as a noble could not be reduced to march in the gangs like\na peddler and a serf, our papers were made out in such a way that our\nprivileges were not to end until we reached Tobolsk. There the\npermanent commission of Siberia sat; and there each man received his\norder for the mines. We rode in a light cart, to which three strong\nponies were tied with ropes; and when the roads were hard, we made two\nhundred versts a day. Our feet were chained, so that we could not take\noff our boots by night or day; but the people of the steppe over which\nwe tore at our topmost speed, were good and kind to us, as they are to\nexiles; giving us bread, dried fish, and whisky, on the sly. They knew\nthat we were Poles, and, as a rule, their popes are only too much\ninclined to abuse the Poles as enemies of God; but the Russians, even\nwhen they are savages, have a tenderness of heart. They know the\ndifference between a political exile and a thief; for the Government\nstamps the thief and murderer on the forehead and the two cheeks with\na triple vor; a black and ghastly stamp which neither fire nor acid\nwill remove; and if they think a Pole very wicked in being a Catholic\nthey feel for his sufferings as a man. Twice I tried to escape from\nthe mines; and on both occasions, though I failed to get away, the\nkindness of the poor surprised me. They dared not openly assist my\nflight, but they were sometimes blind and deaf; and often, when in\nhunger and despair I ventured to crawl near a cabin in the night, I\nfound a ration of bread and fish, and even a cup of quass, laid ready\non the window-ledge.\"\n\n\"Who put them there, and why?\"\n\n\"Poor peasants, to whom bread and fish are scarce; in order to relieve\nthe wants of some poor devil like myself.\"\n\n\"Then you began to like the people?\"\n\n\"Like them! To understand them, and to see they were my brothers; but\nmy heart was hard with them for years. I was a man of science, as they\ncall it; and I told myself that in giving food to the hungry they were\nonly obeying the first rude instincts of a savage horde. At length a\npoor priest came in a cart to the mines. Before his coming I had heard\nof him--his name--his mission--and his perils; for Father Paul was a\nfree agent in his travels; having chosen this service in the desert\nsnows, instead of a stall in some cathedral-town, from a belief that\npoor Catholic exiles had a higher claim on him than sleek and\nfashionable folk. I knew, from the report of others, that he made the\nround of Siberia, sledging from mine to mine, from mill to mill, in\norder to keep alive in these Catholic exiles some remembrance of their\nearly faith; to say mass, to hear confessions, to marry and baptize,\nto sanctify the new-made grave. Yet I hardly gave to him a second\nthought. What could he do for me; a poor priest, dwelling by choice in\na savage waste, with no high sympathies and no great friends? He was\nnot likely to adore Napoleon, and he was certain to detest Mazzini's\nname. How could I talk with such a man? The night when he arrived was\ncold, his sledge was injured, and the wolves had been upon his track.\nSome natural pity for his age and danger drew me to his side in our\nwooden shed, and after he was thawed into life, he spoke to us, even\nbefore he tasted food, of that love of God which was his only\nstrength. When he had supped on our coarse turnip soup and a little\nblack bread, he lay down on a mattress and fell asleep. For hours that\nnight I sat and gazed into his face, his white hair falling on his\npillow, and his two arms folded like a cross upon his breast. If ever\nman looked like an angel in his sleep it was Father Paul. Of such men\nis the Church of Christ.\n\n\"Next day I sought him in his shed, for our inspector turned this\nvisit into a holiday for his Catholic prisoners; and there he spoke to\nme of my country and of my mother, until my heart was softened, and\nthe tears ran down my face. Pausing softly in his speech, he bent his\neyes upon me, as my father might have looked, and pressing me tenderly\nby the hand, said: 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy\nladen, and I will give you rest.' 'Blessed are they that mourn; for\nthey shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit\nthe earth.' I had read these words a hundred times, for I was fond of\nthe New Testament as a book of democratic texts; but I had never felt\ntheir force until they fell from the lips of Father Paul. I saw they\nwere addressed to me. My mother was about me in the air. I laid down\nmy philosophy, and felt once more like a little child.\"\n\nHis voice is low and mellow, but the tones are firm, and touch my ear\nlike strings in perfect tune. After a pause, I asked him how his\nchange of feeling worked in his relations to the Russians.\n\n\"A Christian,\" he replies, \"is not a slave of the flesh. His first\nconsideration is for God; his second for the children of God, not as\nthey chance to dwell on the Vistula, on the Alps, on the Frozen Sea,\nbut in every land alike. He yields up the sword to those who will one\nday perish by the sword. His weapon is the spirit, and he hopes to\nsubdue mankind by love.\"\n\n\"Then you would yield the sword to any one who is proud and prompt\nenough to seize it.\"\n\n\"No; the sword is God's to give, not mine to yield; and for His\npurposes He gives it unto whom He will. It is a fearful gift, and no\nman can be happy in whose grasp it lies.\"\n\n\"Yet many would like to hold it?\"\n\n\"That is so. The man who first sees fire will burn himself. Observe\nhow differently one thinks of war when one comes to see that men are\nreally the sons of God. All war means killing some one. Which one?\nWould you like to think that in a future world some awful coil of fate\nshould draw you into slaying an angel?\"\n\n\"No; assuredly.\"\n\n\"Yet men are angels in a lower stage! We see things as we feel them.\nMen are blind, until their eyes are opened by the love of God; and God\nis nearest to the bruised and broken heart. Hosts of Siberians have\ncome back to Poland; but among these exiles there is hardly one who\nhas returned as he went forth.\"\n\n\"They are older.\"\n\n\"They are wiser. Father Paul, and priests like Father Paul--for he is\nnot alone in his devotion--have not toiled in vain. Perhaps I should\nsay they have not lived in vain; for the service which they render to\nthe proud and broken spirit of the exile, is not the word they utter,\nbut the doctrine they live. The poets and critics who have passed\nthrough fire are known by their chastened style. They have put away\nFrance and the French. They read more serious books; they speak in\nmore sober phrase. In every thing except their love of God and love of\ncountry you might think them tame. They preach but little, and they\npractise much; above all, they look to what is high and noble, if\nremote, and set their faces sternly against the wanton waste of blood.\nThey know the Russians better, and they did not need the amnesty, and\nwhat has followed it, in order to feel the brotherhood of all the\nSlavonic tribes.\"\n\n\"You are a Panslavonist?\"\n\n\"No! We want a wider policy and a nobler word. The Panslavonic party\nhas built a wall round Kief, and they would build a wall round Russia.\nThey have a Chinese love of walls. Just look at Moscow; one wall round\nthe Kremlin, a second wall round China-town, a third wall round the\ncity proper. What we need is the old war-cry of St. George--the patron\nof our early dukes, our free cities, and our missionary church.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\nST. GEORGE.\n\n\nSt. George is a patron saint of all the Slavonic nations; whether Wend\nor Serb, Russine or Russ, Polack or Czeck; but he is worshipped with\npeculiar reverence by the elder Russ. His days are their chief\nfestivals; the days on which it is good for them to buy and sell, to\npledge and marry, to hire a house, to lease a field, to start an\nenterprise. Two days in the year are dedicated in his name,\ncorresponding in their idiom and their climate to the first day of\nspring and the last day of autumn; days of gladness to all men and\nwomen who live by tending flocks and tilling fields. On the first of\nthese days the sheds are opened, the cattle go forth to graze, the\nshepherd takes up his crook, the dairy-maid polishes her pots and\npans. The second day is a kind of harvest-home, the labor of the year\nbeing over, the harvest garnered, and the flocks penned up. But George\nis a city saint as well as a rustic saint. His image is the cognizance\nof their free cities, and of their old republics; and the figure of\nthe knight in conflict with the dragon has been borne in every period\nby their dukes, their grand dukes, and their Tsars. His badge occurs\non a thousand crosses, amulets, and charms; dividing the affections of\na pious and superstitious race with images of the Holy Trinity and the\nMother of God. The knight in conflict with the dragon was proudly\nborne on the shield of Moscow hundreds of years before the Black Eagle\nwas added to the Russian flag. That eagle was introduced by Ivan the\nThird; a prince who began the work (completed by his grandson, Ivan\nthe Fourth) of crushing the great boyars and destroying the free\ncities. Ivan copied that emblem from the Byzantine flag; a symbol of\nhis autocratic power, which many of his people read as a sign that\ndevil-worship was the new religion of his army and his court. They saw\nin this black and ravening bird the Evil Spirit, just as they saw in\nthe white and innocent dove the Holy Ghost. To soothe their fears, St.\nGeorge was quartered on the Black Eagle; not in his talons, but on his\nbreast; and in this form the Christian warrior figures on every\nRussian flag and Russian coin.\n\nSt. George was the patron of an agricultural and pacific race; a\ncountry that was pious, rich, and free; and what he was in ancient\ntimes he still remains in the national heart. As the patron of\nsoldiers he is hardly less popular with princes than peasants. Peter\nthe Great engraved the figure of St. George on his sword; the Empress\nCatharine founded an order in his name; and Nicolas built in his honor\na magnificent marble hall. Yet the high place and typical shrine of\nSt. George is Novgorod the Great.\n\nFor miles above and miles below the red kremlin walls at Novgorod, the\nVolkhof banks are beautiful with gardens, country houses, and monastic\npiles. These swards are bright with grass and dark with firs; the\nhouses are of Swiss-like pattern; and the convents are a wonder of the\nland. St. Cyril and St. Anton lend their names to masses of\npicturesque building; but the glory of this river-side scenery is the\nsplendid monastery of St. George.\n\nBuilt by Jaroslav, a son of St. Vladimir, on a ridge of high ground,\nnear the point where Lake Ilmen flows into the river Volkhof, the\nConvent of St. George stood close to an ancient town called Gorod\nItski--City of Strength--literally, Fenced Town. Of this fenced town,\na church, with frescoes older than those of Giotto, still remains; a\nchurch on a bluff, with a quaint old name of Spas Nereditsa:\nliterally, Our Saviour Beyond Bounds. In these old names old tales lie\nhalf-entombed. From this fenced town, the burghers, troubled by a\nfierce democracy, appear to have crossed the river and built for\nthemselves a kremlin (that is to say, a stone inclosure) two miles\nlower down the stream, on a second ridge of ground, separated from the\nfirst by an impassable swamp. This new city, called Novgorod (New\nTown), was to become a wonder of the earth; a trading republic, a\nrival of Florence and Augsburg, a mother of colonies, a station of the\nHanseatic League.\n\nThe old Church of our Saviour Beyond Bounds, and the still older\nConvent of St. George on the opposite bank, were left in the open\ncountry; left to the neglects of time and to the ravages of those\nTartar begs who swept these plains from Moscow to the gates of Pskof.\n\nNeglect, if slow, was steady in her task of ruining that ancient\nchurch, now become a landmark only; but a landmark equally useful to\nthe critic of church history, and to the raftsman guiding his float\nacross the lake. As we leave the porch, an old man, standing uncovered\nnear the door, calls out, \"You come to see the church--the poor old\nchurch--but no one gives a ruble to repair the poor old church! It is\nSt. George's Day; yet no one here remembers the dear old church! Look\nup at the Mother of God; see how she is tumbling down; yet no man\ncomes to save her! Give some rubles, Gospodin, to our Blessed Lady,\nMother of God!\" The old man sighs and sobs these words in a voice that\nseems to come from a breaking heart.\n\nSt. George was able to defend his cells and shrines; and in all the\nravages committed by Tartar hordes, the rich convent near Lake Ilmen\nwas never profaned by Moslem hoof. Cold critics assume that the belt\nof peat and bog lying south of Novgorod for a hundred miles was the\ntrue defense; but the poets of Novgorod assert, in many a song and\ntale, that they owed their safety from the infidel spoilers to no\nfreak of nature and no arm of flesh. St. George defended his convent\nand his city by a standing miracle; and, in return for his protecting\ngrace, the people of this province came to kneel and pray, as their\nfathers for a thousand years have knelt and prayed, before his holy\nshrine.\n\nMy visit to the Convent of St. George is paid (in company with Father\nBogoslovski, Russian pope, and Mr. Michell, English diplomat) on the\nautumnal festival of the saint. Three or four thousand pilgrims,\nchiefly from the town and province of Novgorod, camp in a green\nmeadow; their carts unyoked; their horses tethered to the ground;\ntheir camp-fires lighted here and there. Each pilgrim brings a present\nto St. George; a load of hay, a sack of flour, a pot of wax, a roll of\nlinen, an embroidered flag. That poor old creature, who can hardly\nwalk, has brought him a ball of thread; a widow's mite, as welcome as\nan offering in gold and silver. Booths are built for the sale of bread\nand fruit; tea is fizzing on fifty stalls; grapes, nuts, and apples\nare sold on every side. The peasants are warmly and brightly clad: the\nmen in sheep-skin vests, fur caps, and boots; the women in damask\ngowns and jackets, quilted and puckered, the edges fringed with silver\nlace. A fine day tempts the women and children to throw themselves on\nthe green in groups. Monks move among the crowd; country folk stare at\nthe finery; hawkers chaffer with the girls; and more than one\ntransparent humbug makes a market of relics and pious ware. Every one\nis in holiday humor; and the general aspect of the field in front of\nthe convent gates is that of a village fair, with just a dash of the\nrevival camp.\n\nThe worshippers are a placid, kindly, and (for the moment) a sober\nfolk, with quaint expressions and old-world manners. On the boat we\nhear a rustic say to his neighbor, \"If you are not a noble, take your\nbundle off that bench and let me sit down; if you are a noble, go into\nthe best cabin, your proper place.\" The neighbor sets his bundle down,\nand the newcomer drops into his seat, saying, \"See, there is room for\nall Christians; we are equal here, being all baptized.\" An English\nchurl might have said he had \"paid his fare.\" On board the same boat a\nman replies to the steward, who wishes to turn him out of the\ndining-room, \"Am I not a Christian, and why should I go out?\" On\nhiring a boat to cross the river, Father Bogoslovski says to the\noarsman, \"Take your sheep-skin; you will get a cold.\" \"No; thank you,\"\nanswers the waterman, \"we never take cold if God is with us.\" Another\nboatman tells us we are doing a \"good work\" in visiting the shrines.\n\"Once,\" he says, \"I was sick, and died; but I prayed to my angel\nLazarus to let me live again. He listened to my prayers, not for my\nown sake, but for that of my brother, who had just come back from\nSolovetsk. My soul came back, and we were very glad. Your angel can\nalways fetch back your soul, unless it has gone too far.\" Here stands\na group of men; a young fellow with a basket of red apples, two or\nthree lads, and an old peasant, evidently a stranger to these parts.\n\"Eat an apple with me, uncle,\" says the young fellow to his elder; for\na rustic, who addresses a stranger of his own age as \"brother,\" always\nspeaks to elderly ones as \"uncle.\" \"Very nice apples,\" says the\nstranger, \"where were they blessed?\" \"In St. Sophia's, yonder; try\nthem.\" Apples are blessed in church on August 6th, the feast of the\ntransfiguration; the earliest day on which such garden fruit is\ncertain to be ripe. It is an old popular custom, maintained by the\nChurch, in the simple interest of the public health.\n\nThe scene is lovely. From the belfry of St. George--a shaft to compare\nwith the Porcelain Tower--you command a world of encircling pines,\nthrough which flow, past your feet, the broad and idle waters of the\nVolkhof; draining the ample lake, here shining on your right. Below\nyou spreads the deep and difficult marsh; and on the crests of a\nsecond ridge of land springs up a forest of spires and battlements,\nrich in all radiant hues; red walls, white towers, green domes, and\ngolden pinnacles; here the kremlin and cathedral, there the city gate\nand bridge; and yonder, across the stream, the trading town, the\nbazar, and Yaroslav's Tower; the long and picturesque line of Novgorod\nthe Great.\n\nA bell of singular sweetness soothes the senses like a spell. At one\nstall you drink tea; no stronger liquor being sold at the convent\ngate. At a second stall you buy candles; to be lighted and left on the\nshrines within. At a third you get consecrated bread; a present for\nyour friends and domestics far away. This fine white bread, being\nstamped with the cross and blessed, is not to be bought with money;\nfor how could the flesh of our Lord be sold for coin? It is exchanged.\nYou give a man twenty kopecks; he gives you a loaf of bread. Gift for\ngift is not barter--you are told--but brotherly love. On trying the\nsame thing at an apple-stall, the result appears to you much the same.\nYou pay down so many kopecks; you take up so much fruit; the quantity\nstrictly measured by the amount of coin laid down. You see no\ndifference between the two? Then you are not an Oriental, not a\npilgrim of St. George.\n\nSome twelve or fifteen thousand men and women bring their offerings,\nin kind and money, every spring and autumn, to the shrine of this\nfamous saint.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\nNOVGOROD THE GREAT.\n\n\nSitting at my window, gazing into space--in front of me that famous\ntower of Yaroslav, from which once pealed the Vechie bell; and, lying\nbeyond this tower, the public square, the bridge, the Kremlin walls,\nSophia's golden domes, and that proud pedestal of the present reign,\nwhich tells of a Russia counting already her thousand years of\npolitical life--I fall a dreaming of the past, until the sceneries and\nthe people come and go in a procession; not of dead things, but of\nquick and passionate men, alive with the energies of past and coming\ntimes.\n\nWhat were the shapes and meanings of that dream? A wide expanse of\nwood and waste; forests of fir and silver-birch; with tarns and lakes\non which the wild fowl of the country feed their young; and by the\nshores of which the shepherds and herdsmen watch their scanty flocks.\nIn the midst of this wood and water stands a low red wall of stone,\nengirding a mass of cabins, with here and there a bigger cabin, from\nthe peak of which springs a cross. A river rolls beneath the wall, the\nwaters of which come from a dark and sombre lake. The space within the\nwall is a kremlin, an inclosure, and in this kremlin dwell a band of\ntraders and craftsmen; holding their own, with watchful eye and ready\nhand, like the lodgers in a Syrian khan, against wild and predatory\ntribes. The life of these men is hard and mean; the air is bleak, the\nsoil unfruitful; and the marauders prowl forever at their gates.\n\nA mist of time rolls up and hides the red stone wall and shingles from\nmy sight, and, when it clears away, a vast and shining city stands\nexposed to view, with miles of street and garden, and an outer wall,\nof sweep so vast that the eye can hardly take it in, with massive\ngates and towers to defend these gates, of enormous strength. The\nriver is now alive with boats and rafts; the streets are thronged with\npeople, and a hundred domes and steeples glitter in the sun. The red\nkremlin, not now used as a castle of defense, is covered with public\nbuildings; one a cathedral of gigantic size and surpassing beauty;\nanother, a palace with a garden, belted by a moat; the citadel in\nwhich the traders nestled together for their common safety having now\nbecome the seat of temporal and spiritual power. Long trains of horses\nfile through the city gates, bringing in the produce of a thousand\nhamlets, which the merchants store in their magazines for export and\nexpose in their bazars for sale. These merchants bring their wares\nfrom East and West, and send them in exchange to the farthest ports\nand cities of the earth. Their town is a free town, to which men from\nall nations come and go; a republic in the wilderness; a station of\nthe Hanseatic league, devoting itself to freedom, commerce, and the\nliberal arts. The life of a great country flows into their streets and\nsquares; from which run out again the prosperous purple tides into the\nunknown regions of ice and storm. Forth from her gates march out the\ncolonists of the North; the men of Kem and Holmogory; men who are\ngoing forth to plant on the shores of the Arctic Sea the free\ninstitutions under which they live at home. A prince, elected by the\npeople, serving while they list, sits in the chair of state, like a\nPodesta in Italian towns; but the actual power is in the hands of the\nVetchie: a popular council, summoned by the ringing of a bell--the\ngreat city bell--which swings in Yaroslav's Tower.\n\nNow comes a change, which seems to be less a change in the outward\nshow than in the inner spirit of the place. The merchant has become a\nboyar, the nobleman a prince. Pride of the eye, and lust of the heart,\nare stamped upon every face. The rich are very rich; the poor are very\npoor; and men in cloth of gold affront and trample on men in rags. The\nstreets--so spacious and so busy!--are disturbed by faction fights;\nand the Vetchie bell is swinging day and night, as though some Tartar\nhorde were at the gates. The boyars have grown too rich for freedom,\nand the ancients of the city sell their consciences for gold and\nstate. Deeming themselves the equals of kings, they give their city\nnot only the name of Great, but the name of Lord. On public documents\nthey ask--as if in mockery--Who can stand against God, and Novgorod\nthe Great?\n\nAgain falls the mist of time; and as it rolls away, the city, still as\nvast, though not so busy as of yore, seems troubled in her splendor by\na sudden fear. The bell which tolls her citizens to council, seems\nwild with pain, and men are hurrying to and fro along her streets;\nnone daring, as in olden days, to snatch down lance and sword, and\ncounsel his fellows to go forth and fight. For an enemy is nigh their\ngates, whom they have much offended, without having virtue enough to\nresist his arms. Ivan the Fourth, returning from a disastrous raid on\nthe Baltic seaboard, hears that in his absence from Moscow, the\ncitizens of Novgorod, hating his rule, have sent an embassy to the\nPrince of Sweden, praying him to take them under his protection; and\nin his fury the tyrant swears to destroy that city, and to sow the\nsite with salt. An army of Tartars and Kozaks is at the gates; an army\nsullen from defeat and loss, and only to be rallied by an orgy of\ndrink and blood. Pale with terror, the citizens run to and fro; the\nwomen shriek and swoon; and help for them is none, until Father\nNicolas, an ancient man, with flowing beard and saintly face, stands\nforward in their midst. A wild creature; an Elisha the prophet, a John\nthe Baptist; he stands up in their meeting, naked from head to feet.\nSuch a man suits the times; and as he offers to go forth and save the\ncity from ruin, they gladly let him try. Nicolas marches forth, in his\nnakedness, to denounce his prince in the midst of his ravenous hordes;\nand when he comes into the camp, he walks up boldly to the Tsar. Ivan,\nhimself a fanatic, listens to this naked man with a patience which his\nguards and ministers observe with wonder. \"Bloodsucker and\nunbeliever!\" cries the hermit, \"thou who art a devourer of Christian\nflesh--listen to my words. If thou, or any of these thy servants,\ntouch a hair of a child's head in yon city--which God preserves for a\ngreat purpose--then, I swear by the angel whom God has given unto me\nto serve me, thou shalt surely die; die on the instant, by a flash\nfrom heaven!\" As he speaks, the sky grows dark, a storm springs up,\nand rages through the tents. A pall comes down, and covers the earth.\n\"Spare me, fearful saint,\" shrieks the Tsar, \"the city is forgiven;\nand let me, in remembrance of this day, have thy constant prayers.\" On\nthese conditions Nicolas withdraws his curse; and Ivan, marching into\nthe city with his captives and his treasures, lodges in the Kremlin\nand the palace, and kneeling before the shrine of St. Sophia, makes\nhimself gracious to the people for the hermit's sake.\n\nOnce more a mist comes down--a thin white veil, which passes like a\npout from an infant's face. The city is the same in size, in splendor,\nin the fullness of her fearful life. The Tsar, who went away from her\ngates low and humble, has come back, like a wild beast thirsting for\nblood and prey. His army camps beyond the walls, and a whisper passes\nthrough the city that the place is to be razed, the women given up to\nthe Tartars, while the men and boys are to be put without mercy to the\nsword. The city razed! No fancy can take in the fact; for Novgorod is\none of the largest cities in Europe, a republic older than Florence, a\ncapital larger than London, a shrine more sacred than Kief. Her walls\nmeasure fifty miles, her houses contain eight hundred thousand souls.\nYet Ivan has doomed her to the dust. Telling off ten thousand gunners\nof his guard, and thirty thousand Tartars from the steppe, he gives up\nthe republic to their lust, bidding them sack and burn, and spare\nneither man nor maid. They rush upon the gates; they scale the wall;\nthey seize the bridge, the Kremlin, the cathedral; and they make\nthemselves masters of the city, quarter by quarter and street by\nstreet. No pen will paint the horrors of that sack. The wines are\ndrunk, the people butchered, the houses fired. Day by day, and week\nafter week, the club, the musket, and the torch are in constant use.\nThe streets run blood, the river is choked with bodies of the slain.\nWhen the work of slaughter stops, and the Tartars are recalled into\ntheir camp, the tale of murdered men, women, and children is found to\nbe greater than the population of Petersburg in the present day. The\ndesolation is Oriental and complete.\n\nThe city bell--the bell of council and of prayer--is taken down from\nYaroslav's Tower and sent to Moscow, where it hangs beside the Holy\nGate--an exile from the city it roused to arms, and haply speaking to\nsome burgher's ear and student's heart of a time when Russian cities\nwere equal to those of Italy and England, and her people were as free\nas those of Germany and France!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\nSERFAGE.\n\n\nSerfage has but a vague resemblance to the system of villeinage once\nso common in the West; and serfage was not villeinage under another\nname. Villeinage was Occidental, serfage Oriental.\n\nVillein, aldion, colonus, fiscal, homme de pooste, are words which, in\nvarious tongues of Western Europe, mark the man who belonged to a\nmaster, and was bound by law to serve him. Whether he lived in\nEngland, Italy, or France, the man was stamped with the same\ncharacter, and laden with the same obligation. He was a hedger and\nditcher--churl, clod, lout, and boor--heavy as the earth he tilled,\nand swinish as the herds he fed. He could not leave his lord; he could\nnot quit his homestead and his field. In turn, his master could not\ndrive him from the soil, though he might beat him, force him to work,\nthrow him into prison, and sell his services when he sold the land.\nBut here the likeness of serf to either villein, aldion, colonus,\nfiscal, or homme de pooste ends sharply. No one thought the villein\nwas an actual owner of the soil he tilled, and in no country was the\nemancipation of his class accompanied by a cession of the land.\n\nSerfage sprang from a different root, and in a different time. The\ngreat settlement, which is the glory of Alexander's reign, can only be\nunderstood by reference to the causes from which serfage sprang.\n\nSome of the facts which prove this difference between Western\nvilleinage and Eastern serfage lie beyond dispute. Villeinage was\nintroduced by foreign princes, serfage by native tsars. Villeinage\nfollowed a disastrous war; serfage followed liberation from a foreign\nyoke. Villeinage came with the dark ages and passed away with them.\nSerfage came with the spreading light, with the rising of\nindependence, with the sentiment of national life. Villeinage was\nforgotten by the Rhine, the Severn, and the Seine, before serfage was\nestablished on the Moskva and the Don.\n\nIn short, serfage is a historical phase.\n\nIn one of the book-rooms of the Academy of Sciences, in Vassile\nOstrof, St. Petersburg, you turn over the leaves of an early\ncopy--said to be the first--of \"Nestor's Chronicle,\" in which are many\nfine drawings of scenes and figures, helping you to understand the\ntext. This copy is known as the Radzivil codex. Nestor wrote his book\nin Kief, a hundred years before that city was sacked by Batu Khan; and\nthe pictures in the Radzivil codex give you the early Russian in his\ndress, his garb, and his ways of life. Was he in that early time an\nAsiatic, dressed in a sheep-skin robe and a sheep-skin cap? In no\ndegree. The Russian boyar dressed like a German knight; the Russian\nmujik dressed like an English churl.\n\nIn Nestor's time the Russians were a free people, ruled in one place\nby elective chiefs, in another place by family chiefs. They were a\ntrading and pacific race; in the western countries settled in towns;\nin the eastern countries living in tents and huts. Novgorod, Pskof,\nand Illynof were free cities, ruled by elected magistrates, on the\npattern of Florence and Pisa, Hamburg and Lubeck. In those days there\nwas neither serf nor need of serf. But this old Russia fell under the\nMongol yoke. Broken in the great battle on the Kalka, the country\nwrithed in febrile agony for a hundred and eighty years; during which\ntime her fields were scorched, her cities sacked, her peasants driven\nfrom their homes into the forest and the steppe. She had not yet\nraised her head from this blow, when Timur Beg swept over her\nprostrate form; an Asiatic of higher reach and nobler type than Batu\nKhan; a scholar, an artist, a statesman; though he was still an\nAsiatic in faith and spirit. Timur brought with him into Russia the\ncode of Mecca, the art of Samarcand, the song of Ispahan. His begs\nwere dashing, his mirzas polished. In the khanates which he left\nbehind him on the Volga and in the Crimea, there was a courtesy, a\nbeauty, and a splendor, not to be found in the native duchies of\nNijni, Moscow, Riazan, and Tver. The native dukes and boyars of these\nprovinces held from the Crim Tartar, known to our poets as the Great\nCham. They swore allegiance to him; they paid him annual tribute; they\nflattered him by adopting his clothes and arms. The humblest vassals\nof this Great Cham were the Moscovite dukes, who called themselves his\nslaves, and were his slaves. Standing before him in the streets, they\nheld his reins, and fed his horses out of their Tartar caps. They\ncopied his fashions and assumed his names. Their armies, raised by his\nconsent, were dressed and mounted in the Tartar style. They fought for\nhim against their country, crushing those free republics in the north\nwhich his cavalry could not reach.\n\nThis fawning of dukes and boyars on the Great Cham brought no good to\nthe rustic; who might see his patch of rye trodden down, his homestead\nfired, and his village cross profaned by gangs of marauding horse.\nEven when a Tartar khan set up his flag on some river bank, as at\nKazan, in some mountain gorge, as at Bakchi Serai, he was still a\nnomad and a rider, with his natural seat in the saddle and his natural\nhome in the tent. A little provocation stirred his blood, and when his\nfeet were in the stirrups, it was not easy for shepherds and villagers\nto turn his lance. A cloud of fire went with him; a trail of smoke and\nembers lay behind him. No man could be sure of reaping what he sowed;\nfor an angry word, an insolent gesture of his duke, might bring that\nfiery whirlwind of the Tartar horse upon his crops. What could he do,\nexcept run away? When year by year this ruin fell upon him, he left\nhis cabin and his field; working a little here, and begging a little\nthere; but never striking root into the soil. Now he was a pilgrim,\nthen a shepherd, oftener still a tramp. To pass more easily to and\nfro, he donned the Tartar dress; a sheep-skin robe and cap; the robe\ncaught in at the waist by a belt, and made to turn, so that the wool\ncould be worn outwardly by day and inwardly by night. In self-defense\nhe picked up Tartar words, and passed, where he could pass, for one of\nthe conquering race.\n\nWhy should he plough his land for other men to spoil? While he was\nwatching his corn grow ripe, the khan of Crim Tartary, stung by some\ninsult from the duke, might spur out rapidly from his luxurious camp\nat Bakchi Serai, and, sweeping through the plains from Perekop to\nMoscow, waste his fields with fire.\n\nLike causes produce like effects. Nomadic lords produce nomadic\nslaves. The Russian peasant became a vagabond, just as the Syrian\nfellah becomes a vagabond, when from year to year his crops have been\nplundered by the Bedouin tribes.\n\nWhen Ivan the Fourth, having learned from the Tartar Begs how to rule\nand fight, broke up the khanates of Kazan and Astrakhan, and ventured\nto defy the lord of Bakchi Serai, he found himself an independent\nprince at the head of a country, rich in soil, in capital, and in\nlabor, but with fields deserted, villages destroyed, populations\nscattered, and public roads unsafe. The land was not unpeopled; but\nthe peasants had lost their sense of home, and the mujiks wandered\nfrom town to town. Labor was dear in one place, worthless in another.\nHalf the land, even in the richer provinces, lay waste; and every year\nsome district was scourged by famine, and by the epidemics which\nfollow in the wake of famine. How were the peasants to be \"fixed\" upon\nthe land?\n\nFor seventy years this question troubled the court in the Kremlin,\neven more than that court was troubled by Church controversy, Tartar\nraid, and family strife; although within this period of seventy years\nSt. Philip was murdered, the Great Cham burnt a portion of Moscow,\nDimitri the legitimate heir was killed, and Boris Godounof usurped the\nthrone. Ivan the Fourth tried hard to induce his people to return upon\ntheir lands; by giving up many of the crown estates; by building\nvillages at his own expense; by coaxing, thrashing, forcing his people\ninto order. Even if this reformer never used the term serf\n(krepostnoi, a man \"fixed\" or \"fastened,)\" he is not the less--for\ngood and ill--the author of that Russian serfage which is passing away\nbefore our eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\nA TARTAR COURT.\n\n\nIn that gorgeous chamber of the Kremlin known as the treasury of\nMoscow, stands an armed and mounted figure, richly dight, and called a\nboyar of the times of Ivan the Fourth. Arms, dress, accoutrements, are\nthose of a mirza, a Tartar noble; and an inscription on the drawn\nDamascus blade informs the pious Russian that there is but One God,\nand that Mohammed is the prophet of God! Yet the figure is really that\nof a boyar of the times of Ivan the Fourth.\n\nNo prince in the line of Russian rulers is so great a puzzle as this\nIvan the Fourth. In spite of his many atrocious deeds, he is still\nregarded by many of his critics as an able reformer and a patriotic\nprince. Much, indeed, must be said in his favor by all fair writers.\nTo him the Moscovites owe their deliverance from the Tartar yoke. For\nthem he conquered the kingdom of Kazan, the empire of Siberia, the\nkhanate of Astrakhan. On all their frontiers he subdued the crescent\nto the cross. With Swedes and Poles he waged an equal, sometimes a\nglorious war. He opened his country to foreign trade; he built ports\non the Baltic, on the Caspian, on the Frozen Seas. The glories of his\nreign were of many kinds. He brought printers from the Rhine, and\npublished the Acts of the Apostles in his native tongue. He sent to\nFrankfort for skillful physicians, to London for artificers in wood\nand brass. Collecting shipwrights at his river-town of Vologda, he\ncaused them to build for him a fleet of rafts and boats, on which he\ncould descend with his treasures to the sea. He called a parliament of\nhis estates to consult on the public weal. He reduced the unwritten\nlaws of his country to a code. He put down mendicancy in his empire;\nlaid his reforming hand on the clergy; and published a uniform\nconfession of faith.\n\nIvan was a savage; though he was a popular savage. Terrible he was;\nbut terrible to the rich and great. In fact, he was a reforming Tartar\nkhan. If he taxed the merchants, he built hamlets for peasants at his\nprivate cost. If he crushed the free cities, he settled thousands of\npoor on the public lands. If he destroyed the princes and boyars as a\nruling caste, he put into their places the official _chins_. If he\nruled by the club, he also tried to rule by the printing-press. If he\nsacked Novgorod and Pskoff, he built a vast number of churches,\nvillages, and shrines. A builder by policy, as well as by nature, he\nfound an empire of logs, which he hoped to bequeath to his son as an\nempire of stone. Forty stone churches, sixty stone monasteries, owe\ntheir foundation to his care. He raised the quaint edifice of St.\nVassili, near the Kremlin wall, which he called after his father's\npatron saint. He is said to have built a hundred and fifty castles,\nand more than three hundred communes.\n\nWishing to settle and civilize his people, the reformer sought his\nmodels in those Tartar provinces which he had recently subdued. Kazan\nand Bakchi Serai were nobler cities than Vladimir and Moscow; while\nthe poorest mirza of the Great Cham's court was far more splendid in\narms and dress than any boyar in Ivan's court.\n\nIvan began to tartarize his kingdom by dividing it into two\nparts--personal and provincial; the first of which he ruled in person;\nthe second by deputies wielding the power of Tartar begs. He raised a\nregular army--then the only one in Europe--which he armed and mounted\nin the Tartar style. He raised a body-guard to whom he gave the Tartar\ntafia; a cap that no Christian in his duchy was allowed to wear. Like\nthe Great Cham, he set apart rooms in his palace for a harem; shut up\nhis wives and daughters from the public eye; and changed the new\nfashion of excluding women from his court into a binding rule. His\ndukes and boyars followed him, until every house had a harem, and the\nseclusion of females was as strict in Moscow as in Bokhara and Bagdad.\n\nThese customs kept their ground until the times of Peter the Great.\nThe land was governed by provincial begs, called boyars and voyevods;\nthe army was drilled and dressed like Turkish troops; and the women\nwere kept in harems like the Sultan's odalisques. Breaking through the\ncustoms introduced by Ivan, Peter opened the imperial harem; showed\nhis wife in public; and invited ladies to appear at court. Yet\nsomething of this Turkish fashion may still be traced in Russian\nfamily life, especially in the country towns. As every great house had\nits harem--a woman's quarter, into which no stranger was allowed to\nset his foot--so every great family had a separate cemetery for the\nfemale sex. A few of these old cemeteries still remain as convents;\nfor example, the Novo-Devictchie, Maidens' Convent, in the suburbs of\nMoscow; and the Convent of the Ascension, in the Kremlin, near the\nHoly Gate; the burial-place of all the Tsarinas, from the time of Ivan\nthe Terrible down to that of Peter the Great.\n\nBy subtle tricks and surprises, Ivan set his dukes and boyars\nquarrelling with each other, and when they were hot with speech he\nwould get them to accuse each other, and so despoil them both. In time\nhe procured the surrender to him of nearly all their historical rights\nand titles; when, like a sultan, he forced them to receive his gifts\nand graces, under their hands, _as slaves_. He introduced the Oriental\npractice of sending men, under forms of honor, into distant parts;\ninventing the political Siberia. His dukes were reduced in power, his\nboyars plundered of their wealth. The princes were too numerous to be\ntouched, for in Ivan's time every third man in Moscow was a prince;\nand an English trader used to hire such a man to groom his horse or\nclean his boots. Not many of the ancient dukes survived this reign;\nbut the Narichkins, the Dolgoroukis, the Golitsin, and four or five\nothers, escaped; and these historical families look with patronizing\nairs on the imperial race. The Narichkins have married with Romanofs.\nOne of this house was offered the title of imperial highness, and\ndeclined it, saying proudly to his sovereign, \"No, sir, I am\nNarichkin.\" In the same spirit, Peter Dolgorouki, when he heard that\nthe Emperor had taken away his title of prince, wrote to his majesty,\n\"How can _you_ pretend to degrade _me_? Can you rob me of my\nancestors, who were grand dukes in Russia when yours were not yet\ncounts of Holstein Gottorp?\"\n\nMoscow was governed like a Tartar camp. Ivan's bodyguards\n(opritchniki), roved about the streets in their Tartar caps, abusing\nthe people of every grade, boyar and burgher, mujik and peasant, as\nthough they had been men of a different race and faith; robbing\nhouses, carrying off women, murdering men; so that a stranger who met\na company of these fellows in the Chinese town or under the Kremlin\nwall, imagined that the city had been given up to the soldiery for\nspoil.\n\nThis effort to settle the country on Tartar principles turned the\nChurch against the Tsar, and led to the retirement of Athanasius, the\ndismissal of German, and the murder of Philip. St. Philip was the\nmartyr of Russia--slain for defending his country and his Church\nagainst this tartarizing Tsar.\n\nWalk into the great Cathedral of the Ascension any hour of the day in\nany season of the year, and--on the right wing of the altar--you will\nfind a crowd of men and women prostrate before one silver shrine. It\nis the tomb of St. Philip, martyr and saint. Every one comes to him,\nevery one kisses his temples and his feet. The murder of this saint is\none of those national offenses which a thousand years of penitence\nwill not cleanse away. The penitent prays in his name; fasts in his\nname; burns candles in his name; and groans in spirit before the tomb,\nas though he were seeking forgiveness for some personal crime.\n\nThe tale of Philip's conflict with Ivan--a conflict of the Christian\nChurch against the Tartar court--may be briefly told.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\nST. PHILIP.\n\n\nEarly in the reign of Ivan the Fourth (1539), a pilgrim, poor in garb\nand purse, but of handsome presence, landed from a boat at the Convent\nof Solovetsk. He came to pray; but after resting in the island for a\nlittle while, he took the vows and became a monk. Under the name of\nPhilip, he lived for nine or ten years in his lowly cell. The monks,\nhis brethren, saw there was some mystery in his life; his taste, his\nlearning, and his manner, all announcing him as one of those men who\nbelong to the higher ranks. But the lowly brother held his peace. Nine\nyears after his arrival, the prior of his convent died, and he was\ncalled by common assent to the vacant chair.\n\nThere was, in truth, a mystery in this monk. Among the proudest people\nin Moscow lived, in those days, the family of Kolicheff; to whom a\nson, Fedor, was born; the heir to a vast estate no less than to a\nglorious name. A pious mother taught the child to be good, according\nto her lights; to read about saints, to say long prayers, to listen\nfor church-bells, and run with ardor to the sacrifice of mass. But\nbeing of noble birth, and having to serve his prince, Fedor was\ntrained to ride and fence, to hunt and shoot, as well as to manage his\nfather's forests, fisheries, and farms. At twenty-six he was\nintroduced to Ivan, then a child of four; and as the young prince took\na fancy for him, he was much at court, admired by all women, envied by\nmany men. It seemed as though Fedor Kolicheff had only to stay at\ncourt in order to become a minister of state. But his heart was never\nin the life he led; the Kremlin was a nest of intrigue; the country\nround the city was troubled by a thousand crimes. Distressed by what\nhe saw going on, the favorite pined for a religious life; and quitting\nthe world in silence, giving up all he possessed, he wandered from\nMoscow in a pilgrim's garb. Trudging on foot, a staff in his hand, a\nwallet by his side, he found his way through the trackless forests of\nthe north; now stopping in a peasant's hut, where he toiled on the\nland for his daily food; now dropping down the Dvina on a raft, and\ntugging for his passage at the oars. Crossing over to the convent, he\nbecame a monk, a priest, a prior, without betraying the secret of his\nnoble birth and his place at court.\n\nOn coming into power, he set his heart on bringing back the convent to\nher ancient life. He wore the frock of Zosima, and set up an image\nover Savatie's tomb. Taking these worthies as his guides, he\nintroduced the rule of assiduous work; invented forms of labor; making\nwax and salt; improving the fisheries and farms; building stone\nchapels; and teaching some of the fathers how to write and paint. Much\nof what is best in the convent, in the way of chapel, shrine, and\npicture, dates from his reign as prior. But Philip was called from his\ncell in the Frozen Sea to occupy a loftier and more perilous throne.\n\nIvan, liking the old friend of his youth, consulted him on state\naffairs, and called him to the Kremlin to give advice. On these\noccasions, Philip was startled at the change in Ivan; who, from being\na paladin of the cross, had settled down in his middle age into a\nmixture of the gloomy monk and the savage khan. The change came on him\nwith the death of his wife and the conquest of Kazan; after which\nevents in his life he married two women, dressed himself in Tartar\nclothes, and adopted Asiatic ways. Like a chief of the Golden horde,\nhe went about the streets of Moscow, ordering this man to be beaten,\nthat man to be killed. The square in front of the Holy Gate was red\nwith blood; and every house in the city was filled with sighs and\ngroans.\n\nDriving from their altars two aged prelates who rebuked his crimes,\nIvan (in 1566) selected the Prior of Solovetsk as a man who would shed\na light on his reign without disturbing him by personal reproof.\nPhilip tried to escape this perilous post, but the Tsar insisted on\nhis obedience; and with heavy heart he sailed from his asylum in the\nislands, conscious of going to meet his martyr's crown.\n\nIvan had judged the monk in haste. Philip was no courtier; not a man\nto say smooth things to princes; for under his monk's attire he\ncarried a heart to feel, an eye to see, and a tongue to speak. In\npassing from Solovetsk to Moscow, he passed through Novgorod--a city\ndisliked by Ivan on account of her wealth, her freedom, and her laws;\nwhen a crowd of burghers poured from the gates, fell on their knees\nbefore him, and implored him, as a pastor of the poor, to plead their\ncause before the Tsar, then threatening to ravage their district and\ndestroy their town. On reaching Moscow, he spoke to Ivan as to a son;\nbeseeching him to dismiss his guards, to put off his strange habits,\nto live a holy life, and to rule his people in the spirit of their\nancient dukes.\n\nIvan waxed red and wroth; he wanted a priest to bless, and not to\ncurse. The tyrant grew more violent in his moods; but the new\nMetropolite held out in patient and unyielding meekness for the\nancient ways. Once, when Philip was performing mass, the Tsar and his\nguards, attired in their Tartar dress, came into his church, and took\nup their ranks, while Ivan himself strode up to the royal gates. As\nPhilip went on with his service, taking no notice of the prince, a\nboyar cried, \"It is the Tsar!\" \"I do not recognize the Tsar,\" said\nPhilip, \"in such a dress.\" The Tartar cap, the Tartar whip, were seen\nin every public place. The Tartar guards were masters of the city, and\nthe streets were everywhere filled with the tumult of their evil\ndeeds. They felt no reverence for holy things, and hurt the popular\nmind by treating the sacred images with disdain. In a procession, the\nMetropolite noticed one of these courtiers insolently wearing his\nTartar cap. \"Who is that man,\" asked Philip of the Tsar, \"that he\nshould profane with his Tartar costume this holy day?\" Doffing his\ncap, the courtier denied that he was covered, and even charged the\nMetropolite with saying what was false. As every man in trouble went\nto his Metropolite for counsel, the boyars accused him of inciting the\npeople against their prince. When Ivan married his fourth wife, a\nthing unlawful and unclean, the Metropolite refused to admit the\nmarriage, and bade the Tsar absent himself from mass. Rushing from his\npalace into the Cathedral of the Annunciation, Ivan took his seat and\nscowled. Instead of pausing to bless him, Philip went on with the\nservice, until one of the favorites strode up to the altar, looked him\nboldly in the face, and said, in a saucy voice, \"The Tsar demands thy\nblessing, priest!\" Paying no heed to the courtier, Philip turned round\nto Ivan on his throne. \"Pious Tsar!\" he sighed; \"why art thou here? In\nthis place we offer a bloodless sacrifice to God.\" Ivan threatened\nhim, by gesture and by word. \"I am a stranger and a pilgrim on earth,\"\nsaid Philip; \"I am ready to suffer for the truth.\"\n\nHe was made to suffer much, and soon. Dragged from his altar, stripped\nof his robe, arrayed in rags, he was beaten with brooms, tossed into a\nsledge, driven through the streets, mocked and hooted by armed men,\nand thrown into a dungeon in one of the obscurest convents of the\ntown. Poor people knelt as the sledge drove past them, every eye being\nwet with tears, and every throat being choked with sobs. Philip\nblessed them as he went, saying, \"Do not grieve; it is the will of\nGod; pray, pray!\" The more patiently he bore his cross the more these\npeople sobbed and cried. Locked in his jail and laden with chains, not\nonly round his ankles but round his neck, he was left for seven days\nand nights without food and drink, in the hope that he would die. A\ncourtier who came to see him was surprised to find him engaged in\nprayer. His friends and kinsmen were arrested, judged, and put to\ndeath, for no offense save that of sharing his name and blood.\n\"Sorcerer! dost thou know this head?\" was one laconic message sent to\nPhilip from the Tsar. \"Yea!\" murmured the prisoner, sadly; \"it is that\nof my nephew Ivan.\" Day and night a crowd of people gathered round his\nconvent-door, until the Tsar, who feared a rising in his favor, caused\nhim to be secretly removed to a stronger prison in the town of Tver.\n\nOne year after this removal of Philip from Moscow (1569), Ivan,\nsetting out for Novgorod, and calling to mind the speech once made by\nPhilip in favor of that city, sent a ruffian to kill him. \"Give me thy\nblessing!\" said the murderer, coming into his cell. \"Do thy master's\nwork,\" replied the holy man; and the deed was quickly done.\n\nThe martyred saint remained a few years in Tver--whence he was removed\nto Solovetsk, an incorruptible frame; and lay in that isle until 1660,\nin the reign of Alexie, father of Peter the Great, in the days of\ntribulation, when the country was tried by sickness, famine, and\nforeign wars, his body was brought to Moscow, as a solemn and\npenitential act, by which the ruler and his people hoped to appease\nthe wrath of heaven. The Tsar's penitent letter of recall was read\naloud before his tomb in Solovetsk, as though the saint could see and\nhear. The body was found entire, as on the day of sepulture--a sweet\nsmell, as of herbs and flowers, coming out from beneath the\ncoffin-lid. A grand procession of monks and pilgrims marched with the\nsaint from Archangel to Moscow, where Alexie met them in the Kremlin\ngate, and carried the sacred dust into the cathedral, where it was\nlaid, in the corner of glory, in a magnificent silver shrine.\n\nOn the day of his coronation, every Emperor of Russia has to kneel\nbefore his shrine and kiss his feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\nSERFS.\n\n\nBoris Godunof, general, kinsman, successor of Ivan the Fourth, reduced\nthe principle of serfage into legal form (1601). An able and patriotic\nman, Godunof, designed to colonize his bare river-banks and his empty\nsteppe. He meant no harm to the rustic--on the contrary, he hoped to\ndo him good; his project of \"fixing\" the rustic on his land was\ntreated as a great reform; and after taking counsel with his boyars,\nhe selected the festival of St. George, the patron of free cities and\nof the ancient Russians, for his announcement that every peasant in\nthe empire should in future till and own forever the lands which he\nthen tilled and held.\n\nDown to that time, the theory of land was that of an Asiatic horde.\nFrom the Gulf of Venice to the Bay of Bengal the tenure of land might\nvary with race and clime; yet in every country where the Tartars\nreigned, the original property in the soil was everywhere said to be\nlodged in sultan, shah, mogul, and khan. The Russians, having lost the\nusage of their better time, transferred the rights which they acquired\nfrom Tartar begs and khans to their victorious prince.\n\nThis prince divided the soil according to his will; in one place\nfounding villages for peasants, in a second place settling lands on a\ndeserving voyaved, in a third place buying off an enemy with gifts of\nforests, fisheries, and lands; exactly in the fashion of Batu Khan and\nTimur Beg. This system of giving away crown lands was carried so far\nthat when Godunof came to the throne (in 1598), he found his duchies\nand khanates consisting of a great many estates without laborers, and\na great many laborers without estates. The peasants were roving\nhordes; and Godunof meant to fix these restless classes, by assigning\nto every family a personal and hereditary interest in the soil. The\nevil to be cured was an Oriental evil; and he sought to cure it in the\nOriental way. The khans had done the same; and Godunof only extended\nand defined their method, so as to bring a larger area of country\nunder spade and plough.\n\nThere is reason to believe that this festival of St. George (in 1601)\nwas hailed by peasant and boyar as a glorious day; that the decree\nwhich established serfage in Russia was accepted as a great and\npopular reform. To understand it, we must lay aside all notion of\nserfage in Moscow and Tamboff being the same thing as villeinage in\nSurrey and the Isle of France.\n\nSerfage was a great act of colonization. Much of what was done by\nGodunof was politic, and even noble; for he gave up to his people\nmillions of acres of the crown estates. The soil was given to the\npeasant on easy terms. He was to live on his land, to plough his\nfield, to build his house, to pay his rates, and to serve his country\nin time of war. The chief concession made by the peasant, in exchange\nfor his plot of ground, was his vagabond life.\n\nTo see that the serf--the man \"fixed\" on the soil--observed the terms\nof settlement, the prince appointed boyars and voyevods in every\nprovince as overseers; a necessary, and yet a fatal step. The\noverseer, a strong man dealing with a weak one, had been trained under\nTartar rule; and just as the Tsar succeeded to the khan, the boyar\nlooked upon himself as a successor to the beg. Abuses of the system\nsoon crept in; most of all that Oriental use of the stick, which the\nboyar borrowed from the beg; but a serf had to endure this evil--not\nin his quality of serf, but in his quality of Russian. Every man\nstruck the one below him. A Tsar boxed a boyar, a boyar beat a prince.\nA colonel kicked his captain, and a captain clubbed his men. This use\nof the stick is in every region of the East a sign of lordship; and a\nboyar who could flog a peasant for neglecting to till his field, to\nrepair his cabin, and to pay his rates, would have been more than man\nif he had not learned to consider himself as that peasant's lord.\n\nYet the theory of their holding was, that the peasant held his land of\nthe crown; even as the boyar held his land of the crown. A bargain was\nmade between two consenting parties--peasant and noble--under the\nauthority of law, for their mutual dealing with a certain\nestate--consisting (say) of land, lake, and forest, with the various\nrites attached to ownership--hunting, shooting, fishing, fowling,\ntrespass, right of way, right of stoppage, right of dealing, and the\nlike. It was a bargain binding the one above as much as it bound the\none below. If a serf could not quit his homestead, neither could the\nlord eject him from it. If the serf was bound to serve his master, he\nwas free to save and hold a property of his own. If local custom and\nlawless temper led a master to fine and flog the serf, that serf could\nfind some comfort in the thought that the fields which he tilled\nbelonged to himself and to his commune by a title never to be\ngainsaid. A peasant's rhyme, addressed to his lord, defines the series\nof his rights and liabilities:\n\n  \"My soul is God's,\n    My land is mine,\n  My head's the Tsar's,\n    My back is thine!\"\n\nA likeness to the serf may be found in the East, not in the West. The\nclosest copy of a serf is the ryot of Bengal.\n\nDown to the reign of Peter the Great the system went on darkening in\nabuse. The overseer of serfs became the owner. In lonely districts who\nwas to protect a serf? I have myself heard a rustic ordered to be\nflogged by his elder, on the bare request of two gentlemen, who said\nhe was drunk and could not drive. The two gentlemen were tipsy; but\nthe elder knew them, and he never thought of asking for their proofs.\nA clown accused by a gentleman must be in the wrong. \"God is too high,\nthe Tsar too distant,\" says the peasant's saw. In those hard times the\ninner spirit overcame the legal form; and serfs were beaten, starved,\ntransported, sold; but always in defiance of the law.\n\nPeter introduced some changes, which, in spite of his good intentions,\nmade the evil worse. He stopped the sale of serfs, apart from the\nestate on which they lived--a long step forward; but he clogged the\nbeneficial action of his edict by converting the old house-tax into a\npoll-tax, and levying the whole amount of tax upon the lord, to whom\nhe gave the right of collecting his quota from the serfs. A master\narmed with such a power is likely to be either worse than a devil or\nbetter than a man. Peter took from the religious bodies the right,\nwhich they held in common with boyars and princes, of possessing\nserfs. The monks had proved themselves unfit for such a trust; and as\nthey held their lands by a title higher than the law can give, it was\nhard for a convent serf to believe that any part of the fields he\ntilled was actually his own.\n\nCatharine followed Peter in his war on Tartar dress, beards, manners,\nand traditions; but she also set her face, as Peter had done, on much\nthat was native to the soil. She meant well by her people, and the\ncharter of rights, which she granted to her nobles, laid the\nfoundation in her country of a permanent, educated, middle class. She\nstudied the question of converting the serf's occupancy into freehold.\nShe confiscated the serfs attached to convents, placing them under a\nseparate jurisdiction; and she published edicts tending to improve the\nposition of the peasant towards his lord. But these imperial acts,\nintended to do him good, brought still worse evils on his head; for\nserfage, heretofore a local custom--found in one province, not in the\nadjoining province--found in Moscow and Voronej, not in Harkof and\nKief--was now recognized, guarded and defined by general law.\nCatharine's yearning for an ideal order in her states induced her to\n\"fix\" the peasant of Lithuania and Little Russia on the soil, just as\nGodunof had \"fixed\" the peasant of Great Russia, giving him a\nhomestead and a property forever on the soil. Paul, her son, took one\nstride forward in limiting the right of the lord to three days' labor\nin the seven--an edict which, though never put in force, endeared\nPaul's memory to the commons, many of whom regard him as a martyr in\ntheir cause. Yet Paul is one of those princes who extended the\nserf-empire. Paul created a new order of serfs in the appanage\npeasants, serfs belonging to members of the imperial house, just as\nthe crown peasants belonged to the crown domain.\n\nAlexander the First set an example of dealing with the question by\nestablishing his class of free peasants; but the wars of his reign\nleft him neither time nor means for conducting a social revolution\nmore imposing and more perilous than a political revolution, and after\na few years had passed his free peasants fell back into their former\nstate. Nicolas was not inclined by nature to reform; the old,\nunchanging Tartar spirit was strong within him; and he rounded the\nserfage system by placing the free peasants, colonists, foresters, and\nminers, under a special administration of the state. Every rustic in\nthe land who had no master of his own became a peasant of the crown.\n\nBut, from the reign of Ivan (ending in 1598) to the reign of Nicolas\n(ending in 1855), every patriot who dared to speak his mind inveighed\nagainst the abuse of serfage--as a thing unknown to his country in her\nhappier times. Every false pretender, every reckless rebel, who took\nup arms against his sovereign, wrote on his banner, \"freedom to the\nserf.\" Stenka Razin (c. 1670) proclaimed, from his camp near Astrakhan,\nfour articles, of which the first and second ran--deposition of the\nreigning house and liberation of the serfs! Pugacheff, in a revolt\nmore recent and more formidable than that of Razin (c. 1770), publicly\nabolished serfage in the empire, taking the peasants from their lords,\nand leaving them in full possession of their lands. Pestel and the\nconspirators of 1825 put the abolition of serfage in the front of\ntheir demands.\n\nCatharine's wish to deal with the question was inspired by Pugacheff's\nletters of emancipation; and on the very eve of his triumph in St.\nIsaac's Square, the Emperor Nicolas named a secret committee, to\nreport on the social condition of his empire, chiefly with the serf in\nview. At the end of three years, Nicolas, warned by their reports,\ndrew up a series of acts (1828-'9), by which he founded an order of\nhonorary citizens (not members of a guild), and set the peasants free\nfrom their lords. These acts were never printed, for as time wore on,\nand things kept quiet, the Emperor saw less need for change. The July\ndays in Paris frightened him; and having already sent out orders for\nthe masters to treat their serfs like Christian men, and to be content\nin exacting three days' work in seven, according to the wish of Paul,\nthe sovereign thought he had done enough. His act of emancipation was\nnot to see the light.\n\nIn his later years the question troubled the Emperor Nicolas day and\nnight. In spite of his glittering array of troops, he felt that\nserfage left him weak, even as the great division of his people into\nOrthodox and Old Believers left him weak. How weak these maladies of\nhis country made him he only learned in the closing hours of his\neventful life; and then (it is said) he told his son what he had done\nand left undone, enjoining him to study and complete his work.\n\nIt was well for the serf that Nicolas made him wait. The project of\nemancipation, drawn up under the eyes of Nicolas, was not a Russian\ndocument in either form or spirit; but a German state paper, based on\nthe misleading western notion that serfage was but villeinage under a\nbetter name. The principle laid down by Nicolas was, that the serf\nshould obtain his personal freedom, and the lord should take\npossession of his land!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\nEMANCIPATION.\n\n\nOn the day when Alexander the Second came to his crown (1855), both\nlord and serf expected from his hands some great and healing act. The\npeasants trusted him, the nobles feared him. A panic seized upon the\nlandlords. \"What,\" they cried, \"do you expect? The country is\ndisturbed; our property will be destroyed. Look at these louts whom\nyou talk of rendering free! They can neither read nor write; they have\nno capital; they have no credit; they have no enterprise. When they\nare not praying they are getting drunk. A change may do in the Polish\nprovinces; in the heart of Russia, never!\" The Government met this\nstorm in the higher circles by pacific words and vigorous acts; the\nEmperor saying to every one whom his voice could reach that the peril\nlay in doing nothing, not in doing much. Slowly but surely his opinion\nmade its way.\n\nAddresses from the several provinces came in. Committees of advice\nwere formed, and the Emperor sought to engage the most active and\nliberal spirits in his task. When the public mind was opened to new\nlights, a grand committee was named in St. Petersburg, consisting of\nthe ministers of state, and a few members of the imperial council,\nover whom his majesty undertook to preside. A second body, called the\nreporting committee, was also named, under the presidency of Count\nRostovtsef, one of the pardoned rebels of 1825. The grand committee\nstudied the principles which ought to govern emancipation; the\nreporting committee studied and arranged the facts. A mighty heap of\npapers was collected; eighteen volumes of facts and figures were\nprinted; and the net results were thrown into a draft.\n\nThe reporting committee having done their work, two bodies of\ndelegates from the provinces, elected by the lords, were invited to\nmeet in the capital and consider this draft. These provincial\ndelegates raised objections, which they sent in writing to the\ncommittee; and the new articles drawn up by them were laid before the\nEmperor and the grand committee in an amended draft.\n\nUp to this point the draft was in the hands of nobles and land-owners;\nwho drew it up in their class-interests, and according to their\nclass-ideas. If it recognized the serf's right to personal freedom, it\ndenied him any rights in the soil. This principle of \"liberty without\nland\" was the battle-cry of all parties in the upper ranks; and many\npersons knew that such was the principle laid down in the late\nEmperor's secret and abortive act. How could a committee of landlords,\ntrembling for their rents, do otherwise? \"Emancipation, if we must,\"\nthey sighed, \"but emancipation without the land.\" The provincial\ndelegates stoutly urged this principle; the reporting committee\nembodied it in their draft. Supported by these two bodies, it came\nbefore the grand committee. England, France, and Germany were cited;\nand as the villeins in those countries had received no grants of\nlands, it was resolved that the emancipated serfs should have no\ngrants of land. The grand committee passed the amended draft.\n\nThen, happily, the man was found. Whatever these scribes could say,\nthe Emperor knew that forty-eight millions of his people looked to him\nfor justice; and that every man in those forty-eight millions felt\nthat his right in the soil was just as good as that of the Emperor in\nhis crown. He saw that freedom without the means of living would be to\nthe peasant a fatal gift. Unwilling to see a popular revolution turned\ninto the movement of a class, he would not consent to make men paupers\nby the act which pretended to make them free. \"Liberty and land\"--that\nwas the Alexandrine principle; a golden precept which he held against\nthe best and oldest councillors in his court.\n\nThe acts of his committees left him one course, and only one. He could\nappeal to a higher court. Some members of the grand committee, knowing\ntheir master's mind, had voted against the draft; and now the Emperor\nlaid that draft before the full council, on the ground that a measure\nof such importance should not be settled in a lower assembly by a\ndivided vote. Again he met with selfish views. The full council\nconsists of princes, counts, and generals--old men mostly--who have\nlittle more to expect from the crown, and every reason to look after\nthe estates they have acquired. They voted against the Emperor and the\nserfs.\n\nWhen all seemed lost, however, the fight was won. Not until the full\ncouncil had decided to adopt the draft, could the Emperor be persuaded\nto use his power and to save his country; but on the morrow of their\nvote, the prince, in his quality of autocrat, declared that the\nprinciple of \"Liberty and land\" was the principle of his emancipation\nact.\n\nOn the third of March, 1861 (Feb. 19, O.S.), the emancipation act was\nsigned.\n\nThe rustic population then consisted of twenty-two millions of common\nserfs, three millions of appanage peasants, and twenty-three millions\nof crown peasants. The first class were enfranchised by that act; and\na separate law has since been passed in favor of these crown peasants\nand appanage peasants, who are now as free in fact as they formerly\nwere in name.\n\nA certain portion of land, varying in different provinces according to\nsoil and climate, was affixed to every \"soul;\" and government aid was\npromised to the peasants in buying their homesteads and allotments.\nThe serfs were not slow to take this hint. Down to January 1, 1869,\nmore than half the enfranchised male serfs have taken advantage of\nthis promise; and the debt now owing from the people to the crown\n(that is, to the bondholders) is an enormous sum.\n\nThe Alexandrine principle of \"liberty and land\" being made the\ngoverning rule of the emancipation act, all reasonable fear lest the\nrustic, in receiving his freedom, might at once go wandering, was\ntaken into account. Nobody knew how far the serf had been broken of\nthose nomadic habits which led to serfage. Every one felt some doubt\nas to whether he could live with liberty and law; and rules were\nframed to prevent the return to those social anarchies which had\nforced the crown to \"settle\" the country under Boris Godunof and Peter\nthe Great. These restrictive rules were nine in number: (1.) a peasant\nwas not to quit his village unless he gave up, once and forever, his\nshare of the communal lands; (2.) in case of the commune refusing to\naccept his portion, he was to yield his plot to the general landlord;\n(3.) he must have met his liabilities, if any, to the Emperor's\nrecruiting officers; (4.) he must have paid up all arrears of local\nand imperial rates, and also paid in advance such taxes for the\ncurrent year; (5.) he must have satisfied all private claims,\nfulfilled all personal contracts, under the authority of his cantonal\nadministration; (6.) he must be free from legal judgment and pursuit;\n(7.) he must provide for the maintenance of all such members of his\nfamily to be left in the commune, as from either youth or age might\nbecome a burden to his village; (8.) he must make good any arrears of\nrent which may be due on his allotment to the lord; (9.) he must\nproduce either a resolution passed by some other commune, admitting\nhim as a member, or a certificate, properly signed, that he has bought\nthe freehold of a plot of land, equal to two allotments, not above ten\nmiles distant from the commune named. These rules--which are\nprovisional only--are found to tie a peasant with enduring strictness\nto his fields.\n\nThe question, whether the serf is so far cured of his Tartar habit\nthat he can live a settled life without being bound to his patch of\nground, is still unasked. The answer to that question must come with\ntime, province by province and town by town. Nature is slow, and habit\nis a growth. Reform must wait on nature, and observe her laws.\n\nAs in all such grand reforms, the parties most affected by the change\nwere much dissatisfied at first. The serf had got too much; the lords\nhad kept too much. In many provinces the peasants refused to hear the\nimperial rescript read in church. They said the priest was keeping\nthem in the dark; for, ruled by the nobles, and playing a false part\nagainst the Emperor, he was holding back the real letters of\nliberation, and reading them papers forged by their lords. Fanatics\nand impostors took advantage of their discontent to excite sedition,\nand these fanatics and impostors met with some success in provinces\noccupied by the Poles and Malo-Russ.\n\nTwo of these risings were important. At the village of Bezdna,\nprovince of Kazan, one Anton Petrof announced himself as a prophet of\nGod and an ambassador from the Tsar. He told the peasants that they\nwere now free men, and that their good Emperor had given them all the\nland. Four thousand rustics followed him about; and when General Count\nApraxine, overtaking the mob and calling upon them to give up their\nleader, and disperse under pain of being instantly shot down, the poor\nfellows cried, \"We shall not give him up; we are all for the Tsar.\"\nApraxine gave the word to fire; a hundred men dropped down with\nbullets in their bodies--fifty-one dead, the others badly hurt. In\nhorror of this butchery, the people cried, \"You are firing into\nAlexander Nicolaivitch himself!\" Petrof was taken, tried by\ncourt-martial, and shot in the presence of his stupefied friends, who\ncould not understand that a soldier was doing his duty to the crown by\nfiring into masses of unarmed men.\n\nA more singular and serious rising of serfs took place in the rich\nprovince of Penza, where a strange personage proclaimed himself the\nGrand Duke Constantine, brother of Nicolas, once a captive. Affecting\nradical opinions, the \"grand duke\" raised a red flag, collected bands\nof peasants, and alarmed the country far and near. A body of soldiers,\nsent against them by General Dreniakine, were received with clubs and\nstones, and forced to run away. Dreniakine marched against the rebels,\nand in a smart action he dispersed them through the steppe, after\nkilling eight and seriously maiming twenty-six. The \"grand duke\" was\nsuffered to get away. The country was much excited by the rising, and\non Easter Sunday General Dreniakine telegraphed to St. Petersburg his\nduty to the minister, and asked for power to punish the revolters by\nmartial law. The minister sent him orders to act according to his\njudgment; and he began to flog and shoot the villagers until order was\nrestored within the limits of his command. The \"grand duke\" was\ndenounced as one Egortsof, a Milk-Drinker; and Dreniakine soon\nafterwards spread a report that he was dead.\n\nThe agitation was not stilled until the Emperor himself appeared on\nthe scene. On his way to Yalta he convoked a meeting of elders, to\nwhom he addressed a few wise and solacing words: \"I have given you all\nthe liberties defined by the statutes; I have given you no liberties\nsave those defined by the statutes.\" It was the very first time these\npeasants had heard of their Emperor's will being limited by law.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\nFREEDOM.\n\n\n\"What were the first effects of emancipation in your province?\" I ask\na lady.\n\n\"Rather droll,\" replies the Princess B. \"In the morning, the poor\nfellows could not believe their senses; in the afternoon, they got\ntipsy; next day, they wanted to be married.\"\n\n\"Doubt--drunkenness--matrimony! Yes, it was rather droll.\"\n\n\"You see, a serf was not suffered to drink whisky and make love as he\npleased. It was a wild outburst of liberty; and perhaps the two things\nbrought their own punishments?\"\n\n\"Not the marrying, surely?\"\n\n\"Ha! who knows?\"\n\nThe upper ranks are much divided in opinion as to the true results of\nemancipation. If the liberal circles of the Winter Palace look on\nthings in the rosiest light, the two extreme parties which stand aside\nas chorus and critics--the Whites and Reds, Obstructives and\nSocialists--regard them from two opposite points of view, as in the\nlast degree unsound, unsafe.\n\nWhen a Russian takes upon himself the office of critic, he is always\ngloomy, Oriental, and prophetic. He turns his face to the darker side\nof things; he groans in spirit, and picks up words of woe. If he has\nto deal as critic with the sins of his own time and country, he\nprepares his tongue to denounce and his soul to curse; and his\nself-examination, whether in respect to his private vices or his\npublic failings, is conducted in a dark, reproachful, and\ninquisitorial spirit.\n\nIn one house you fall among the Whites--a charming set of men to meet\nin drawing-room or club; urbane, accomplished, profligate; owners who\nnever saw their serfs, landlords who never lived on their estates;\nfine fellows--whether young or old--who spent their lives in roving\nfrom St. Petersburg to Paris, and were known by sight in every\ngaming-house, in every theatre, from the Neva to the Seine. These men\nwill tell you, with an exquisite smile, that Russia has come to the\ndogs. \"Free labor!\" they exclaim with scorn, \"the country is sinking\nunder these free institutions year by year--sinking in morals, sinking\nin production, sinking in political strength. A peasant works less,\ndrinks more than ever. While he was a serf he could be flogged into\nindustry, if not into sobriety. Now he is master, he will please\nhimself; and his pleasure is to dawdle in the dram-shop and to slumber\non the stove. Not only is he going down himself, but he is pulling\nevery one else down in his wake. The burgher is worse off; the\nmerchant finds nothing to buy and sell. Less land is under plough and\nspade; the quantity of corn, oats, barley, and maize produced is less\nthan in the good old times. Russia is poorer than she was, financially\nand physically. Famines have become more frequent; arson is\nincreasing; while the crimes of burglary and murder are keeping pace\nwith the strides of fire and famine. As rich and poor, we are more\ndivided than we were as lords and serfs. The rich used to care for the\npoor, and the poorer classes lived on the waste of rich men's boards.\nThey had an influence on each other, and always for their mutual good.\nIn this new scheme we are strangers when we are not rivals,\ncompetitors when we are not foes. A rustic cares for neither lord nor\npriest. A landlord who desires to live on his estate must bow and\nsmile, must bend and cringe, in order to keep his own. The rustics rob\nhis farm, they net his lake, they beat his bailiff, they insult his\nwife. His time is wasted in complaining--now to the police, now to the\nmagistrate, now again to the cantonal chief. All classes are at\nstrife, and the seeds of revolution are broadly sown.\"\n\nIn a second house you fall among the Reds--a far more dashing and\nexcited set; many of whom have also spent much time in passing from\nSt. Petersburg to Paris, though not with the hope of becoming known to\ncroupiers and ballet-girls; men with pallid brows and sparkling eyes,\nwho make a science of their social whims, and treat the emancipating\nacts as so many paths to that republic of rustics which they desire to\nsee. \"These circulars, reports, and edicts were necessary,\" they\nallege, \"in order to open men's eyes to the tragic facts. Our miseries\nwere hidden; our princes were so rich, our palaces so splendid, and our\ntroops so numerous, that the world--and even we ourselves--believed\nthe imperial government strong enough to march in any direction, to\nstrike down every foe. The Tsar was so great that no one thought of\nhis serfs; the sun was so brilliant that you could not see the motes.\nBut now that reign of deceit is gone forever, and our wretchedness is\nexposed to every eye. You say we are free, and prospering in our\nfreedom; but the facts are otherwise; we are neither free nor\nprosperous. The act of emancipation was a snare. Men fancied they were\ngoing to be freed from their lords; but when the day of deliverance\ncame they found themselves taken from a bad master and delivered to a\nworse. A man who was once a serf became a slave. He had belonged to a\nneighbor, often to a friend, and now he became a property of the\ncrown. Branded with the Black Eagle, he was fastened to the soil by a\nstronger chain. A false civilization seized him, held him in her\nembrace, and made him pass into the fire. What has that civilization\ndone for him? Starved him; stripped him; ruined him. Go into our\ncities. Look at our burghers; watch how they lie and cheat; hear how\nthey bear false witness; note how they buy with one yard, sell with\nanother yard. Go into our communes. Mark the dull eye and the stupid\nface of the village lout, who lives alone, like a wild beast, far from\nhis fellows--part of the forest, as a log of wood is part of the\nforest. Observe how he drinks and shuffles; how he says his prayers,\nand shirks his duty, and begets his kind, with hardly more thought in\nhis head than a wolf and a bear. This state of things must be swept\naway. The poor man is the victim of all tyrants, all impostors; the\nminister cheats him of his freedom, and the landlord of his field; but\nthe hour of revolution is drawing nigh; and people will greet that\ncoming hour with their rallying cry--More liberty and more land!\"\n\nA stranger listening to every one, looking into every thing, will see\nthat on the fringe of actual fact there are appearances which might\nseem to justify, according to the point of view, these opposite and\nextreme opinions; yet, on massing and balancing his observations of\nthe country as a whole, a stranger must perceive that under\nemancipation the peasant is better dressed, better lodged, and better\nfed; that his wife is healthier, his children cleaner, his homestead\ntidier; that he and his belongings are improved by the gift which\nchanged him from a chattel into a man.\n\nA peasant spends much money, it is true, in drams; but he spends yet\nmore in clothing for his wife. He builds his cabin of better wood, and\nin the eastern provinces, if not in all, you find improvements in the\nwalls and roof. He paints the logs, and fills up cracks with plaster,\nwhere he formerly left them bare and stuffed with moss. He sends his\nboys to school, and goes himself more frequently to church. If he\nexports less corn and fur to other countries, it is because, being\nricher, he can now afford to eat white bread and wear a cat-skin cap.\n\nThe burgher class and the merchant class have been equally benefited\nby the change. A good many peasants have become burghers, and a good\nmany burghers merchants. All the domestic and useful trades have been\nquickened into life. More shoes are worn, more carts are wanted, more\ncabins are built. Hats, coats, and cloaks are in higher demand; the\nbakeries and breweries find more to do; the teacher gets more pupils,\nand the banker has more customers on his books.\n\nThis movement runs along the line; for in the wake of emancipation\nevery other liberty and right is following fast. Five years ago\n(1864), the Emperor called into existence two local parliaments in\nevery province; a district assembly and a provincial assembly: in\nwhich every class, from prince to peasant, was to have his voice. The\ndistrict assembly is elected by classes; nobles, clergy, merchants,\nhusbandmen; each apart, and free; the provincial assembly consists of\ndelegates from the several district assemblies. The district assembly\nsettles all questions as to roads and bridges; the provincial assembly\nlooks to building prisons, draining pools, damming rivers, and the\nlike. The peasant interest is strong in the district assembly, the\nlandlord interest in the provincial assembly; and they are equally\nuseful as schools of freedom, eloquence, and public spirit. On these\nlocal boards, the cleverest men in every province are being trained\nfor civic, and, if need be, parliamentary life.\n\nOn every side, an observer notes with pleasure a tendency of the\nvillagers to move upon the towns and enter into the higher activities\nof civic life. This tendency is carrying them back beyond the Tartar\ntimes into the better days of Novgorod and Pskoff.\n\nIn his commune, a peasant may hope to pass through the dreary\nexistence led by his mule and ox; his thoughts given up to his\ncabbage-soup, his buckwheat porridge, his loaf of black bread, and his\ndarling dram. If he acquires in his village some patriarchal\nvirtues--love of home, respect for age, delight in tales and songs,\nand preference for oral over written law--he also learns, without\nknowing why, to think and feel like a Bedouin in his tent, and a\nKirghiz on his steppe. A rustic is nearly always humming old tunes.\nWhether you see him felling his pine, unloading his team, or sitting\nat his door, he is nearly always singing the same old dirge of love or\nwar. When he breaks into a brisker stave, it is always into a song of\nrevenge and hate. Bandits are his heroes; and the staid young fellow\nwho dares not whisper to his partner in a dance, will roar out such a\nriotous squall:\n\n  \"I'll toil in the fields no more!\n    For what can I gain by the spade?\n  My hands are empty, my heart is sore;\n    A knife! my friend's in the forest glade!\"\n\nAnother youth may sing:\n\n  \"I'll rob the merchant at his stall,\n  I'll slay the noble in his hall;\n  With girls and whisky I'll have my fling,\n  And the world will honor me like a king.\"\n\nOne of the most popular of these robber songs has a chorus running\nthus, addressed in menace to the noble and the rich:\n\n  \"We have come to drink your wine,\n  We have come to steal your gold,\n  We have come to kiss your wives!\n                          Ha! ha!\"\n\nThis reckless sense of right and wrong is due to that serfage under\nwhich the peasants groaned for two hundred and sixty years. Serfage\nmade men indifferent to life and death. The crimes of serfage have\nscarcely any parallel, except among savage tribes; and the liberty\nwhich some of the freed peasants enjoyed the most was the liberty of\nrevenge.\n\nIvan Gorski was living in Tamboff, in very close friendship with a\nfamily of seven persons, when he conceived a grudge against them on\nsome unknown ground, obtained a gun, and asked his friends to let him\npractice firing in their yard. They let him put up his target, and\nblaze away till he became a very fair shot, and people got used to the\nnoise of his gun. When these two points were gained, he took off every\nmember of the house. He could not tell the reason of his crime.\n\nDaria Sokolof was employed as nurse in a family, and when the child\ngrew up went back to her village, parting from her master and mistress\non the best of terms. Some years passed by. On going into the town to\nsell her fruit and herbs, and finding a bad market, she went to her\nold home and asked for a lodging for the night. Her master was ill,\nand her mistress put her to bed. At two in the morning she got up,\nseized an Italian iron, crept to her master's room, and beat his\nbrains out; then to her mistress's room, and killed her also.\nAfterwards she went into the servant's room, and murdered her; into\nthe boy's room, and murdered him. A pet dog lay on the lad's coverlet,\nand she smashed its skull. She took a little money--not much; went\nhome, and slept till daylight. No one suspected her, for no living\ncreature knew she had been to the house. Twelve months elapsed before\na clue was found; but as no witness of the crime was left, she could\nonly be condemned to a dozen years in the Siberian mines. Her case\nexcited much remark, and persons are even now petitioning the ministry\nof justice to let her off!\n\nIt is only by living in a wider field, by acting for himself, by\ngaining a higher knowledge of men and things, that the peasant can\nescape from the bad traditions and morbid sentiments of his former\nlife. It will be an immense advantage for the empire of villages to\nbecome, as other nations are, an empire of both villages and towns.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\nTSEK AND ARTEL.\n\n\nThe obstacles which lie in the way of a peasant wishing to become a\ntownsman are very great. After he has freed himself from his\nobligations to the commune and the crown, and arrived at the gates of\nMoscow, with his papers in perfect order, how is a rustic to live in\nthat great city? By getting work. That would be the only trouble of a\nFrench paysan or an English plough-boy. In Russia it is different. The\ntowns are not open and unwalled, so that men may come and go as they\nlist. They are strongholds; held, in each case, by an army, in the\nranks of which every man has his appointed place.\n\nNo man--not of noble birth--can live the burgher life in Moscow, save\nby gaining a place in one of the recognized orders of society--in a\ntsek, a guild, or a chin.\n\nA tsek is an association of craftsmen and petty traders, such as the\ntailoring tsek, the cooking tsek, and the peddling tsek; the members\nof which pay a small sum of money, elect their own elders, and manage\ntheir own affairs. The elder of a tsek gives to each member a printed\nform, which must be countersigned by the police not less than once a\nyear. A guild is a higher kind of tsek, the members of which pay a tax\nto the state for the privilege of buying and selling, and for immunity\nfrom serving in the ranks. A chin is a grade in the public service,\nparted somewhat sharply into fourteen stages--from that of a certified\ncollegian up to that of an acting privy-councillor. A peasant might\nenter a guild if he could pay the tax; but the impost is heavy, even\nfor the lowest guild; and a man who comes into Moscow in search of\nwork must seek a place in some cheap and humble tsek. He need not\nfollow the calling of his tsek--a clerk may belong to a shoemaker's\ntsek, and a gentleman's servant to a hawker's tsek. But in one or\nother of these societies a peasant must get his name inscribed and his\npapers signed, under penalty of being seized by the police and hustled\ninto the ranks.\n\nEvery year he must go in person to the Office of Addresses, a vast\nestablishment on the Tverskoi Boulevard, where the name, residence,\nand occupation of every man and woman living in this great city is\nentered on the public books. At this Office of Addresses he has to\nleave his regular papers, taking a receipt which serves him as a\npassport for a week; in the mean while the police examine his papers,\nverify the elder's signature, and mark them afresh with an official\nstamp. Every time he changes his lodging he must go in person to the\nOffice of Addresses and record the change. A tax of three or four\nshillings a year is levied on his papers by the police, half of which\nmoney goes to the crown and half to the provincial hospitals. In case\nof poverty and sickness, his inscription in a tsek entitles a man to\nbe received into a government hospital should there be room for him in\nany of the wards.\n\nTo lose his papers is a calamity for the rustic hardly less serious\nthan to lose his leg. Without his papers he is an outlaw at the mercy\nof every one who hates him. He must go back at once to his village; if\nhe has been lucky enough to get his name on the books of a tsek, he\nmust find the elder, prove his loss, procure fresh evidence of his\nidentity, and get this evidence countersigned by the police. Yet when\na rustic comes to Moscow nothing is more likely than that his passport\nwill be stolen. In China-town there is a rag fair, called the Hustling\nMarket, where cheap-jacks sell every sort of ware--old sheep-skins,\nrusty locks and keys, felt boots (third wear), and span-new saints in\nbrass and tin. This market is a hiring-place for servants; and lads\nwho have no friends in Moscow flock to this market in search of work.\nA fellow walks up to the rustic with a town-bred air: \"You want a\nplace? Very well; let me see your passport.\" Taking his papers from\nhis boot--a peasant always puts his purse and papers in his boot--he\noffers them gladly to the man, who dodges through the crowd in a\nmoment, while the rustic is gaping at him with open mouth. A thief\nknows where he can sell these papers, just as he could sell a stolen\nwatch.\n\nHaving got his name inscribed in a tsek, his passport signed by his\nelder and countersigned by the police, the peasant, now become a\nburgher, looks about him for an artel, which, if he have money enough,\nhe proceeds to join.\n\nAn artel is an association of workmen following the same craft, and\norganized on certain lines, with the principles of which they are made\nfamiliar in their village life. An artel is a commune carried from the\ncountry into the town. The members of an artel join together for their\nmutual benefit and insurance. They elect an elder, and confide to him\nthe management of their concerns. They agree to work in common at\ntheir craft, to have no private interests, to throw their earnings\ninto a single fund, and, after paying the very light cost of their\nassociation, to divide the sum total into equal shares. In practical\neffect, the artel is a finer form of communism than the commune\nitself. In the village commune they only divide the land; in the city\nartel they divide the produce.\n\nThe origin of artels is involved in mist. Some writers of the\nPanslavonic school profess to find traces of such an association in\nthe tenth century; but the only proof adduced is the existence of a\nrule making towns and villages responsible, in cases of murder, for\nthe fines inflicted on the criminal--a rule which these writers would\nfind in the Frankish, Saxon, and other codes. The safer view appears\nto be, that the artel came from Asia. No one knows the origin of this\nterm artel--it seems to be a Tartar word, and it is nowhere found in\nuse until the reign of those tartarized Grand Dukes of Moscow, Ivan\nthe Third and Ivan the Fourth. In fact, the artel seems to have been\nplanted in Russia with the commune and the serf.\n\nThe first artel of which we have any notice was a gang of thieves, who\nroamed about the country taking what they liked with a rude\nhand--inviting themselves to weddings and merry-makings, where they\nnot only ate and drank as they pleased, but carried away the wine, the\nvictuals, and the plate. These freebooters elected a chief, whom they\ncalled their ataman. They were bound to stand by each other in weal\nand woe. No rogue could go where he pleased--no thief could plunder on\nhis personal account. The spoil was thrown into a common heap, from\nwhich every member of the artel got an equal share.\n\nThese bandit artels must have been strong and prosperous, since the\nprinciple of their association passed with little or no change into\nordinary city life and trade. The burghers kept the word artel; they\ntranslated ataman into elder (starost); and in every minor detail they\ncopied their original, rule by rule. These early artels had very few\narticles of association; and the principal were: that the members\nformed one body, bound to stand by each other; that they were to be\ngoverned by a chief, elected by general suffrage; that every man was\nappointed to his post by the artel; that a member could not refuse to\ndo the thing required of him; that no one should be suffered to drink,\nswear, game, and quarrel; that every one should bear himself towards\nhis comrade like a brother; that no present should be received, unless\nit were shared by each; that a member could not name a man to serve in\nhis stead, except with the consent of all. In after times these simple\nrules were supplemented by provisions for restoring to the member's\nheirs the value of his rights in the common fund. In case of death,\nthese additional rules provided that the subscriber's share should go\nto his son, if he had a son; if not, to his next of kin, as any other\nproperty would descend. So far the estate was held to be a joint\nconcern as regards the question of use, and a series of personal\nproperties as regards the actual ownership. All these city artels took\nthe motto of \"Honesty and truth.\"\n\nAn artel, then, was, in its origin, no other than an association of\ncraftsmen for their mutual support against the miseries of city life,\njust as the commune was an association of laborers for their mutual\nsupport against the miseries of country life. Each sprang, in its\nturn, from a sense of the weakness of individual men in struggling\nwith the hard necessities of time and place. One body sought\nprotection in numbers and mutual help against occasional lack of\nemployment; the other against occasional attacks from wolves and\nbears, and against the annual floods of rain and drifts of snow. An\nartel was a republic like a commune; with a right of meeting, a right\nof election, a right of fine and punishment. No one interfered with\nthe members, save in a general way. They made their own rules, obeyed\ntheir own chiefs, and were in every sense a state within the state.\nYet these societies lived and throve, because they proved, on trial,\nto be as beneficial to the upper as they were to the lower class; an\nartel offering advantages to employers of labor like those offered by\na commune to the ministers of finance and war.\n\nIf an English banker wants a clerk, he must go into the open market\nand find a servant, whom he has to hire on the strength of his\ncharacter as certified from his latest place. He takes him on trial,\nsubject to the chance of his proving an honest man. If a Russian\nbanker wants a clerk, he sends for the elder of an artel, looks at his\nlist, and hires his servant from the society, in that society's name.\nHe seeks no character, takes no guaranty. The artel is responsible for\nthe clerk, and the banker trusts him in perfect confidence to the full\nextent of the artel fund. If the clerk should prove to be a rogue--a\nthing which sometimes happens--the banker calls in the elder,\ncertifies the fact, and gets his money paid back at once.\n\nThese things may happen, yet they are not common. Petty thieving is\nthe vice of every Eastern race, and Russians of the lower class are\nnot exceptions to the rule; yet, in the artels, it is certain that\nthis tendency to pick and steal is greatly curbed, if not wholly\nsuppressed. \"Honesty and truth,\" from being a phrase on the tongue,\nmay come at length to be a habit of the mind. A decent life is\nstrenuously enjoined, and no member is allowed to drink and game; thus\nmany of the vices which lead to theft are held in check by the public\nopinion of his circle; yet the temptation sometimes grows too strong,\nand a confidential clerk decamps with his employer's box. Another\nmerit of these artels then comes out.\n\nA robbery has taken place in the bank, a clerk is missing, and the\nbanker feels assured that the money and the man are gone together.\nNotice is sent to the police; but Moscow is a very big city; and\nRebrof, clever as he may be in catching thieves, has no instant means\nof following a man who has just committed in a bank parlor his virgin\ncrime. But the elder knows his man, and the members, who will have to\nsuffer for his fault, are well acquainted with his haunts. Setting\ntheir eyes and tongues at work, they follow him with the energy of a\npack of wolves on a trail of blood, never slackening in their race\nuntil they hunt him down and yield him up to trial, judgment, and the\nmines.\n\nBankers like Baron Stieglitz, of St. Petersburg, merchants like\nMazourin and Alexief, in Moscow, have artels of their own, founded in\nthe first instance for their own work-people. On entering an artel, a\nman pays a considerable sum of money--the average is a thousand\nrubles, one hundred and fifty pounds--though he need not always pay\nthe whole sum down at once. That payment is the good-will; what is\ncalled the buying in. He goes to work wherever the artel may appoint\nhim. He gets no separate wages; for the payment is made to the elder\nfor one and all. So far this is share and share alike. But then the\nold rule about receiving presents has been much relaxed of late; and a\ngood servant often receives from his master more than he receives as\nhis share from the general fund. This innovation, it is true, destroys\nthe old character of the artel as a society for the mutual assurance\nof strong and weak; but in the progress of free thought and action it\nis a revolution not to be withstood, and hardly to be gainsaid.\n\nOne day, when dining with a Swede, a banker in St. Petersburg, I was\nstruck by the quick eyes and ready hands of my host's butler, and, on\nmy dropping a word in his praise, my host broke out, \"Ha, that fellow\nis a golden man; he is my butler, valet, clerk, cashier, and master of\nthe household--all in one.\"\n\n\"Is he a peasant?\"\n\n\"Yes; a peasant from the South. I get him for nothing--for the price\nof a common lout.\"\n\n\"He comes to you from an artel?\"\n\n\"Yes, he and some dozen more; he is worth the other twelve.\"\n\n\"You pay the same wage for each and all?\"\n\n\"To the artel, so; but, hist! We make up for extra care and service by\na thumping New-Year's gift.\"\n\n\"Then the artel is beginning to fail of its original purpose--that of\nsecuring to the weak, the idle, and the stupid men as high a wage as\nit gave to the strong, the enterprising, and the able men?\"\n\n\"Can you suppose that clever and pushing fellows will work like\nhorses, all for nothing, now that they are free? A serf might do so;\nhe lived in terror of the stick; he had no notion of his rights; and\nhe had worked for others all his life. An artel is a useful thing, and\nno one (least of all a foreign banker) wishes to see the institution\nfail; but it must go with the times. If it can not find the means of\ndrawing the best men into it by paying them fairly for what they do,\nit will pass away.\"\n\nAn artel is a vast convenience to the foreign masters, whatever it may\nbe to the native men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\nMASTERS AND MEN.\n\n\nNot in one town, in one province only, but in every town, we find two\nnations living in presence of each other; just as we find them in\nFinland and Livonia; an upper race and a lower; a foreign race and a\nnative; and in nearly all these towns and provinces the foreign race\nare the masters, the native race their men.\n\nOn the open plains and in the forest lands this division into masters\nand men is not so strongly marked as in the towns. Here and there we\nfind a stranger in possession of the soil; but the rule is not so; and\nwhile the towns may be said to belong in a rough way to the German,\nthe country, as a whole, is the property of the Russ. The people may\nbe parted into these two classes; not in commercial things only, but\nin professional study and in official life. The trade, the art, the\nscience, and the power of Russia have all been lodged by law in the\nstranger's hand--the Russ being made an underling, even when he was\nnot made a serf; and it is only in our own time--since the close of\nthe Crimean war--that the crown has come, as it were, to the help of\nnature in recovering Russia for the Russ.\n\nThe dynasty is foreign. The fact is too common to excite remark; the\nfirst and most liberal countries in the world, so far as they have\nkings at all, being governed by princes of alien blood. In London the\ndynasty is Hanoverian; in Berlin it is Swabian; in Paris it is\nCorsican; in Vienna it is Swiss; in Florence it is Savoyard; in\nCopenhagen it is Holstein; in Stockholm it is French; in Brussels it\nis Cobourg; at the Hague it is Rhenish; in Lisbon it is Kohary; in\nAthens it is Danish; in Rio it is Portuguese. No bad moral would be,\ntherefore, drawn from the fact of a Gottorp reigning on the Neva and\nthe Moskva, were it not a fact that the Russian peasant had some\nreason to regard his prince as being not less foreign in spirit than\nhe was in blood. The two princes who are best known to him--Ivan the\nTerrible and Peter the Great--announced, in season and out of season,\nthat they were not Russ. \"Take care of the weight,\" said Ivan to an\nEnglish artist, giving him some bars of gold to be worked into plate,\n\"for the Russians are all thieves.\" The artist smiled. \"Why are you\nlaughing?\" asked the Tsar. \"I was thinking that, when you called the\nRussians thieves, your Majesty forgot that you were Russ yourself.\"\n\"Pooh!\" replied the Tsar, \"I am a German, not a Russ.\" Peter was loud\nin his scorn of every thing Muscovite. He spoke the German tongue; he\nwore the German garb. He shaved his beard and trimmed his hair in the\nGerman style. He built a German city, which he made his capital and\nhis home, and he called that city by a German name. He loved to smoke\nhis German pipe, and to quicken his brain with German beer. To him the\nnew empire which he meant to found was a German empire, with ports\nlike Hamburg, cities like Frankfort and Berlin; and he thought little\nmore of his faithful Russ than as a horde of savages whom it had\nbecome his duty to improve into the likeness of Dutch and German\nboors.\n\nTo the imperial mind, itself foreign, the stranger has always been a\ntype of order, peace, and progress; while the native has been a type\nof waste, disorder, and stagnation. Hence favors without end have been\nheaped on Germans by the reigning house, while Russians have been left\nto feel the presence of their Government chiefly in the tax-collector\nand the sergeant of police. This difference has become a subject for\nproverbs and jokes. When the Emperor asked a man who had done him\nservice how he would like to be remembered in return, he said: \"If\nyour Majesty will only make me a German, every thing else will come in\ntime.\"\n\nMinisters, ambassadors, chamberlains, have almost all been German; and\nwhen a Russian has been employed in a great command, it has been\nrather in war than in the more delicate affairs of state. The German,\nas a rule, is better taught and trained than the Russian; knowing arts\nand sciences, to which the Russian is supposed to be a stranger, now\nand forever, as if learning were a thing beyond his reach. Peter made\na law by which certain arts and crafts were to remain forever in\nGerman hands. A Russian could not be a druggist, lest he should poison\nhis neighbor; nor a chimney-sweep, lest he should set his shed on\nfire.\n\nSuch laws have been repealed by edicts; yet many remain in force, in\nvirtue of a wider power than that of minister and prince. No Russian\nwould take his dose of salts, his camomile pill, from the hands of his\nbrother Russ. He has no confidence in native skill and care. A Russ\nmay be a good physician, being quick, alert, and sympathetic; yet no\namount of training seems to fit him for the delicate office of mixing\ndrugs. He likes to lash out, and can not curb his fury to the minute\naccuracy of an eye-glass and a pair of scales. A few grains, more or\nless, in a potion are to him nothing at all. In Moscow, where the\nPanslavonic hope is strong, I heard of more than one case in which the\ndesire to deal at a native shop had sent the patriot to an untimely\ngrave.\n\n\"You can not teach a Russian girl,\" said a lady, who was speaking to\nme about her servants. \"That girl, now, is a good sort of creature in\nher way; she never tires of work, never utters a complaint; she goes\nto mass on Saints'-days and Sundays; and she would rather die of\nhunger than taste eggs and milk in Lent. But I can not persuade her to\nwash a sheet, to sweep a room, and to rock a cradle in my English way.\nIf I show her how to do it, she says, with a pensive look, that her\npeople do things thus and thus; and if I insist on having my own way\nin my own house, she will submit to force under a sort of protest, and\nwill then run home to tell her parents and her pope that her English\nlady is possessed by an evil spirit.\"\n\nThe strangers who hold so many offices of trust in the country, and\nwho form its intellectual aristocracy, are not considered in Berlin as\nof pure Germanic stock. They come from the Baltic provinces--from\nLivonia and Lithuania; but they trace their houses, not to the Letts\nand Wends of those regions, but to the old Teutonic knights. There can\nbe no mistake about their energy and power.\n\nLong before the days of Peter the Great they had a footing in the\nland; under Peter they became its masters; and ever since his reign\nthey have been striving to subdue and civilize the people as their\nancestors in Ost and West Preussen civilized the ancient Letts and\nFinns.\n\nNo love is lost between these strangers and natives, masters and men.\nThe two races have nothing in common; neither blood, nor speech, nor\nfaith. They differ like West and East. A German cuts his hair short,\nand trims his beard and mustache. He wears a hat and shoes, and wraps\nhis limbs in soft, warm cloth. He strips himself at night, and prefers\nto sleep in a bed to frying his body on a stove. He washes himself\nonce a day. He never drinks whisky, and he loves sour-krout. A German\nbelieves in science, a Russian believes in fate. One looks for his\nguide to experience, while the other is turning to his invisible\npowers. If a German child falls sick, his father sends for a doctor;\nif a Russian child falls sick, his father kneels to his saint.\n\nIn the North country, where wolves abound, a foreigner brings in his\nlambs at night; but the native says, a lamb is either born to be\ndevoured by wolves or not, and any attempt to cross his fate is flying\nin the face of heaven. A German is a man of ideas and methods. He\nbelieves in details. From his wide experience of the world he knows\nthat one man can make carts, while a second can write poems, and a\nthird can drill troops. He loves to see things in order, and his\nbusiness going on with the smoothness of a machine. He rises early,\nand goes to bed late. With a pipe in his mouth, a glass of beer at his\nside, a pair of spectacles on his nose, he can toil for sixteen hours\na day, nor fancy that the labor is beyond his strength. He seldom\nfaints at his desk, and he never forgets the respect which may be due\nto his chief. In offices of trust he is the soul of probity and\nintelligence. It is a rare thing, even in Russia, for a German to be\nbought with money; and his own strict dealing makes him hard with the\nwretch whom he has reason to suspect of yielding to a bribe. In the\nhigher reaches cf character he is still more of a puzzle to his men.\nWith all his love of order and routine, he is a dreamer and an\nidealist; and on the moral side of his nature he is capable of a\ntenderness, a chivalry, an enthusiasm, of which the Russian finds no\ntraces in himself.\n\nA Russ, on the other side, is a man of facts and of illusions; but his\nfacts are in the region of his ideas, while his illusions rest in the\nregion of his habits. It has been said, in irony, of course, that a\nRussian never dreams--except when he is wide awake!\n\nLet us go into a Russian work-shop and a German work-shop; two\nflax-mills, say, at one of the great river towns.\n\nIn the first we find the master and his men of one race, with habits\nof life and thought essentially the same. They dine at the same table,\neat the same kind of food. They wear the same long hair and beards,\nand dress in the same caftan and boots; they play the same games of\ndraughts and whist; they drink the same whisky and quass; they kneel\nat the same village shrine; they kiss the same cross; and they confess\ntheir sins to a common priest. If one gets tipsy on Sunday night, the\nother is likely to have a fellow-feeling for his fault. If the master\nstrikes the man, it is an affair between the two. The man either bears\nthe blow with patience or returns it with the nearest cudgel. Of this\nfamily quarrel the magistrate never hears.\n\nIn the second we find a more perfect industrial order, and a master\nwith a shaven chin. This master, though he may be kind and just, is\nforeign in custom and severe in drill. To him his craft is first and\nhis workmen next. He insists on regular hours, on work that knows no\npause. He keeps the men to their tasks; allows no Monday loss on\naccount of Sunday drink; and sets his face against the singing of\nthose brigand songs in which the Russian delights to spend his time.\nIf his men are absent, he stops their wages--not wishing them to make\nup by night for what they waste by day. In case of need, he hauls them\nup before the nearest judge.\n\nThe races stand apart. A hundred German colonies exist on Russian\nsoil; old colonies, new colonies, farming colonies, religious\ncolonies. Every thing about these foreign villages is clean and\nbright. The roads are well kept, the cabins well built, the gardens\nwell trimmed. The carts are better made, the teams are better groomed,\nthe harvests are better housed than among the natives; yet no\nperceptible influence flows from the German colony into the Russian\ncommune; and a hamlet lying a league from such a settlement as Strelna\nor Sarepta is not unlikely to be worse for the example of its smiling\nface.\n\nThe natives see their master in an odious light. They look on his\nclean face as that of a girl, and express the utmost contempt for his\npipe of tobacco, his pair of spectacles, and his pot of beer. Whisky,\nthey say, is the drink for men. Worse than all else, they regard him\nas a heretic, to whom Heaven may have given (as Arabs say) the power\nof the stick, but who is not the less disowned by the Church and cast\nout from God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\nTHE BIBLE.\n\n\nA learned father of the ancient rite made some remarks to me on the\nBible in Russia, which live in my mind as parts of the picture of this\ngreat country.\n\nI knew that our Bible Society have a branch in Petersburg, and that\ncopies of the New Testament and the Psalms have been scattered,\nthrough their agency, from the White Sea to the Black; but, being well\naware that the right to found that branch of our Society in Russia was\noriginally urged by men of the world in London upon men of the same\nclass in St. Petersburg, and that the ministers of Alexander the First\ngave their consent in a time of war, when they wanted English help in\nmen and money against the French, I supposed that the purposes in view\nhad been political, and that this heavenly seed was cast into\nungrateful soil. I had no conception of the good which our Society has\nbeen doing in silence for so many years.\n\n\"The Scriptures which came to us from England,\" said this priest,\n\"have been the mainstay, not of our religion only, but of our national\nlife.\"\n\n\"Then they have been much read?\"\n\n\"In thousands, in ten thousands of pious homes. The true Russian likes\nhis Bible--yes, even better than his dram--for the Bible tells him of\na world beyond his daily field of toil, a world of angels and of\nspirits, in which he believes with a nearer faith than he puts in the\nwood and water about his feet. In every second house of Great\nRussia--the true, old Russia, in which we speak the same language and\nhave the same God--you will find a copy of the Bible, and men who have\nthe promise in their hearts.\"\n\nIn my journey through the country I find this true, though not so much\nin the letter as in the spirit. Except in New England and in Scotland,\nno people in the world, so far as they can read at all, are greater\nBible-readers than the Russians.\n\nIn thinking of Russia we forget the time when she was free, even as\nshe is now again growing free, and take scant heed of the fact that\nshe possessed a popular version of Scripture, used in all her churches\nand chapels, long before such a treasure was obtained by England,\nGermany, and France.\n\n\"Love for the Bible and love for Russia,\" said the priest, \"go with us\nhand in hand, as the Tsar in his palace and the monk in his convent\nknow. A patriotic government gives us the Bible, a monastic government\ntakes it away.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by a patriotic government and a monastic government,\nwhen speaking of the Bible?\"\n\n\"By a patriotic government, that of Alexander the First and Alexander\nthe Second; by a monastic government, that of Nicolas. The first\nAlexander gave us the Bible; Nicolas took it away; the second\nAlexander gave it us again. The first Alexander was a prince of gentle\nways and simple thoughts--a mystic, as men of worldly training call a\nman who lives with God. Like all true Russians, he had a deep and\nquick perception of the presence of things unseen. In the midst of his\nearthly troubles--and they were great--he turned into himself. He was\na Bible-reader. In the Holy Word he found that peace which the world\ncould neither give nor take away; and what he found for himself he set\nhis heart on sharing with his children everywhere. Consulting Prince\nGolitsin, then his minister of public worship, he found that pious and\nnoble man--Golitsin was a Russian--of his mind. They read the Book\ntogether, and, seeing that it was good for them, they sent for\nStanislaus, archbishop of Mohiloff, and asked him why people should\nnot read the Bible, each man for himself, and in his native tongue? Up\nto that time our sacred books were printed only in Bulgaric; a\nSlavonic speech which people used to understand; but which is now an\nunknown dialect, even to the popes who drone it every day from the\naltar steps. Two English doctors--the good Patterson and the good\nPinkerton--brought us the New Testament, printed in the Russian\ntongue; and, by help of the Tsar and his council, scattered the copies\ninto every province and every town, from the frontiers of Poland to\nthose of China. I am an old man now; but my veins still throb with the\nfervor of that day when we first received, in our native speech, the\nword that was to bring us eternal life. The books were instantly\nbought up and read; friends lent them to each other; and family\nmeetings were held, in which the Promise was read aloud. The popes\nexplained the text; the elders gave out chapter and verse. Even in\nparties which met to drink whisky and play cards, some neighbor would\nproduce his Bible, when the company gave up their games to listen\nwhile an aged man read out the story of the passion and the cross.\nThat story spoke to the Russian heart; for the Russ, when left alone,\nhas something of the Galilean in his nature--a something soft and\nfeminine, almost sacrificial; helping him to feel, with a force which\nhe could never reach by reasoning, the patient beauty of his\nRedeemer's life and death.\"\n\n\"And what were the effects of this Bible-reading?\"\n\n\"Who can tell! You plant the acorn, your descendants sit beneath the\noak. One thing it did for us, which we could never have done without\nits help--the Bible drove the Jesuits from our midst--and if we had it\nnow in every house it would drive away these monks.\"\n\nThe story of the battle of the Bible Society and the Order of Jesus\nmay be read in Joly, and in other writers. When that Order was\nsuppressed in Rome, and the Fathers were banished from every Catholic\nstate in Europe, a remnant was received into Russia by the insane\nEmperor Paul, who took them into his favor in the hope of vexing the\nRoman Court, and of making them useful agents in his Catholic\nprovinces. Well they repaid him for the shelter given--not only in the\nPolish cities, but in the privatest recesses of his home. Father\nGruber is said to have been familiar with every secret of the palace\nunder Paul. These exiles were a band of outlaws, living in defiance of\ntheir spiritual chief and of their temporal prince; but while they\nclung with unslackening grasp to the great traditions of their\nSociety, they sought, by visible service to mankind, the means of\novercoming the hostility of popes and kings. No honest writer will\ndeny that they were useful to the Russians in a secular sense,\nwhatever trouble they may have caused them in a religious sense. They\nbrought into this country the light of science and the love of art\nthen flourishing in the West; and the colleges which they opened for\nthe education of youth were far in advance of the native schools. They\nbuilt their schools at Moscow, Riga, Petersburg, Odessa, on the banks\nof the Volga, on the shores of the Caspian Sea. They sought to be\nuseful in a thousand ways; in the foreign colony, at the military\nstation, in the city prison, at the Siberian mine. They went out as\ndoctors and as teachers. They followed the army into Astrakhan, and\ntoiled among the Kozaks of the Don; but while they labored to do good,\nthey labored in a foreign and offensive spirit. To the Russ people\nthey were strangers and enemies; subjects of a foreign prince, and\nmembers of a hostile church. Some ladies of the court went over to\ntheir rite; a youth of high family followed these court ladies; then\nthe clergy took alarm, and raised their voices against the strangers.\nWhat offended the Russians most of all was the assumption by these\nJesuits of the name of missionaries, as though the people were a\nsavage horde not yet reclaimed to God and His Holy Church. Unhappily\nfor the fathers, this title was expressly forbidden to the Catholic\nclergy by Russian law, and this assumption was an act of disobedience\nwhich left them at the mercy of the crown.\n\nBut while the Emperor Paul was kind to them, these acts were passed in\nsilence, and Alexander seemed unlikely to withdraw his favor from his\nfather's friends. The issue of a New Testament in the native speech\nbrought on the conflict and insured their fate.\n\nFollowing the traditions of their Order, the Jesuits heard the\nproposal to print the Bible in the Russian tongue, so that every man\nshould read it for himself, with fear, and armed themselves to oppose\nthe scheme. They spoke, they wrote, they preached against it. Calling\nit an error, they showed how much it was disliked in Rome. They said\nit was an English invasion of the country; and they stirred up the\npopes to attack it; saying it would be the ruin, not only of the Roman\nclergy, but of the Greek.\n\nAlexander's eyes were opened to the character of his guests. The Bible\nwas a comfort to himself, and why should others be refused the\nblessing he had found? Who were these men, that they should prevent\nhis people reading the Word of Life?\n\nA dangerous question for the Tsar to ask; for Prince Golitsin was\nclose at hand with his reply. The worst day's work the Jesuits had\never done was to disturb this prince's family by converting his nephew\nto the Roman Church. Golitsin called it seduction; and seduction from\nthe national faith is a public crime. When, therefore, Alexander came\nto ask who these men were, Golitsin answered that they were teachers\nof false doctrine; disturbers of the public peace; men who were\nbanished by their sovereigns; a body disbanded by their popes. And\nthen, in spite of their good deeds, they were sent away--first from\nMoscow and Petersburg, afterwards from every city of the empire. Their\nexpulsion was one of the most popular acts of a long and glorious\nreign.\n\nThe Jesuit writers lay the blame of their expulsion on the Bible\nSocieties.\n\nFrom other sources I learn that the New Testament was free until\nAlexander's death, and that the copies found their way into every city\nand village of the land. With the death of Alexander the First came a\nchange. After the conspiracy of 1825, the new Emperor listened to his\nblack clergy, and the Bible was placed under close arrest.\n\nThe Russian Bible Society was called a Russian parliament. All parties\nin the state were represented on the board of management; Orthodox\nbishops sitting next to Old Believers, and Old Believers next to\nDissenting priests. The Bible, in which they all believed, was a\ncommon ground, on which they could meet and exchange the words of\npeace. But Nicolas, ruling by the sword, had no desire to see these\nboards pursuing their active and independent course; and his monks had\nlittle trouble in persuading him to replace the Bible by an official\nBook of Saints.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\nPARISH PRIESTS.\n\n\nIn this empire of villages there is a force of six hundred and ten\nthousand parish priests (a little more or less); each parish priest\nthe centre of a circle, who regard him not only as a man of God,\nordained to bless in His holy name, but as a father to advise them in\nweal and woe. These priests are not only popular, but in country\nvillages they are themselves the people.\n\nFather Peter, the village pope, is a countryman like the members of\nhis flock. In his youth, he must have been at school and college--a\nsmart lad, perhaps, alert of tongue and learned in decrees and canons;\nbut he has long since sobered down into the dull and patient priest\nyou see. In speech, in gait, in dress, he is exactly like the peasants\nin yon dram-shop and yon field. His cabin is built of logs; his wife\ngrows girkins, which she carries in a creel to the nearest town for\nsale; and the reverend gentleman puts his right hand on the plough. He\ndoes not preach and teach; for he has little to say, and not a word\nthat any of his neighbors would care to hear. Knowing that his lot in\nlife is fixed, he has no inducement to refresh his mind with learning,\nand to burnish up his oratorical arms. The world slips past him,\nunperceived; and, with his grip on the peasant's spade, he sinks\ninsensibly into the peasant's class. Yet Peter's life, though it may\nbe hard and poor, is not without lines of natural grace, the more\naffecting from the homeliness of every thing around. His cabin is very\nclean; some flower-pots stand on his window-sill; a heap of books\nloads his presses; and his walls are picturesque with pictures of\nchapel and saint. A pale and comely wife is sitting near his door,\nknitting her children's hose, and watching the urchins at their play.\nThose boys are singing beneath a tree--singing with soft, sad faces\none of their ritual psalms. A calm and tender influence flows from his\nhouse into the neighboring sheds. The dullest hind in the hamlet sees\nthat the pastor's little ones are kept in order, and that his cabin is\nthe pattern of a tidy village hut.\n\nThe pastor has his patch of land to till, his bit of garden ground to\ntend; but on every side you find the homely folk about him helping in\nhis labor, each peasant in his turn, so as to make his duties light.\nPresents of many kinds are made to him--ducklings, fish, cucumbers, even\nshoes and wraps, as well as angel-day offerings and benediction-fees.\nA priest is so great a man in a village, that, even when he is a\ntipsy, idle fellow, he is treated by his parishioners with a\nchild-like duty and respect. The pastor can do much to help his flock,\nnot only in their spiritual wants, but in their secular affairs. In\nany quarrel with the police, it is of great importance to a peasant\nthat his priest should take his part; and the pastor commonly takes\nhis neighbor's part, not only because he himself is poor, and knows\nthe man, but because he hates all public officers and suspects all men\nin power.\n\nA great day for the parish priest is that on which a child is born in\nhis commune.\n\nWhen Dimitri (the peasant living in yon big house is called Dimitri)\nhears that a son has been given to him, he runs for his priest, and\nFather Peter comes in stately haste to welcome and bless the little\none. Finding the baby swinging in his liulka, Father Peter puts on his\ncope, unclasps his book, turns his face to the holy icons, and begins\nhis prayer. \"Lord God,\" he cries, \"we beg Thee to send down the light\nof Thy face upon this child, Thy servant Constantine; and be he signed\nwith the cross of Thy only-begotten Son. Amen.\"\n\nIn two or three weeks the christening of little Constantine, \"servant\nof God,\" takes place. When the rite is performed at home, the house\nhas to be turned, as it were, into a chapel for the nonce; no\ndifficult thing, as parlor, kitchen, hall, saloon, are decorated with\nthe Son, the Mother, and the patron saint. A room is set apart for the\noffice; a rug is spread before the sacred pictures; and on a table are\nlaid three candles, a fine napkin, and a glass of water from the well.\nA silver-gilt basin is sent from the village church. Attended by his\nreader and his deacon, each carrying a bundle, Father Peter walks to\nthe house, bearing a cross and singing a psalm, while the censer is\nswung before him in the street.\n\nThe rite then given is long and solemn, the ceremony consisting of\nmany parts. First comes the act of driving out the fiends: when the\npope, not yet in his perfect robes, takes up the baby, breathes on his\nface, crosses him three times--on temple, breast, and lips--and\nexorcises the devil and all his imps; ending with the words, \"May\nevery evil and unclean spirit that has taken up his abode in this\ninfant's heart depart from hence!\" Then comes the act of renouncing\nthe Evil One and all his works, in the baby's name. \"Dost thou\nrenounce the devil?\" asks the pope; on which the sponsors turn, with\nthe child, towards the setting sun, that land of shadows in which the\nPrince of Darkness is supposed to dwell, and answer, each, \"I have\nrenounced him.\" \"Spit on him!\" cries the pope, who jets his own saliva\ninto a corner, as though the devil were present in the room. The\nsponsors spit in turn. Here follows the confession of faith; the\nsponsors being asked whether they believe that Christ is King and God;\nand, on answering that they believe in Him as King and God, are told\nto fall down and worship Him as such. Next comes the rite of baptism,\nwhen the pope puts on his brightest robe, the parents are sent away,\nand the child is left to his godfathers and godmothers. A taper is put\ninto each sponsor's hand; the candles near the font are lighted;\nincense is flung about; the reader and deacon sing; and the pope\ninaudibly recites a prayer. The water is blessed by the pope dipping\nhis right hand into it three times, by breathing on it, praying over\nit, and signing it with the cross. He uses for that purpose a feather\nwhich has been dipped into holy oil. The child is anointed five times;\nfirst on the forehead, with this phrase: \"Constantine, the servant of\nGod, is anointed with the oil of gladness;\" next on the chest, to heal\nhis soul and body; then on the two ears, to quicken his sense of the\nWord; afterwards on his hands and feet, to do God's will and walk in\nhis way. Seized by the pope, the child is now plunged into the font\nthree times by rapid dips, the priest repeating at each dip,\n\"Constantine, the servant of God, is now baptized in the name of the\nFather, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.\" If the young Christian\nis not drowned in the font (as sometimes happens), he is clad in\nwhite, he receives his name, his guardian angel, and his cross.\n\nThe rite of baptism ended, the sacrament of unction opens. This\nsacrament, called the seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit, is said to\nrepresent the \"laying on of hands\" in the early Christian Church. With\na small feather, dipped once more into the sacred oil, the pope again\ntouches the baby's forehead, chest, lips, hands, and feet, saying each\ntime, \"The seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit;\" on which reader,\ndeacon, and priest all break into chants of hallelujah! After unction\ncomes the act of sacrifice; when the child, who has nothing else of\nhis own to give, offers up the _hair of his head_. Taking a pair of\nshears, the pope snips off the down in four places from the baby's\nhead, making a cross, and saying, as he cuts each piece away,\n\"Constantine, the servant of God, is shorn in Thy name.\" The hair is\nthrown into the font; more litany is sung; and the child is at length\ngiven back, fatigued and sleepy, into his mother's arms.\n\nTen or twelve days later, Constantine must be taken by his mother to\nmass, and receive the sacrament, as a sign of his visible acceptance\nin the Church. A nurse walks up the steps before the royal gates; and\nwhen the deacon comes forward with the cup in his hand, she goes to\nmeet him. He takes a small spoon and puts a drop of wine into the\ninfant's mouth, saying, \"Constantine, the servant of God, communicates\nin the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.\" Later in the service,\nthe pope himself takes up the child, and, pressing his nose against\nthe icons on the screen, cries, loudly, \"Constantine, the servant of\nGod, is now received into the Church of Christ.\"\n\nNot less grand a time for Father Peter is a wedding-day. The rite is\nlonger, and the fees are more. Old Tartar customs keep their hold on\nthese common folk, if not on the higher ranks, and courtship, as we\nunderstand it, is a thing unknown. A match is made by the proposeress\nand the parents, not by the youth and maiden--for in habit, if not in\nlaw, the sexes live apart, and do not see much of each other until the\nknot is tied.\n\nA servant came into the parlor of a house in which I was staying as a\nguest--came in simpering and crying--to say that she wished to leave\nher place. \"To leave! For what cause?\"\n\nWell, she was going to be married.\n\n\"Married, Maria!\" cried her mistress; \"when?\" \"The day after next,\"\nreplied the woman, shedding tears.\n\n\"So soon, Maria! And what sort of man are you going to wed?\"\n\nThe woman dropped her eyes. She could not say; she had not seen him\nyet. The proposeress had done it all, and sent her word to appear in\nchurch at four o'clock, the hour for marrying persons of her class.\n\n\"You really mean to take this man whom you have never seen?\"\n\n\"I must,\" said the woman; \"the prayers have been put up in church.\"\n\n\"Do the parish popes raise no objections to such marriages?\"\n\n\"No,\" laughed the lady. \"Why should they object? A wedding brings them\nfees; and in their cabins you will find more children than kopecks.\"\n\nThe livings held by the parish clergy are not rich. Some few city\nholdings may be worth three or four hundred pounds a year; these are\nthe prizes. Few of the country pastors have an income, over and above\nthe kitchen-garden and plough of land, exceeding forty or fifty pounds\na year. The city priest, like the country priest, has neither rank nor\npower in the Church. The only chance for an ambitious man is, that his\nwife may die; in which event he can take the vows, put on cowl and\nfrock, obtain a career, become a fellow in the corporation of monks,\nand rise, if he be daring, supple, and adroit, to high places in his\nchurch.\n\nThat the parish priests are not content with their position, is one of\nthose open secrets in the Church which every day become more difficult\nto keep. As married men, they feel that they are needlessly depressed\nin public esteem, and that the higher offices in the system should lie\nopen to them no less than to the monks. Being many in number, rich in\nlearning, intimate with the people, they ought to be strong in favor;\nyet through the craft of their black rivals, they have been left, not\nonly without the right of meeting, but without the means of making\ntheir voices heard. The peasant was never beaten down so low in the\nscale of life as his parish priest; for the serf had always his\ncommunal meeting, his choice of elders, his right of speech, and his\nfaculty of appeal. The parish priests expect a change; they expect it,\nnot from within the clerical body, but from without; not from a synod\nof monks, but from a married and reforming Tsar.\n\nThis change is coming on; a great and healing revolution; an act of\nemancipation for the working clergy, not less striking and beneficent\nthan the act of emancipation for the toiling serfs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\nA CONSERVATIVE REVOLUTION.\n\n\nIn the great conflict between monks and parish priests, the ignorant\nclasses side with the monks, the educated classes with the parish\npriests.\n\nThe Black Clergy, having no wives and children, stand apart from the\nworld, and hold a doctrine hostile to the family spirit. Their\nrivals--though they have faults, from which the clergy in countries\nmore advanced are free--are educated and social beings; and taking\nthem man for man through all their grades, it is impossible to deny\nthat the parish priests are vastly superior to the monks.\n\nYet the White Clergy occupied (until 1869) a place in every way\ninferior to the Black. They were an isolated caste; they held no\ncertain rank; they could not rise in the Church; they exercised no\npower in her councils. Once a priest, a man was a priest forever. A\nmonk might live to be Rector, Archimandrite, Bishop, and Metropolite.\nNot so a married priest; the round of whose duty was confined to his\nparish work--to christening infants, to confessing women, to marrying\nlovers, to reading prayers for the dead, to saying mass, to collecting\nfees, and quarrelling with the peasants about his tithe. A monk\ndirected his education; a monk appointed him to his cure of souls; a\nmonk inspected his labor, and loaded him with either praise or blame.\nA body of monks could drive him from his parish church; throw him into\nprison; utterly destroy the prospects of his life.\n\nGreat changes have been made in the present year; changes of deeper\nmoment to the nation than any thing effected in the Church since the\nreforms of Peter the Great.\n\nThis work of reform was started by the Emperor throwing open the\nclerical service to all the world, and putting an end to that\ncustomary succession of father and son as popes. Down to this year,\nthe clergy has been a class apart, a sacred body, a Levitical\norder--in brief, a _caste_. Russia had her priestly families, like the\nTartars and the Jews; and all the sons of a pope were bound to enter\ninto the Church. This Oriental usage has been broken through. The\nclergy has been freed from a galling yoke, and the service has been\nopened to every one who may acquire the learning and enjoy the call.\nYoung men, who would otherwise have been forced to take orders, will\nnow be able to live by trade; the crowd of clerical idlers will melt\naway; and many a poor student with brains will be drawn into the\nspiritual ranks. This great reform is being carried forward less by\nedicts which would fret the consciences of ignorant men than by the\napplication of general rules. To wit: a question has arisen whether,\nunder this open system, the old rule of \"once a priest, always a\npriest,\" holds good. It is a serious question, not for individuals\nonly, but for the clerical society; and the monks have been moving\nheaven and earth to have their rule of \"once a priest, always a\npriest\" confirmed. But they have failed. No rule has been laid down in\nwords, but a precedent has been laid down in fact.\n\nFather Goumilef, a parish priest in the town of Riazan, applies for\nleave to give up his frock and re-enter the world. Count Tolstoi,\nMinister of Education, and the Emperor's personal representative in\nthe Holy Governing Synod, persuades that body to support Goumilef's\nprayer. On the 12th of November (Oct. 31, O.S.)--a red-letter day\nhenceforth in the Russian calendar--the Emperor signs his release;\nallowing Goumilef to return from the clerical to the secular life. All\nhis rights as a citizen are restored, and he is free to enter the\npublic service in any province of the empire, save only that of\nRiazan, in which he has served the altar as a parish priest.\n\nConnected with the abolition of caste came the new laws regulating the\nstanding of a parish priest's children--laws conceived in a most\ngracious spirit. All sons of a parish priest are in future to rank as\nnobles; sons of a deacon are to be accounted gentlemen; sons of\nreaders are to rank as burghers.\n\nIn his task of raising the parish clergy to a higher level, the\nreforming Emperor has found a tower of strength in Innocent, the\nnoticeable man who occupies, in Troitsa, the Archimandrite's chair, in\nMoscow, the Metropolite's throne.\n\nInnocent passed his early years as a married priest in Siberia--doing,\nin the wild countries around the shores of Lake Baikal, genuine\nmissionary work. A noble wife went with him to and fro; heaven blessed\nhim with children; and the father learned how to speak with effect to\nsire and son. Thousands of converts blessed the devoted pair. At\nlength the woman fainted by the way, and Innocent was left to mourn\nher loss; but not alone; their children remained to be his pride and\nstay.\n\nWhen the Holy Governing Synod raised the missionary region of Irkutsk\ninto a bishop's see, the crozier was forced upon Innocent by events.\nAlready known as the Apostle of Siberia, the synod could do little\nmore than note the fact, and give him official rank. Of course, a\nmitre implied a cowl and gown; but Innocent, though his wife was dead,\nrefused to become a monk. In stronger words than he was wont to use,\nhe urged that the exclusion of married popes from high office in the\npriesthood was a custom, not a canon, of his Church. To every call\nfrom the monks he answered that every man should be called to labor in\nthe vineyard of the Lord according to his gifts. He yielded for the\nsake of peace; but though he took the vows, he held to his views on\nclerical celibacy, and the White Clergy had now a bishop to whom they\ncould look up as a worthy champion of their cause.\n\nOn the death of Philaret, two years ago, this friend of the White\nClergy was chosen by the Emperor to take his seat; so that now the\nactual Archimandrite of Troitsa, and Metropolite of Moscow, though he\nwears the cowl, is looked upon in Church society as a supporter of the\nmarried priests.\n\nBy happy chance, a first step had been taken towards one great reform\nby Philaret, in raising to the chair of Rector of the Ecclesiastical\nAcademy of Moscow a priest who was not a monk.\n\nForty miles to the north of Moscow rises a table-land, on the edge of\nwhich is built a convent dedicated to the Holy Trinity, called in\nRussian, Troitsa. This convent is said to be the richest in the world;\nnot only in sacred dust and miraculous images, but in cups and\ncoffers, in wands and crosses, in lamps and crowns. The shrine of St.\nSergie, wrought in the purest silver, weighs a thousand pounds; and in\nthe same cathedral with St. Sergie's shrine there is a relievo of the\nLast Supper, in which all the figures, save that of Judas, are of\nfinest gold. But these costly gauds are not the things which draw\npilgrims to the Troitsa. They come to kneel before that Talking\nMadonna which, once upon a time, held speech with Serapion, a holy\nmonk. They crowd round that portrait of St. Nicolas, which was struck\nby a shot from a Polish siege-gun, in the year of tribulation, when\nthe Poles had made themselves masters of Moscow and the surrounding\nplains. They come still more to kiss the forehead of St. Sergie, the\nself-denying monk, who founded the convent, and blessed the banner of\nDimitri, before that prince set forth on his campaign against the\nTartar hordes on the Don. St. Sergie is the defense of his country,\nand his grave in the convent has never been polluted by the footprint\nof a foe. Often as Moscow fell, the Troitsa remained inviolate ground.\nThe Tartars never reached it. Twice, if not more, the Poles advanced\nagainst it; once with a mighty power, and the will to reduce it, cost\nthem what lives it might. They lay before it sixteen months, and had\nto retire from before the walls at last. The French under Napoleon\nwished to seize it, and a body of troops was sent to the attack; but\nthe saintly presence which had driven off the Poles was too much for\nthe French. The troops returned, and the virgin convent stood.\n\nThese miracles of defense have given a vast celebrity to the saint,\nwho has come to be thought not only holy himself, but a cause of\nholiness in others. On the way from Moscow to Troitsa stands the\nhamlet of Hotkoff, in which lies the dust of Sergie's father and\nmother; over whose tombs a church and convent have been built. Every\npilgrim on the road to Troitsa stops at this convent and adores their\nbones. \"Have you been to Troitsa before?\" we heard a pilgrim ask his\nfellow, as they trudged along the road. \"Yes, thanks be to God.\" \"Has\nSergie given you what you came to seek?\" \"Well, no, not all.\" \"Then\nyou neglected to stop at Hotkoff and adore his parents; he was angry\nwith you.\" \"Perhaps; God knows. It may be so. Next time I will go to\nHotkoff. Overlook my sin!\" A railway has been made from Moscow to\nTroitsa, and the lazy herd of pilgrims go by train. The better sort\nstill march along the dirty road, and count their beads in front of\nthe wooden chapels and many rich crosses, as of old. St. Sergie has\ngained in wealth, and lost in credit, by the convenience offered to\npilgrims in the railway line.\n\nIn the centre of this fortress and sanctuary the monks erected an\nacademy, in which priests were to be trained for their future work. A\nyoung man lives in it under Troitsa rule, and leaves it with the\nTroitsa brand. The rector is a man of rank in the church, equal to the\nMaster of Trinity among ourselves. Until the day when Philaret brought\nFather Gorski into office, his post had always been filled by an\nArchimandrite. Now Father Gorski was a learned man, a good writer, and\na great authority on points of church antiquity and ceremonial. Great\nin reputation, he was also advanced in years. Some objected to him on\nthe ground that he was not a monk; but his fame as a learned man, his\nnoticeable piety, and his nearness with the Metropolite, carried him\nthrough. Even the monks forgave him when they found that he lived,\nlike themselves, a secluded and cloistered life.\n\nThey hardly saw how much they were giving up in that early fight; for\nthis man of monk-like habit had not taken vows; and in one of the\nstrongholds of their power they were placing the education of their\nclergy in charge of a parish priest!\n\nA second step in the line of march has been taken in the nomination of\na married pope to the post of Rector of the Ecclesiastical Academy of\nSt. Petersburg. Father Yanycheff is this new rector; and Father\nYanycheff's wife is still alive. This call of a married man to such a\nchair has fired the Church with hope and fear--the White Clergy\nlooking on it with surprise and joy, the Black Clergy with amazement\nand despair.\n\nDr. Yanycheff--in whose person the fight is raging between these\nbenedicts and celibates--is a young priest, who was educated in the\nacademy, until he took his degree of doctor, on which he was placed in\nthe chair of theology at the University of St. Petersburg. In that\nchair he became popular; his lectures being eloquent, his manners\neasy, and his opinions liberal. Some of the sleepy old prelates took\nalarm. Yanycheff, they said, was exciting his pupils; he was telling\nthem to read and think; and the sleepy old prelates could see no good\nin such exercises of the brain. Reading and thinking lead men into\ndoubt, and doubt is the plague by which souls are lost. They moved the\nHoly Governing Synod to interfere, and on the synod interfering, the\nprofessor resigned his chair. Resolved on keeping his conscience free,\nhe married, and accepted the office of pope in a city on the Rhine.\nHis intellectual worth was widely known; and when, in process of time,\na teacher was required for the young Princess Dagmar, a man skillful\nin languages and arts, as well as learned and liberal, Dr. Yanycheff,\nwas chosen for the task of preparing the imperial bride. The way in\nwhich he discharged his delicate office brought him into favor with\nthe great; and on his return to his own country with the princess,\nCount Tolstoi got him appointed rector of the academy--a position of\nhighest trust in the Church, since it gives him a leading influence in\nthe education of future popes.\n\nThe monks are all aghast; the Holy Governing Synod protests; and even\nthe Metropolite refuses to recognize this act. But Count Tolstoi is\nfirm, and the synod knows but too well how the enemy stands at court.\nYanycheff, on his side, has been prudent; and the wonder caused by his\nnomination is sensibly dying down. Meantime, people are getting used\nto the idea of a man with wife and child conducting the education of\ntheir future parish priests.\n\nOnce launched on a career of clerical reform, the court has moved with\nregular, if with cautious strides. All men can see that the first work\nto be done is to be done in the schoolroom and the college; for in\nRussia, as elsewhere, the teachers make the taught; and as the rectors\ntrain the priests, ideas prevalent in the rectorial chairs will come\nin a few years to be the paramount views of the Church.\n\nA law has recently been passed by the Council of State, and\npromulgated by the Emperor, which deals the hardest blow yet suffered\nby the monks; a law taking away the right of nominating rectors of\nseminaries and academies from the archbishops, and vesting it in a\nboard of teachers and professors; subject only to approval--which may\nsoon become a thing of course--by the higher spiritual powers. This\nlaw is opposed by all the convents and their chiefs; even Innocent,\nthough friendly to the married clergy, stands, on this point, with his\nclass.\n\nA first election under this new law has just occurred in Moscow. When\nthe law was published, Prof. Nicodemus, holding the chair of Rector in\nthe Ecclesiastical Seminary of Moscow, sent in his resignation, on the\nground that his position was become that of a rector on sufferance.\nEvery one felt that by resigning his chair he was doing a noble thing;\nand if it had been possible for a monk to get a majority of votes in\nan open board, Nicodemus would, on that account, have been the popular\nchoice. But no man wearing a cowl and gown had any chance. The contest\nlay between two married priests: Father Blagorazumof, a teacher in the\nseminary, and Father Smirnof, editor of the Orthodox Review. Innocent\ntook some part against Father Smirnof, whose writings he did not like;\nand Father Blagorazumof was elected to the vacant chair.\n\nWhat has been done in Moscow will probably be done in other cities; so\nthat in twenty years from the present time the education of youths for\nthe ministry will have fallen entirely into the hands of married men.\n\nThe same principle of election has been applied to the appointment of\nrural deans. These officers were formerly named by the bishop,\naccording to his sole will and pleasure. Now, by imperial order, they\nare elected by deputies from the parish priests.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\nSECRET POLICE.\n\n\nThe new principle of referring things to a popular vote is coming into\nplay on every side; nowhere in a form more striking than in the courts\nof law. Some twenty years ago the administration of justice was the\ndarkest blot on Russian life.\n\nWhat the Emperor had to meet and put away, on this side of his\ngovernment, was a colossal evil.\n\nIn a country over which the prince has to rule as well as reign, a\ngood many men must have a share in the exercise of irresponsible and\nimperial power--more perhaps than would have to divide the beneficent\nauthority of a constitutional king. A prince has only two eyes, two\nears, and two hands. The circle which he can see, and hear, and reach,\nis drawn closely round his person, and in all that he would do beyond\nthat line he must act through an intelligence other than his own; and\nfor the blunders of this second self he has to bear the blame.\n\nThe parties who exercise this power in the imperial name are the\nsecret police and the provincial governors, general and local.\n\nThe secret police have an authority which knows no bounds, save that\nof the Emperor's direct command. They have a province of their own,\napart from, and above, all other provinces in the state. Their chief,\nCount Shouvalof, is the first functionary of the empire, the only man\nwho has a right of audience by day and night. In Eastern nations rank\nis measured in no small degree by a person's right of access to the\nsovereign. Now, the right of audience in the winter palace is governed\nby the clearest rules. Ordinary ministers of the crown--home office,\neducation, finance--can only see the Emperor once a week. Greater\nministers--war and foreign affairs--can see him once a day, but only\nat certain stated hours. A minister of police can walk into his\ncabinet any hour of the day, into his bedroom any hour of the night.\n\nNot many years ago the power of this minister was equal to his rank at\ncourt; in home affairs he was supreme; and many a poor ruler found\nhimself at once his tool and dupe. Much of this power has now been\nlodged in courts of law, over which the police have no control; but\nover and beyond the law, a vast reserve is left with the police, who\ncan still revise a sentence, and, as an \"administrative measure,\" send\na man into exile who has been acquitted by the courts.\n\nWhile I was staying at Archangel, an actor and actress were brought\nfrom St. Petersburg in a tarantass, set down in the grass-grown\nsquare, near the poet's pedestal, and told to shift for themselves,\nthough they were on no account to quit the town without the governor's\npass. No one could tell what they had done. Their lips were closed;\nthe newspapers were silent; but a thousand tongues were busy with\ntheir tale; and the likelier story seemed to be, that they had been\nplaying a part in some drama of actual life. Clandestine marriages are\nnot so rare in Russia as they are in England and the United States.\nYoung princes love to run away with dancers, singers, and their like.\nNow these exiles in the North country were said to have been concerned\nin a runaway match, by which the pride of a powerful family had been\nstung; and since it was impossible to punish the offending parties,\nthese poor artists had been whisked off their tinsel thrones in order\nto appease a parent's wounded pride. The man and woman were not man\nand wife; but care for such loss of fame as a pretty woman might\nundergo by riding in a tarantass, day and night, twelve hundred\nversts, through a wild country, with a man who was not her spouse,\nseems never to have troubled the director of police. Stage heroines\nhave no character in official eyes. There they were, in the North; and\nthere they would have to stay, until the real offenders should be able\nto make their peace, whether they could manage to live in that city of\ntrade, as honest folks should live, or not. Clever in their art, they\nopened a barn long closed, and the parlors of Archangel were agog with\nglee. What they performed could hardly be called a play. Two persons\nmake a poor company, and these artists were of no high rank. They just\ncontrived to keep their visitors awake by doing easy tricks in magic,\nand by acting short scenes from some of the naughtiest pieces in the\nworld. It is to be hoped, on every ground, that the angry gods may be\nappeased, that the hero and heroine of this comedy may come back to\nthe great city in which their talents are better known.\n\nThese actors were sent from the capital on a simple order from the\npolice. They have not been tried; they have not been heard in defense;\nthey have not been told the nature of their crime. An agent drove to\ntheir door in a drojki, asked to see So-and-so, and on going up, said,\nin tones which only the police can use: \"Get ready; in three hours we\nstart--for Archangel.\" Young or aged, male or female, the victim in\nsuch a case must snatch up what he can, follow his captor to the\nstreet, get into his drojki, and obey in silence the invisible powers.\nNot a word can be said in bar of his sentence; no court will open its\ndoors to his appeal; no judge can hear his case.\n\nTheir case is far from being a rare one. In the same streets of\nArchangel you meet a lady of middle age, who has been exiled from St.\nPetersburg on simple suspicion of being concerned in seducing students\nof the university from their allegiance to the country and the Church.\n\nFollowing in the wake of other changes, some reforms have been made in\nthe universities; made, on the whole, in a liberal and pacific sense.\nNicolas put the students into uniform; hung swords in their belts; and\ngave them a certain standing in the public eye, as officers of the\ncrown. They were his servants; and as his servants they enjoyed some\nrights which they dearly prized. They ranked as nobles. They had their\nown police. They stood apart, as a separate corporation; and, whether\nthey sang through the street or sat in the play-house, they appeared\nin public as a corporate body, and always in the front. But the\nreforming Emperor seeks to restore these civilian youths to the habits\nof civil life. Their swords have been hung up, their uniforms laid\naside, their right of singing songs and damning plays in a body put\naway. All these distinctions are now abolished; and, like other\ncivilians, the students have been placed under the city police and the\nordinary courts.\n\nThese changes are unpopular with the students, who imagine that their\ndignity has been lessened by stripping them of uniform and sword; and\nsome of these young men, professing all the while republican and\ncommunistic creeds, are clamoring for their class distinctions, and\neven hankering for the times when they were \"servants of the Tsar.\"\n\nIn the month of March (1869) some noisy meetings of these young men\ntook place. The Emperor heard of them, and sent for Trepof, his first\nmaster of police--a man of shrewd wit and generous temper, under whom\nthe police have become all but popular. \"What do these students want?\"\nhis Majesty began. \"Two things,\" replied the master; \"bread and\nstate.\" \"Bread?\" exclaimed the Emperor. \"Yes,\" said the master; \"many\nof them are poor; with empty bellies, active brains, and saucy\ntongues.\"\n\n\"What can be done for them, poor fellows?\"\n\n\"A few purses, sire, would keep them quiet; twenty thousand rubles\nnow, and promise of a yearly grant in aid of poor students.\" \"Let it\nbe so,\" said the prince.\n\nThese rubles were sent at once to the rector and professors to\ndispense, according to their knowledge of the students' needs; but,\nunluckily, the rector and professors treated the imperial gift as a\nbit of personal patronage, and they gave the purses to each others'\nsons and nephews, lads who could well afford to pay their fees. The\nstudents called fresh meetings, talked much nonsense, and drew up an\nappeal to the people, written in a florid and offensive style.\n\nTreating the Government as an equal power, these madcaps printed what\nthey called an ultimatum of four articles: (1.) they demanded the\nright of establishing a students' club; (2.) the right of meeting and\naddressing the Government as a corporate body; (3.) the control of all\npurses and scholarships given to poor students; (4.) the abolition of\nuniversity fees. Following these articles came an appeal to the people\nfor support against the minions of the crown!\n\nA party in the state--the enemies of reform--were said to have raised\na fund for the purpose of corrupting these young men; and this party\nwere suspected of employing the agency of clever women in carrying out\ntheir plans. It was not easy to detect these female plotters at their\nwork, for the revolution they were trying to bring about was made with\nsmiles and banter over cups of tea; but ladies were arrested in\nseveral streets, and the lady to be seen in Archangel was one of these\nvictims--exiled on \"suspicion\" of having been concerned in printing\nthe appeal.\n\nWhen she came into exile every one was amazed; she seemed so weak and\nbroken; she showed so little spirit; and when people talked with her\nthey found she had none of the talents necessary for intrigue. The\ncomedy of government by \"suspicion\" stood confessed. Here was a\nprince, the idol of his country, armed in his mail of proof,\nsurrounded by a million bayonets, not to speak of artillery, cavalry,\nand ships; and there was a frail creature, fifty years old, with\nneither beauty, followers, nor fortune to promote her views: in such a\nfoe, what could the Emperor be supposed to fear?\n\nA young writer of some talent in St. Petersburg, one Dimitri Pisareff,\nwas bathing in the sea near his summer-house, and, getting beyond his\ndepth, was drowned. The young man was a politician, and, having caused\nmuch scandal by his writings, he had passed some years in the fortress\nof St. Peter and St. Paul. Freed by the Emperor, he resumed his pen.\nAfter his death, Pavlenkoff, a bookseller in the city, who admired his\ntalents, and thought he had served his country, opened a subscription\namong his readers for the purpose of erecting a stone above the young\nauthor's grave. The secret police took notice of the fact, and as\nDimitri Pisareff was one of the names in their black list, they\nunderstood this effort to do him honor as a public censure of their\nzeal. Pavlenkoff was arrested in his shop, put into a cart, and, with\nneither charge nor hearing, driven to the province of Viatka, twelve\nhundred versts from home. That poor bookseller still remains in exile.\n\nA more curious case is that of Gierst, a young novelist of mark, who\nbegan, in the year 1868, to publish in a monthly magazine, called\n\"Russian Notes\" (\"Otetchestvenniva Zapiski\"), a romance which he\ncalled \"Old and Young Russia.\" The opening chapters showed that his\ntale was likely to be clever; bold in thought and brilliant in style.\nGierst took the part of Young Russia against Old Russia, and his\nchapters were devoured by youths in all the colleges and schools.\nEvery one began to talk of the story, and to discuss the questions\nraised by it--men and things in the past, in contrast with the hopes\nand talents of the present reign. The police took part with the\nelders; and when the novelist who made the stir could not be answered\nwith argument, they silenced him by a midnight call. An officer came\nto his lodgings with the usual order to depart at once. Away sped the\nhorses, he knew not whither--driving on night and day, until they\narrived at Totma, one of the smaller towns in the province of Vologda,\nnine hundred versts from St. Petersburg. There he was tossed out of\nhis cart, and told to remain until fresh orders came from the minister\nof police.\n\nNone of Gierst's friends, at first, knew where he was. His rooms in\nSt. Petersburg were empty; he had gone away; and the only trace which\nhe had left behind was the tale of a domestic, who had seen him\ncarried off. No one dared to ask about him. Reference to him in the\njournals was forbidden; and the public only learned from the\nnon-appearance of his story in the \"Notes\" that the police had somehow\ninterfered with the free exercise of his pen. The letters which he\nwrote to the papers were laid aside as being too dangerous for the\npublic eye; and it was only by a ruse that he conveyed to his readers\nthe knowledge of his whereabouts.\n\nGierst sent to the editor of \"Notes\" a letter of apology for the\ninterruption of his tale. He merely said it would not be carried\nfarther for the present; and the police raised no objection to the\npublication of this letter in the \"Notes.\" They overlooked the date\nwhich the letter bore; and the one word \"Totma\" told the public all.\n\nThe world enjoyed a laugh at the police; and the irritated officials\ntried to vent their rage on the young wit who had proved that they\nwere fools. Gierst remains an exile at Totma, and the public still\nawaits the story from his hands. But a thousand novels, rich in art\nand red in spirit, could not have touched the public conscience like\nthe haunting memory of this unfinished tale.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\nPROVINCIAL RULERS.\n\n\nRussia is divided into provinces, each of which is ruled by a governor\nand a vice-governor named by the crown.\n\nA dozen years ago the governor and his lieutenant was each a petty\nTsar--doing what he pleased in his department, and answering only now\nand then, like a Turkish pasha, by forfeiture of office, for the\npublic good. Charged with the maintenance of public order, he was\narmed with a power as terrible as that of the imperial police--the\nright to suspect his neighbor of discontent, and act on this bare\nsuspicion as though the fault were proved in a court of law. In\nEngland and the United States the word suspicion has lost its use, and\nwell-nigh lost its sense. Our officers of police are not permitted to\n\"suspect\" a thief. They must either take him in the fact or leave him\nalone. From Calais to Perm, however, the word \"suspicion\" is still a\nname of fear; for in all the countries lying between the English\nChannel and the Ural Mountains, \"ordre superieure\" is a force to which\nrights of man and courts of law must equally give way.\n\nThe governor, or vice-governor, of a Russian province, representing\nhis sovereign lord, might find, or fancy that he found, some reason to\nsuspect a man of disaffection to the crown. He might be wrong, he\nmight even be absurdly wrong. The man might be loyal as himself; might\neven be in a position to prove that loyalty in open court; and yet his\ninnocence would avail him nothing. Proofs are idle when the courts are\nnot open to appeal; and judges have no power to hear the facts. \"Done\nby superior orders,\" was the answer to all cries and protests. A\nresistless power was about his feet, and he was swept away by a force\nfrom which there was no appeal--not even to the ruling prince; and the\nvictim of an erring, perhaps a malicious, governor, had no resource\nagainst the wrong, except in resignation to what might seem to be the\nwill of God.\n\nThe men who could use and abuse this terrible power were many. Russia\nis divided into forty-nine provinces, besides the kingdom of Poland,\nthe Grand Duchy of Finland, the Empire of Siberia, the khanates and\nprincipalities of the Caucasus. In these forty-nine provinces the\ngovernors and vice-governors had the power to exile any body on mere\nsuspicion of political discontent. In other regions of the empire this\npower was even more diffused than it was in the purely Russian\ndistricts. Taking all the Russians in one mass, there can hardly have\nbeen less than two hundred men (excluding the police) who could seize\na citizen in the name of public order, and condemn him, unheard, to\nlive in any part of the empire from the Persian frontiers to the Polar\nSea.\n\nThe Princess V----, a native of Podolia, young, accomplished, wealthy,\nwas loved by all her friends, adored by all the young men of her\nprovince. One happy youth possessed her heart, and this young man was\nworthy of the fortune he had won. Their days of courtship passed, and\nthey were looking forward to the day when they would wear together\ntheir sacred crowns; but then an unseen agent crossed their path and\nbroke their hearts. Some days before their betrothal should have taken\nplace, an officer of police appeared at the lover's door with a\nperemptory order for him to quit Poltava for the distant government of\nPerm. Taken from his house at a moment's notice, he was hurried to the\ngeneral office of police, where his papers were made out, and, being\nput into a common cart, he was whisked away in the company of two\ngendarmes. A month was occupied in his journey; two or three months\nelapsed before his friends in Podolia knew that he was safe. He found\na friend in the mountain town, by whom his life as an exile was made a\nlittle less rugged than it might have been. An advocate was won for\nhim at court; the senate was moved, though cautiously, in his behalf;\nand at the end of two years his tormentor was persuaded to relax his\ngrip. But though he was suffered to leave his place of banishment, he\nwas forbidden to return to his native town.\n\nThe princess kept her faith to him--staying in Podolia while he was\nstill at Perm; living down the suspicions in which they were both\ninvolved--and joined him at St. Petersburg so soon as he got leave to\nenter that city. There they were married, and there I met them in\nsociety. Not a cloud is on their fame. They are free to go and come,\nexcept that they must not live in their native town. No power save\nthat which sent the bridegroom into exile can recall them to their\nhome. Yet down to this hour the gentleman has never been able to\nascertain the nature of his offense.\n\nIn time the country will free herself from this Asiatic abuse of\npower. With bold but cautious hand the Emperor has felt his way. His\ngovernors of provinces have been told to act with prudence; not to\nthink of sending men into exile unless the case is flagrant, and only\nthen after reference of all the facts to St. Petersburg.\n\nSome dozen years ago, before the new reforms had taken hold, and\nofficers in the public service had come to count on the appeal being\nheard, a case occurred which allows one to give, in the form of an\nanecdote, a picture of the evils now being slowly rooted out. Count\nA----, a young vice-governor, fresh from college, came to live in a\ncertain town of the Black Soil country. Fond of dogs and horses, fond\nof wines and dinners, the young gentleman found his official income\nfar below his wants. He took \"his own\" (what Russian officials used to\ncall vzietka) from every side; for he loved to keep his house open,\nhis stable full, his card-room merry; and a nice house, a good stable,\nand a merry card-room, cost a good many rubles in the year. He was\nlucky with his cards--luckier, some losers said, than a perfectly\nhonest player should be; yet the two ends of his income and his outgo\nnever could be made to meet.\n\nThe treasurer of the town was Andrew Ivanovitch Gorr, a man of peasant\nbirth, who had been sent to college, and, after taking a good degree,\nhad been put into the civil service, where, by his soft ways, his\npatient deference to those above him, and his perfect loyalty to his\ntrust, he had risen to the post of treasurer in this provincial town.\n\nCount A---- called Andrew into his chamber, and bade him, with a\ncareless gesture, pay a small debt for him. Andrew bowed, and waited\nfor the rubles. A---- just waived him off; but seeing that he would\nnot take the hint, the count said, \"Yes, yes, pay the debt; we will\narrange it in the afternoon.\" Then Andrew paid the money, and in less\nthan a week he was asked to pay again. From week to week he went on\npaying, with due submission to his chief, but with an inward doubt as\nto whether this paying would come out well. Twice or thrice the count\nwas good enough to speak of his affairs, and even to name a day when\nthe money which he was taking from the public coffers should be\nreplaced. In the mean time the debt was every week increasing in\namount; so that the provincial chest was all but drained to pay the\nvice-governor's personal debts.\n\nAndrew was in despair, for the day was fast coming round when the\nImperial auditors would come to revise his books and count the money\nin his box. Unless the fund was restored before they came he would be\nlost; for the balance was in his charge, and the count could hardly\ncover his default. On Andrew telling his wife what he had been drawn,\nby his habit of obeying orders, into doing, he was urged by that sage\nadviser to go at once to the governor and beg him to replace the cash\nbefore the auditors arrived.\n\n\"The auditors will come next week?\" asked A----. \"All will be well. I\nwill send a messenger to my estates. In five days he will come back,\nand the money shall be paid. Prepare a draft of the account, and bring\nit to my house, with the proper receipt and seal.\"\n\nOn the fifth day the auditors arrived, a little before their time; and\nbeing eager to push on, they named the next morning, at ten o'clock,\nfor going into the accounts. The treasurer ran to the palace, and saw\nthe count in his public room, surrounded by his secretaries. \"It is\nwell,\" he said to Andrew, with his pleasant smile; \"the messenger has\ncome back with the money; bring the paper and the receipt to my\nsmoking-room at ten o'clock to-night, and we'll put the account to\nrights.\"\n\nAndrew was at his door by ten o'clock with the statement of his debts,\nand a receipt for the money. \"Yes,\" said the count, dropping his eye\ndown the line of figures, \"the account is just--fifteen thousand seven\nhundred rubles. Let me look at the receipt. Yes, that is well drawn.\nYou deserve to be promoted, Andrew! Talents like yours are lost in a\nprovincial town. You ought to be a minister of state! Oblige me by\nasking my man to come in.\"\n\nA servant entered.\n\n\"Go up to the madame, and ask her if she can come down stairs for a\nmoment,\" said the count. The servant slipped away, and the count,\nwhile waiting for his return, made many jokes and pleasantries, so\nthat the time ran swiftly past. He kept the papers in his hand.\n\nWhen Andrew saw that it was near eleven o'clock, he ventured to ask if\nthe man was not long in coming. \"Long,\" exclaimed the vice-governor,\nstarting up, \"an age. Where can the fellow be? He must have fallen\nasleep on the stairs.\"\n\nGoing out of the room in search of him, the count closed the door\nbehind him, saying, \"Wait a few minutes; I will go myself.\" Andrew sat\nstill as a stone. He noticed that the count had taken with him the\nschedule of debts and the signed receipt. He felt uneasy in his mind.\nHe stared about the room, and counted the beatings of the clock. His\nhead grew hot; his heart was beating with a throb that could be heard.\nNo other sound broke the night; and when he opened the door and put\nhis ear to the passage, the silence seemed to him like that of a\ncrypt.\n\nThe clock struck twelve.\n\nLeaping up from his stupor, he banged the door and shouted up the\nstairs, but no one answered him; and snatching a fearful daring from\nhis misery, he ran along several corridors until he tripped and fell\nover a man in a great fur cloak. \"Get up, and show me to the\nvice-governor's room,\" said Andrew fiercely, on which the domestic\nshook his cloak and rubbed his eyes. \"The vice-governor's room?\" \"Yes,\nfellow; come, be quick.\" The man led him back to the room he had left;\nwhich was, in fact, the private reception-room. \"Stay here, and I will\nseek him.\" Shortly the man returned with news that his master was in\nbed. \"In bed!\" cried Andrew, more and more excited; \"go to him again,\nand ask him if he has forgotten me. Tell him I am waiting his return.\"\nA minute later he came back to say the count was fast asleep, and that\nhis valet dared not wake him for the world. \"Asleep!\" groaned the poor\ntreasurer; \"you must awake him. I can not leave without seeing him. It\nis the Emperor's service, and will not wait.\"\n\nAt the Emperor's name the servant said he would try again. An hour of\nmisery went by before he came to say the count was in bed, and would\nnot see him. If he had business to transact, he must come another day,\nand at the reception hour.\n\nIn a moment Andrew was at the count's door and in his room, to which\nthe noise brought up a dozen people. \"What is this tumult all about?\"\nfrowned the count, rising sharply in his bed. \"Tumult!\" said Andrew,\nwaxing hot with terror; \"I want the rubles.\" \"Rubles!\" said the count,\nwith feigned astonishment; \"what rubles do you mean?\" \"The rubles we\nhave taken from the provincial coffer.\" \"That we have taken from the\ncoffer! We? What we? What rubles? Go to bed, man, and forget your\ndreams.\"\n\n\"Then give me back my paper and receipt.\"\n\n\"Paper and receipt!\" said the count, with affected pity; \"look to him\nwell. See him safe home; and tell his wife to look that he does not\nwander in his sleep. He might fall into the river in such fits. Look\nto him;\" and the vice-governor fell back upon his pillow as the\nservant bowed.\n\nPut to the door, and left to seek his way, the treasurer felt that he\nwas lost. The count, he saw, would swear and forswear. Even if he\nconfessed his fault to the auditors, telling them how he had been\npersuaded against his duty, the count could produce his receipt in\nproof that the funds had been repaid.\n\nGoing back to his office, he sat down on a stool, and after looking at\nhis books and papers once again, to see that the whole night's work\nwas not a dream, as the count had said, he took up his pen and wrote a\nhistory of his affairs.\n\nRestless in her bed, his wife got up to seek him; and knowing that he\nwas busy with his accounts, and would be likely to stay late with his\nchief, she went into his office, where the light was burning dimly on\nthe desk--to find him hanging from a beam. Piercing the air with her\ncries, she brought in a crowd of people, some of whom cut down the\nbody, while others ran for the doctor. He was dead.\n\nLike an Oriental, he killed himself in order that, in his death, he\nmight punish the man whom he could not touch in life.\n\nThe paper which he left on his desk was open, and as many persons saw\nit in part, and still more knew of its existence, the matter could not\nbe hushed up, even though the vice-governor had been twenty times a\ncount. The people cried for justice on the culprit; and by orders from\nSt. Petersburg the count was relieved of his office, arrested on the\ncharge of abusing a public trust, and placed on his defense before a\nsecret commission in the town over which he had lately reigned.\n\nThe Emperor, it is said, was anxious to send him to the mines, from\nwhich so many nobler men had recently come away; but the interest of\nhis family was great at court; the secret commission was a friendly\none; and he escaped with the sentence of perpetual dismissal from the\npublic service--not a light sentence to a man who is at once a beggar\nand a count.\n\nAlexander, feeling for the widow of his dead servant, ordered the\npension which would have been due to her husband to be paid to her for\nlife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\nOPEN COURTS.\n\n\nOffenses like those of A---- (some twelve years old), in which a great\noffense was proved, yet justice was defeated more than half, in spite\nof the imperial wishes, led the council of state into considering how\nfar it would be well to replace the secret commissions by regular\ncourts of law.\n\nThe public benefits of such a change were obvious. Justice would be\ndone, with little or no respect to persons; and the Emperor would be\nrelieved from his direct and personal action in the punishment of\ncrime. But what the public gained the circles round the prince were\nnot unlikely to lose; and these court circles raised a cry against\nthis project of reform. \"The obstacles,\" they said, \"were vast. Except\nin Moscow and St. Petersburg, no lawyers could be found; the code was\ncumbrous and imperfect; and the public was unprepared for such a\nchange. If it was difficult to find judges, it was impossible to find\njurors.\" Listening to every one, and weighing facts, the Emperor held\nhis own. He got reports drawn up; he won his opponents over one by\none; and in 1865 the council of state was ready with a volume of legal\nreform, as vast and noble as his plan for emancipating serfs.\n\nCourts of justice were to be open in every province, and all these\ncourts of justice were to be public courts. Trained judges were to\npreside. The system of written evidence was abolished. A prisoner was\nto be charged in a formal act; he was to see the witnesses face to\nface; he was to have the right, in person or by his counsel, of\nquestioning those witnesses on points of fact. A jury was to decide\nthe question of guilt or innocence. The judges were to be paid by the\ncrown, and were on no pretext whatever to receive a fee. A juror was\nto be a man of means--a trader, a well-off peasant, an officer of not\nless than five hundred rubles a year. A majority of jurors was to\ndecide.\n\nThe Imperial code was brought into harmony with these new methods of\nprocedure. Capital punishment was abolished for civil crimes; Siberia\nwas exchanged for the club and the axe; Archangel and the Caucasus\nwere substituted for the mines. The Tartar punishments of beating,\nflogging, running the ranks, were stopped at once, and every branch of\ncriminal treatment was brought up--in theory, at least--to the level\nof England and the United States.\n\nTerm by term this new system of trial by judge and jury, instead of by\nsecret commissions, is now being introduced into all the larger towns.\nI have watched the working of this new system in several provinces;\nbut give an account, by preference, of a trial in a new court, in a\nnew district, under circumstances which put the virtues of a jury to\nsome local strain.\n\nDining one evening with a friend in Rostof, on the Lower Don, I find\nmyself seated next to President Gravy, to whom I am introduced by our\ncommon host as an English barrister and justice of the peace. The\nAssize is sitting, and as a curious case of child-exposure is coming\non next day, about the facts of which provincial feeling is much\nexcited, President Gravy offers me a seat in his court.\n\nThis court is a new court, opened in the present year; a movable\ncourt, consisting of a president and two assistant judges; sitting in\nturn at Taganrog, Berdiansk, and Rostof, towns between which there is\na good deal of rivalry in business, often degenerating into local\nstrife. The female accused of exposing her infant comes from a Tartar\nvillage near Taganrog; and as no good thing was ever known to come\nfrom the district of Taganrog, the voice of Rostof has condemned this\nfemale, still untried, to a felon's doom.\n\nNext morning we are in court by ten o'clock--a span-new chamber, on\nwhich the paint is not yet dry, with a portrait of the Imperial\nlaw-reformer hung above the judgment-seat. A long hall is parted into\nthree portions by a dais and two silken cords. The judges, with the\nclerk and public prosecutor, sit on the dais, at a table; and the\ncitizens of Rostof occupy the benches on either wing. In front of the\ndais sit the jurors, the short-hand writer (a young lady), the\nadvocates, and witnesses; and near these latter stands the accused\nwoman, attended by a civil officer of the court. Nothing in the room\nsuggests the idea of feudal state and barbaric power. President Gravy\nwears no wig, no robe--nothing but a golden chain and the pattern\ncivilian's coat. No halberts follow him, no mace and crown are borne\nbefore him. He enters by the common door. A priest in his robes of\noffice stands beside a book and cross; he is the only man in costume,\nas the advocates wear neither wig nor gown. No soldier is seen; and no\npoliceman except the officer in charge of the accused. There is no\ndock; the prisoner stands or sits as she is placed, her back against\nthe wall. If violence is feared, the judges order in a couple of\nsoldiers, who stand on either side the prisoner holding their naked\nswords; but this precaution is seldom used. An open gallery is filled\nwith persons who come and go all day, without disturbing the court\nbelow.\n\nPresident Gravy, the senior judge, is a man of forty-five. The son of\na captain of gendarmerie in Odessa, he took by choice to the\nprofession of advocate, and after three years' practice in the courts\nof St. Petersburg, he was sent to the new Azof circuit. His assistant\njudges are younger men.\n\nPresident Gravy opens his court; the priest asks a blessing; the\njurors are selected from a panel; the prisoner is told to stand forth;\nand the indictment is read by the clerk. A keen desire to see the\nculprit and to hear the details of her crime has filled the benches\nwith a better class than commonly attends the court, and many of the\nRostof ladies flutter in the gayest of morning robes. The case is one\nto excite the female heart.\n\nAnna Kovalenka, eighteen years of age, and living, when at home, in a\nvillage on the Sea of Azof, is tall, elastic, dark, with ruddy\ncomplexion, and braided hair bound up in a crimson scarf. Some Tartar\nblood is in her veins, and the young woman is the ideal portrait of a\nBokhara bandit's wife. A motherly old creature stands by her side--an\naunt, her mother being long since dead. Her father is a peasant, badly\noff, with five girls; this Anna eldest of the five.\n\nHer case is, that she had a lover, that she bore a child, that she\nconcealed the birth, and that her infant died. In her defense, it is\nalleged, according to the manners of her country, that her lover was a\nman of her own village, not a stranger; one of those governing points\nwhich, on the Sea of Azof, make a young woman's amours right or wrong.\nSo far, it is assumed, no fault is fairly to be charged. Her child was\nborn and died; the facts are not disputed; but the defendants urge, in\nexplanation, that she was very young in years; that her couching was\nvery hard; that milk-fever set in, with loss of blood and wandering of\nthe brain; that the young mother was helpless, that the infant was\nneglected unconsciously, and that it died.\n\nVery few persons in the court appear inclined to take this view; but\nthose who take it feel that the lover of this girl is far more guilty\nthan the girl herself; and they ask each other why the seducer is not\nstanding at her side to answer for his life. His name is known; he is\neven supposed to be in court. Gospodin Lebedeff, the public\nprosecutor, has done his best to include him in the criminal charge;\nbut he is foiled by the woman's love and wit. By the Imperial code,\nthe fellow can not be touched unless she names him as the father of\nher child; and all Lebedeff's appeals and menaces are thrown away upon\nher, this heroine of a Tartar village baffling the veteran lawyer's\narts with a steadiness worthy of a better cause and a nobler man.\n\nThe first witness called is a peasant woman from the village in which\nAnna Kovalenka lives. She is not sworn in the English way, the court\nhaving been put, as it were, under sacred obligations by the priest;\nbut the bench instructs her as to the nature of evidence, and enjoins\nher to speak no word that is not true. She says, in few and simple\nwords, she found the dead body; she carried it into Anna's cabin; the\nyoung woman admitted that the child was hers; and, on further\nquestions, that she had concealed the birth. She gives her evidence\nquietly in a breathless court, her neighbor standing near her all the\nwhile, and the judge assisting her by questions now and then. The\naudience sighs when she stands down; her evidence being full enough to\nsend the prisoner to Siberia for her natural life.\n\nThe second witness is a doctor--bland, and fat, and scientific--the\nwitness on whose evidence the defense will lie. A quickened curiosity\nis felt as the fat and fatherly man, with big blue spectacles and\nkindly aspect, rises, bows to the bench, and enters into a long and\ndelicate report on the maladies under which females suffer in and\nafter the throes of labor, when the regular functions of mind and body\nhave been deranged by a sudden call upon the powers reserved by nature\nfor the sustenance of infant life. A buzz of talk on the ladies' bench\nis speedily put down by a tinkle of President Gravy's bell. The judges\nput minute and searching questions to this witness; but they make no\nnotes of what he says in answer; the general purpose of which is to\nshow that the first medical evidence picked up by the police was\ndefective; that a woman in the situation of Anna, poor, neglected,\ninexperienced, might conceal her child without intending to do it\nharm, and might cause it to die of cold without being morally guilty\nof its death. Two or three questions are put to him by Lebedeff, and\nthen the kindly, fat old gentleman wipes his spectacles and drops\nbehind.\n\nLebedeff deals in a lenient spirit with the case. The facts, he says\n(in effect), are strong, and tell their own tale. This woman bears a\nchild; she conceals the birth; this concealment is a crime. She puts\nher child away in a secret place; her child is found dead--dead of\nhunger and neglect. Who can doubt that she exposed and killed this\nchild in order to rid herself at once of her burden and her shame?\n\"The crime of child-murder is so common in our villages,\" he\nconcludes, \"that it cries to heaven against us. Let all good men\ncombine to put it down, by a rigorous execution of the law.\"\n\nGospodin Tseborenko, a young advocate from Taganrog, sent over\nspecially to conduct the defense, replies by a brief examination of\nthe facts; contending that his client is a girl of good character, who\nhas never had a lover beyond her village, and is not likely to have\ncommitted a crime against nature. He suggests that her child may have\nbeen dead at the birth--that in her pain and loneliness, not knowing\nwhat she was about, and never dreaming about the Code, she concealed\nthe dead body from her father's eyes. Admitting that infant murder is\nthe besetting sin of villagers in the south of Russia, he contends\nthat the children put away are only such as the villagers consider\nthings of shame--that is to say, the offspring of their women by\nstrangers and men of rank.\n\nPresident Gravy rings his bell--the court is all alert--and, after a\nbrief presentment of the leading points to the jury, who on their side\nlisten with grave attention to every word, he puts three several\nqueries into writing:\n\nI. Whether in their opinion Anna Kovalenka exposed her child with a\nview to kill it?\n\nII. Whether, if she did not in their opinion expose it with a view to\nkill it, she willfully concealed the birth?\n\nIII. Whether, if she either knowingly exposed and killed her child, or\nwillfully concealed the birth, there were any circumstances in the\ncase which call for mitigation of the penalties provided by the penal\ncode?\n\nThe sheet of paper on which he writes these queries is signed by the\nthree judges, and handed over to the foreman, who takes it and retires\nwith his brethren of the jury to find as they shall see fit.\n\nWhile the trial has been proceeding, Anna Kovalenka has been looking\non with patient unconcern, neither bold nor timid, but with a look of\nresignation singular to watch. Only once she kindled into spirit; that\nwas when the peasant woman was describing how she found the body of\nher child. She smiled a little when her advocate was speaking--only a\nfaint and vanishing smile. Lebedeff seemed to strike her as something\nsacred; and she listened to his not unkindly speech as she might have\nlistened to a sermon by her village priest.\n\nIn twenty minutes the jury comes into court with their finding written\nby the foreman on the sheet of paper given to him by the judge.\nPresident Gravy rings his bell, and bids the foreman read his answer\nto the first query.\n\n\"No!\" says the foreman, in a grave, loud voice. The audience starts,\nfor this is the capital charge.\n\nTo the second query, \"No!\"\n\n\"That is enough,\" says the judge; and, turning to the woman, he tells\nher in a tender voice that she has been tried by her country and\nacquitted, that she is now a free woman, and may go and sit down among\nher friends and neighbors.\n\nNow for the first time she melts a little; shrinks behind the\npoliceman; snatches up the corner of her gown; and steadying herself\nin a moment, wipes her eyes, kisses her aunt, and creeps away by a\nprivate door.\n\nEvery body in this court has done his duty well, the jurors best of\nall; for these twelve men, who never saw an open court in their lives\nuntil the current year, have found a verdict of acquittal in\naccordance with the facts, but in the teeth of local prejudice, bent\non sending the woman from Taganrog to the mines for life.\n\nWhat schools for liberty and tolerance have been opened in these\ncourts of law!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\n\nISLAM.\n\n\nKazan is the point where Europe and Asia meet. The paper frontiers lie\na hundred miles farther east, along the crests of the Ural Mountains\nand the banks of the Ural River; but the actual line on which the\nTartar and the Russian stand face to face, on which mosque and church\nsalute the eye together, is that of the Lower Volga, flowing through\nthe Eastern Steppe, from Kazan to the Caspian Sea. This frontier line\nlies eastward of Bagdad.\n\nKazan, a colony of Bokhara, an outpost of Khiva, was not very long ago\nthe seat of a splendid khanate; and she is still regarded by the\nfierce and languid Asiatics as the western frontier of their race and\nfaith. In site and aspect this old city is extremely fine, especially\nwhen the floods run high, and the swamps beneath her walls become a\nglorious lake. A crest of hill--which poets have likened to a wave, a\nkeel, and a stallion's back--runs parallel to the stream. This crest\nis the Kremlin, the strong place, the seat of empire; scarped, and\nwalled, and armed; the battlements crowned with gateways, towers, and\ndomes. Beyond the crest of hill, inland from the Volga, runs a fine\nplateau, on which stand remnants of rich old courts and towers--a\nplateau somewhat bare, though brightened here and there by garden,\npromenade, and chalet. Under this ridge lies Kaban Lake, a long, dark\nsheet of water, on the banks of which are built the business quarters,\nin which the craftsmen labor and the merchants buy and sell--a\nwonderfully busy and thriving town. Each quarter has a character of\nits own. The Kremlin is Christian; the High Street Germanesque. A fine\nold Tartar gateway, called the Tower of Soyonbeka, stands in front of\nthe cathedral; but much of the citadel has been built since the\nkhanate fell before the troops of Ivan the Fourth. Down in the lower\ncity, by the Kaban Lake, dwell the children of Islam, the descendants\nof Batu Khan, the countrymen of the Golden horde.\n\nThe birth-place of these Tartar nations was the Eastern Steppe; their\nline of march was the Volga bank; and their affections turn still\nwarmly to their ancient seats. The names of Khiva and Bokhara sound to\na Tartar as the names of Shechem and Jerusalem sound to a Jew. In his\npoetry these countries are his ideal lands. He sings to his mistress\nof the groves of Bokhara; he compares her cheek to the apples of\nKhiva; and he tells her the fervor of his passion is like the summer\nheat of Balkh.\n\nAn Arab legend puts into the Prophet's mouth a saying, which is taken\nby his children as a promise, that in countries where the palm-trees\nbear fruit his followers should possess the land; but that in\ncountries where the palm-trees bear no fruit, though they might be\ndwellers for a time, the land would never be their own. The promise,\nif it were a promise, has been kept in the spirit for a thousand\nyears. No date-bearing country known to the Arabs defied their arms;\nfrom no date-bearing country, once overrun, have they been yet\ndislodged. When Islam pushed her outposts beyond the line of palms, as\nin Spain and Russia, she had to fall back, after her trial of strength\non the colder fields, into her natural zones. As she fell back from\nGranada on Tangiers and Fez, so she retired from Kazan on Khiva and\nBokhara--a most unwilling retreat, the grief of which she assuaged in\nsome degree by passionate hope of her return. The Moors, expecting to\nreconquer Seville and Granada, keep the keys of their ancient palaces,\nthe title-deeds of their ancient lands in Spain. The Kirghiz, also,\nclaim the lands and houses of their countrymen, and the Kirghiz khan\ndescribes himself as lineal heir to the reigning princes of Kazan. In\nthe East, as in the West, the children of Islam look on their present\nstate as a correction laid upon them by a father for their faults.\nSome day they trust to find fresh favor in his sight. The term of\ntheir captivity may be long; but it will surely pass away, and when\nthe Compassionate yields in his mercy, they will return in triumph to\ntheir ancient homes.\n\nIn the mean time, it is right to mark the different spirit in which\nthe vanquished sons of Islam have been treated in the West and in the\nEast. From Granada every Moor was driven by fire and sword; for many\ngenerations no Moor was suffered to come back into Spain, under pain\nof death. In Russia the Tartars were allowed to live in peace; and\nafter forty years they were allowed to trade in the city which had\nformerly been their own. No doubt there have been fierce and frequent\npersecutions of the weaker side in these countries; for the great\nconflict of cross and crescent has grown into a second nature, equally\nwith the Russian and Tartar, and the rivalries which once divided\nMoscow and Kazan still burn along the Kirghiz Steppe. The capitals may\nbe farther off, but the causes of enmity are not removed by space and\ntime. The cross is at St. Petersburg and Kief, the crescent at Bokhara\nand Khiva; but between these points there is a sympathy and an\nantipathy, like that which fights between the two magnetic poles. The\nTartars have captured Nijni and Moscow many times; the Russians will\nsome day plant their standards on the Tower of Timour Beg.\n\nA man who walks through the Tartar town in Kazan, admiring the painted\nhouses, the handsome figures, the Oriental garbs, the graceful\nminarets, can hardly help feeling that these children of Islam hold\ntheir own with a grace and dignity worthy of a prouder epoch. \"Given\nto theft and eating horse-flesh,\" is the verdict of a Russian officer;\n\"otherwise not so bad.\" \"Your servants seem to be Tartar?\" \"Yes, the\nrascals make good servants; for, look you, they never drink, and when\nthey are trusted they never steal.\" In all the great houses of St.\nPetersburg and Moscow, and in the large hotels everywhere, we have\nTartar servants, chosen on account of their sobriety and honesty. The\nBegs and Mirzas fled from the country when their city was stormed, and\nonly the craftsmen and shepherds remained behind; yet a new\naristocracy of trade and learning has sprung up; and the titles of\nmirza and mollah are now enjoyed by men whose grandfathers held the\nplough. These Tartars of Kazan are better schooled than their Russian\nneighbors; most of them can read, write, and cipher; and their youths\nare in high demand as merchants, salesmen, and bankers' clerks--offices\nof trust in which, with care and patience, they are sure to rise.\nMirza Yunasoff, Mirza Burnaief, and Mirza Apakof, three of the richest\ntraders in the province, are self-made men. No one denies them the\nrank of mirza (lord, or prince). Mirza Yunasoff has built, at his\nprivate charge, a mosque and school.\n\nIt is very hard for a Christian to get any sort of clue to the\nfeelings of these sober and industrious folk. That they value their\nreligion more than their lives is easy to find out; but whether they\nshare the dreams of their brethren in Khiva and Bokhara is not known.\nMeanwhile they work and pray, grow rich and strong. An innocent and\nuseful body in the empire, they are wisely left alone, so far as they\ncan be left alone.\n\nThey can not, however, be treated as of no importance in the state.\nThey are of vast importance; not as enemies only, but as enemies\ncamped on the soil, and drawing their supports from a foreign land.\nEven those among the Tartars who are least excited by events around\nthem, feel that they are out of their natural place. They hate the\ncross. They are Asiatics; with their faces and affections turning day\nand night, not towards Moscow and St. Petersburg, but towards Khiva,\nBokhara, and Samarcand. A foreign city is their holy place, a foreign\nruler their anointed chief. They get their mollahs from Bokhara, and\nthey wait for conquerors from the Kirghiz Steppes. They have not\nlearned to be Russians, and they will not learn; so that, whether the\nGovernment wishes it or not, the conflict of race and creed will rage\nthrough the coming years, even as it has raged through the past.\n\nReforming the country on every side, the Emperor is not neglecting\nthis Eastern point; and in the spirit of all his more recent changes,\nhe is taking up a new position as regards the Tartar race and creed.\nNature and policy combine to prevent him trying to convert the\nMussulmans by force; but nothing prevents him from trying to draw them\nover by the moral agencies of education and humanity. Feeling that,\nwhere the magistrate would fail, the teacher may succeed, the Emperor\nis opening schools in his Eastern provinces, under the care of\nProfessor Ilminski, a learned Russian, holding the chair of Tartar\nlanguages and literature in the university of Kazan. These schools\nalready number twenty four, of which the one near Kazan is the chief\nand model.\n\nProfessor Ilminski drives me over to these Tartar schools. We visit a\nschool for boys and a school for girls; for the sexes are kept apart,\nin deference to Oriental notions about the female sex. The rooms are\nclean and well kept; the children neat in dress, and orderly in\nmanner. They are taught by young priests especially trained for the\noffice, and learn to sing, as well as to read and cipher. Books are\nprinted for them in Russian type, and a Tartar press is working in\nconnection with the university. This printing of books, especially of\nthe Psalms and Gospels, in the Tartar tongue, is doing much good; for\nthe natives of Kazan are a pushing and inquisitive people, fond of\nreading and singing; and the poorest people are glad to have good\nbooks brought to their doors, in a speech that every one can hear and\njudge for himself. In the same spirit the Emperor has ordered mass to\nbe said in the Tartar tongue; a wise and thoughtful step; a hint, it\nmay be, to the mollahs, who have not come to see, and never may come\nto see, that any other idioms than Arabic and Persian should be used\nin their mosques. If these clever traders and craftsmen of Kazan are\never to be converted from Islam to Christianity, they must be drawn\nover in these gentle ways, and not by the jailer's whip and the\nKozak's brand.\n\nThe children sing a psalm, their bright eyes gleaming at the sound.\nThey sing in time and tune; but in a fierce, marauding style, as\nthough the anthem were a bandit's stave.\n\nNot much fruit has yet been gathered from this field. \"Have you any\nconverts from the better classes?\" \"No; not yet,\" the professor sighs;\n\"the citizens of Kazan are hard to win; but we get some little folk\nfrom villages on the steppe, and train them up in the fear of God.\nOnce they are with us, they can never turn back.\"\n\nSuch is the present spirit of the law. A Moslem may become a\nChristian; a Christian may not become a Moslem; and a convert who has\ntaken upon himself the cross can never legally lay it down. It is an\nEastern, not a Western rule; and while it remains in force, the cross\nwill be denied the use of her noblest arms. Not until conscience is\nleft to work in its own way, as God shall guide it, free from all fear\nof what the police may rule, will the final victory lie with the faith\nof Christ.\n\nShi Abu Din, chief mollah of Kazan, receives me in Asiatic fashion;\nintroduces me to two brother mollahs, licensed to travel as merchants;\nand leads me over the native colleges and schools. This mollah, born\nin a village near Kazan, was sent to the university of Bokhara, in\nwhich city he was trained for his labors among the Moslems living on\nRussian soil, just as our Puritan clergy used to seek their education\nin Holland, our Catholic clergy in Spain. Shi Abu Din is considered,\neven by the Professor of Tartar languages, as a learned and upright\nman. His swarthy brethren have just arrived from Bokhara, by way of\nthe Kirghiz Steppe. They tell me the roads are dangerous, and the\ncountries lying east of the Caspian Sea disturbed. Still the roads,\nthough closed to the Russians, are open to caravan merchants, if they\nknow the dialects and ways of men. No doubt they are open to mollahs\ntravelling with caravans through friendly tribes.\n\nThe Tartars of Kazan are, of course, polygamists; so that their social\nlife is as much unlike the Russian as their religious life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII.\n\nTHE VOLGA.\n\n\nFrom Kazan to the Caspian Sea, the Volga flows between Islam and\nChristendom. One small town, Samara, has been planted on the eastern\nbank--a landing-place for Orenburg and the Kirghiz Steppe. All other\ntowns--Simbirsk, Volsk, Saratof, Tsaritzin--rise on the western bank,\nand look across the river towards the Ural Ridge. Samara is a Kirghiz,\nrather than a Russian town, and but for the military posts, and the\ntraffic brought along the military roads, the place would be wholly in\nMoslem hands. Samara has a name in the East as a place for\ninvalids--the cure being wrought by means of fermented mare's milk,\nthe diet and medicine of rovers on the Tartar Steppe.\n\nA Christian settlement of the Volga line from Kazan to the Caspian Sea\nmust be a work of time. Three hundred and seventeen years have passed\nsince Ivan the Terrible stormed Kazan; three hundred and twelve years\nsince his armies captured Astrakhan and opened a passage through\nRussia to the Caspian Sea; yet the Volga is a frontier river to this\nvery hour; and it is not too much to say that the noblest watercourse\nin Europe is less familiar to English merchants in Victoria's time\nthan it was in Elizabeth's time.\n\nThe first boats which sailed the Volga, from her upper waters to her\nmouth, were laden with English goods. So soon as Challoner found a way\nup the Dvina, a body of merchants formed themselves into a society for\ndiscovering unknown lands, and this body of London merchants was the\nmeans of opening up Eastern Russia to the world.\n\nThe man who first struck the Volga was Anthony Jenkinson, agent of\nthese discoverers, who brought out a cargo of cottons and kerseys,\nready dyed and dressed, of lead and tin for roofing churches; and a\nvast assortment of pewter pots; all of which his masters in London\nexpected him to exchange for the gums and silks, the gold and pearls,\nof mythical Cathay. Coming from the Frozen Sea, he noticed with a\ntrader's eye that the land through which he passed was rich in hides,\nin fish, in salt, in train-oil, in furs, in pitch, and timber; while\nit was poor in many other things besides cotton shirts and pewter\npots. Sailing up the Dvina to Vologda, he noted that town as a place\nfor future trade; crossed the water-shed of Central Russia to Jaroslav\nand Moscow; dropped down the river Oka; and fell into the Volga at\nNijni, the only town in which trade was being done, until he reached\nthe Caspian Sea. The Volga banks were overrun by Tartar hordes, who\ntook their spoil from every farm, and only spared the towns from fear.\nIn ten weeks his rafts reached Astrakhan, where he saw, to his great\nsurprise and joy, the riches of Persia and Bokhara lying about in the\nbazars in heaps; the alum, galls, and spices; the gems and filigrees,\nthe shawls and bands, which he knew would fetch more in the London\nmarkets than their weight in gold. By hugging the northern shores of\nthe Caspian Sea, he made the port of Mangishlak, in the Khanate of\nKhiva, early in autumn; and hiring from the natives a thousand camels,\nhe loaded these patient beasts with his pots and pans, his sheetings\nand shirtings, and marched by the caravan road over the Tamdi Kuduk to\nKhiva, and thence across the range of Shiekh Djeli, and along the\nskirts of the great desert of Kizil Kum to Bokhara, near the gates of\nwhich he encamped on the day before Christmas-eve. There, to his\ngrief, he learned that the caravan road farther east was stopped, in\nconsequence of a war between tribes in the hill country of Turkestan;\nand after resting in the city of Bokhara for some weeks, he gave up\nhis project, and, turning his face to the westward, returned to Moscow\nand London by the roads which he had found.\n\nThree years later he was again in Moscow, chaffering with raftsmen for\na voyage to the Caspian Sea. Queen Bess was now on the throne, and\nJenkinson bore a letter from his sovereign to the Tsar, suggesting the\nbenefits of trade and intercourse between his people and the society;\nand asking for his kingly help in opening up his towns and ports.\n\nIvan the Terrible was quick to perceive how much his power might be\nincreased by the arts and arms which these strangers could bring him\nin their ships. Like Peter the Great in his genius for war, Ivan was\nonly too well aware that, in comparison with the Swedes and Poles, his\npeople were savages; and that his troops, though brave as wolves and\nhardy as bears, were still no match for such armies as the Baltic\npowers could send into the field. The glory of his early triumphs in\nthe East and South had been dimmed by defeats inflicted upon him by\nhis civilized enemies, the Poles; and the conquests of Kazan, Siberia,\nand Astrakhan, were all but forgotten in the reverses of his later\nyears. He wanted ships, he wanted guns; the best of which, he had\nheard, could be bought for money in Elizabeth's ports, and brought to\nthe Dvina in English ships. He was too great a savage to read the\nqueen's letter in the way she wished; he cared no whit for maps, and\ncould not bend his mind to the sale of hemp and pewter pots; but he\nsaw in the queen's letter, which was addressed to him as Tsar, a\nrecognition of the rank he had assumed, and the offer of a connection\nwhich he hoped to turn into a political alliance of the two powers.\n\nWhile Ivan was weaving his net of policy, the English rafts were\ndropping down the Volga, towards Astrakhan, through hordes of Tartar\nhorse. From Astrakhan they coasted the Caspian towards the south,\nlanded at the port of Shabran, and, passing over the Georgian Alps,\nrode on camels through Shemaka and Ardabil, to Kasbin, then a\nresidence of the Persian Shah. To him the queen had also sent a letter\nof friendship, and Jenkinson proposed to draw the great lines of\nPersian traffic by the Caspian and the Volga, to Archangel; connecting\nLondon and Kasbin by a near, a cheap, and an easy road; passing\nthrough the countries of a single prince, a natural ally of the Shah\nand of the Queen, instead of through the territories and waters of the\nTurk--the Venetian, the Almaigne, and the Dutch. The scheme was bold\nand new; of vast importance to the Russ, who had then no second outlet\nto the sea. But the Shah had just made peace with his enemy the\nSultan, which compelled him to restore the ancient course of trade\nbetween the East and West.\n\nFour years later, William Johnson, also an agent of the society, was\nsent from Archangel to Kasbin, with orders to make a good map of the\nRiver Volga and the Caspian Sea, and to build an English factory at\nAstrakhan for the Persian and Chinese trade. The Dvina was also\nstudied and laid down, and the countries dividing her upper waters\nfrom the Volga were explored. A track had been worn by the natives\nfrom Vologda, one of the antique towns of Moscovy, famous for bells\nand candles, to Jaroslav, on the Volga; and along this track it was\npossible to transport the bales and boxes of English goods. This line\nwas now laid down for the Persian and Oriental trade to follow, and\nfactories were built in convenient spots along the route; the\nheadquarters being fixed at Archangel and Astrakhan.\n\nThe Tsar sent home by Jenkinson not only a public letter to the queen,\nin which he asked her to send him cannon and ships, with men who could\nsail them; but a secret and verbal message, in which he proposed to\nmake such a treaty of peace and alliance with her as that they should\nhave the same friends and the same foes; and that if either of the two\nrulers should have need to quit his states, he might retire with\nsafety and honor into those of the other. To the first he received no\nanswer, and when Jenkinson returned to Russia on his trade affairs,\nthe Tsar, who thought he had not delivered his message word for word,\nreceived him coldly, and ill-used the merchants in his empire; on\nwhich Thomas Randolph, a wily and able minister, was sent from London\nto pacify the tyrant, and protect our countrymen from his rage. But\nRandolph was treated worse than all; for on his arrival at Moscow, he\nwas not only refused an audience, but placed in such custody that\nevery one saw he was a prisoner. The letters sent to him by the queen\nwere kept back, and those which he wrote to her were opened and\nreturned. After eight months were passed in these insults, he was\ncalled to Vologda, received by the Tsar, and commanded to quit the\nRussian soil. So much insolence was used, that he was told by one of\nthe boyars if he were not quick in going they would pitch his baggage\nout-of-doors.\n\nYet Randolph, patient and experienced, kept his temper, and when he\nleft the Tsar he had a commercial charter in his trunk, and a special\nagent of Ivan in his train. This agent, Andrew Gregorivitch, bore a\nletter to the queen (in Russ), in which he prayed her to sign a treaty\nof war and peace against all the world; and to grant him an asylum in\nher realm in case he should be driven from his own. Andrew found that\nthe queen could make no treaty of the kind, though she was ready to\npromise his master an asylum in her states, where he might practise\nhis own religion, and live at his own expense. He then gave ear to an\nimpostor named Eli Bomel, a native of Wesel, whom he found in an\nEnglish jail. This wretch, who professed to work by magic and the\nstars, proposed to go with Andrew to Russia and serve the Tsar. The\nagent asked for a pardon, and took him out to Moscow, where he soon\nbecame master in the tyrant's house. For Bomel made the Tsar believe\nthat the queen, whom he described as a young and lovely virgin, was in\nlove with him, and could be brought by sorcery to accept an offer of\nhis hand and throne. The Tsar, who was past his prime, and feeble in\nhealth and power, never tired of doing honor to the man who promised\nhim an alliance which would raise him above the proudest emperors and\nkings.\n\nHorsey, following Randolph to Russia, saw the end of this wizard. When\nthe Tsar found out that Bomel was deceiving him with lies, and that\nthe queen would not write to him except on questions of trade, he sent\nfor his favorite, laid him on the rack, drew his legs out of their\nsockets, flayed him with wire whips, roasted him before a fire, drew\nhim on a sledge through the snow, and pitched him into a dungeon,\nwhere he was left to die.\n\nTraders poured into Russia, through the line now opened from the Dvina\nto the Volga, stores of dyed cotton, copper pots and pans, sheets of\nlead rolled up for use, and articles in tin and iron of sundry sorts.\nThomas Bannister and Geoffrey Ducket reached Jaroslav early in July,\nand, loading a fleet of rafts, dropped down the Volga to Astrakhan,\nwhere they staid six weeks in daily peril of their lives. The Turks,\nnow friends with the Persians, were trying to recover that city, with\nthe low countries of the Volga, from the Christian Russ; and the\ntraders could not put to sea until the Moslem forces were drawn off.\nThey put into Shabran, where they left their ship and crossed the\nmountains on camels to Shemaka, where they staid for the winter. Not\nbefore April could they venture to take the road. They pushed on to\nArdabil, where they began to trade, while Bannister went on to Kasbin\nand procured a charter of commerce from the Shah. Only one objection\nwas raised at Kasbin; Bannister wished to send horses through the\nShah's dominions into India; but an article which he had inserted in\nhis paper to this effect was left out by the Persian scribes. The\nsuccessful trader sickened near Shemaka and died; leaving the command\nof his adventure to Ducket, who gathered up the goods for which they\nhad exchanged their cloth and hardware, crossed the mountains to\nShabran, and put to sea. Storm met them in the teeth; they rolled and\ntumbled through the waves; and after buffeting the winds for twenty\ndays, they anchored in shallow water, where they were suddenly\nattacked by a horde of Moslem rievers, and after a gallant fight were\novercome by superior strength. The Tartars pulled them from their\nship, of which they made a prize, and, putting them into their own\ncutter, let them drift to sea. The cargo lost was worth no less than\nforty thousand pounds--a quarter of a million in our present coin.\n\nAt Astrakhan, which they reached in safety, they made some efforts to\nrecover from the brigands part of what they had lost, and by the\ngeneral's help some trifles were recovered from the wreck; but this\nsalvage was lost once more in ascending the Volga, on which their boat\nwas crushed by a ridge of ice. Every thing on board went down, and the\ngrim old tyrant, Ivan the Terrible, sore about his failing suit for\nElizabeth's hand, would render them no help.\n\nTen years elapsed before the traders sent another caravan across the\nGeorgian Alps, but the road from Archangel to Astrakhan was never\nclosed again; and for many years to come the English public heard far\nmore about the Eastern Steppe than they hear in the present day.\n\nThis Eastern Steppe is overrun to-day, as it was overrun in the time\nof Ducket, by a tameless rabble of Asiatic tribes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII.\n\nEASTERN STEPPE.\n\n\nThe main attempt to colonize any portion of the Eastern Steppe with\nChristians was the planting of a line of Kozak camps in the countries\nlying between the Volga and the Don--a region in which the soil is\nless parched, the sand less deep, the herbage less scanty, than\nelsewhere in these sterile plains. But even in this favored region the\nfight for life is so hard and constant, that these Kozak colonists\nhail with joy the bugles that call them to arm and mount for a distant\nraid.\n\nA wide and windy plain, sooty in color, level to the sight, with thin\nbrown moss, and withered weeds; a herd of half-wild horses here and\nthere; a Kalmuk rider dashing through a cloud of dust; a stray camel;\na wagon drawn by oxen, ploughing heavily in the mud and marl; a\nhollow, dark and amber, in which lies a gypsy village; caravans of\ncarts carrying hay and melons; a flock of sheep, watched by a Kozak\nlad attired in a fur cap, a skin capote, and enormous boots; a\nwindmill on a lonely ridge; a mighty arch of sky overhead, shot with\nlong lines of green and crimson light--such is an evening picture of\nthe Eastern Steppe.\n\nTime out of mind two hostile forces have been flowing from the deserts\nof Central Asia through this Eastern Steppe towards the fertile\ndistricts watered by the Don. These forces are the Turkish and\nMongolian tribes. A cloud hangs over the earlier movements of these\ntribes; but when the invaders come under European ken, they are seen\nto be divided by differences of type and creed. The Turkish races rank\namong the handsomest on earth, the Mongolian races rank among the\nugliest on earth. The Turkish tribes are children of Mohammed, the\nMongolian tribes are children of Buddha. The first are a settled\npeople, living in towns, and tilling the soil; the second a nomadic\npeople, dwelling in tents, and roving from plain to plain with their\nflocks and herds.\n\nThe Moslem hordes which crossed the Ural River settled on the steppe,\nbuilt cities on the Volga and the Donets, pushed their conquests up to\nthe gates of Kief. The Buddhistic hordes which fought under Batu Khan\ndestroyed this earlier work; but when they settled on the steppe, and\nmarried Moslem women, many of these heirs of Batu Khan embraced the\nreligion of their wives, and helped the True Believers to erect such\ncities in their rear as Khiva, Bokhara, Samarcand, and Balkh, which\nafterwards became the strongholds of their faith. Yet most of the\nMongol princes held by their ancient creed, and all the new-comers\nfrom their country added to their strength on this Eastern Steppe.\nThese Turks and Mongols, enemies in Asia, kept up their feuds in\nEurope; and the early Moslem settlers in these plains were sorely\npressed by their Buddhistic rulers, until the arrival of Timour Beg\nrestored the Crescent to its old supremacy on the Eastern Steppe.\n\nThis feud between Buddha and Mohammed led in these countries to the\nfinal triumphs of the Cross.\n\nThe plains on which they fought for twenty generations are even now\ntented and cropped by Asiatic tribes--Kalmuks, Kirghiz, Nogays,\nGypsies. The Kalmuks are Buddhists, the Kirghiz and Nogays are Moslem,\nthe Gypsies are simply Gypsies.\n\nThe Kalmuks, a pastoral and warlike people, never yet confined in\nhouses, are the true proprietors of the steppe. But they have given it\nup, at least in part; for in the reign of Empress Catharine, five\nhundred thousand wanderers crossed the Ural River, never to come back.\nThe Kirghiz, Turkomans, and Nogays came in and occupied their lands.\n\nThe Kalmuks who remain in the country live in corrals (temporary\ncamps), formed by raising a number of lodges near each other, round\nthe tent of their high-priest. A Kalmuk lodge is a frame of poles set\nup in the form of a ring, tented at the top, and hung with coarse\nbrown cloth. Inside, the ground is covered with skins and furs, on\nwhich the inmates lounge and sleep. Ten, twenty, fifty persons of all\nages live under a common roof. A savage is not afraid of crowding;\nleast of all when he lies down at night. Crowds comfort him and keep\nhim warm. A flock of sheep, a string of camels, and a herd of horses,\nbrowse around the corral; for horses, sheep, and camels are the only\nwealth of tribes who plant no tree, who build no house, who sow no\nfield. Flat in feature, bronze in color, bony in frame, the Kalmuk is\none of the ugliest types of living men, though he is said to produce,\nby mixture with the more flexible and feminine Hindoo, the splendid\nface and figure of the Circassian chief.\n\nThe Kalmuk, as a Buddhist, keeping to his ancient Mongol traditions,\nand worshipping the Dalai-Lama, eats bull beef but slightly cooked,\nand drinks mare's milk in his favorite forms of kumis and spirit; the\nfirst being milk fermented only, the second milk fermented and\ndistilled. Like all his race, he will steal a cow, a camel, or a\nhorse, from either friend or foe, whenever he finds his chance. He\nowes no allegiance, he knows no law. Some formal acts of obedience are\nexpected from him; such as paying his taxes, and supplying his tale of\nmen for the ranks; but these payments and supplies are nominal only,\nsave in districts where the rover has settled down under Kozak rule.\n\nThese wild men come and go as they list, roving with their sheep and\ncamels from the wall of China to the countries watered by the Don.\nThey come in hordes, and go in armies. In the reign of Michael\nRomanoff fifty thousand Kalmuks poured along the Eastern Steppe; and\nthese unwelcome guests were afterwards strengthened by a second horde\nof ten thousand tents. These Kalmuks treated with Peter the Great as\nan independent power, and for several generations they paid no tribute\nto the crown except by furnishing cavalry in time of war. Another\nhorde of ten thousand tents arrived. Their prince, Ubasha, led an army\nof thirty thousand horsemen towards the Danube against the Turks, whom\nthey hated as only Asiatics hate hereditary foes. Yet, on the Empress\nCatharine trying to place the hordes under rule and law, the same\nUbasha led his tribes--five hundred thousand souls, with countless\nherds of cattle, camels, and horses--back from the Eastern Steppe\nacross the Ural River into Asia; stripping whole provinces of their\nwealth, producing famine in the towns, and robbing the empire of her\nmost powerful arm. Hurt in his pride by some light word from the\nimperial lips, the prince proposed to carry off all his people,\nleaving not a soul behind; but fifteen thousand tents were left,\nbecause the winter came down late, and the Volga ice was thin. The\nchildren of these laggers are the men you meet on the plains, surprise\nat their religious rites, and sup with in their homely tents. Steps\nhave been often taken to reclaim and fix these rovers, but with little\nor no effect. Some families have joined the Kozaks, come under law,\nand even embraced the cross; but the vast majority cling to their wild\nlife, their Asiatic dress, and their Buddhistic creed.\n\nThe upper classes are called White (literally, white bones), the lower\nclasses Black, just as in Asiatic fashion the Russian nobles are\ncalled White, while the peasants are called Black.\n\nThe Kirghiz are of Turkish origin, and speak the Uzbek idiom of their\nrace. Divided into three branches, called the Great Horde, the Middle\nHorde, and the Little Horde, they roam over, if they do not own, the\nsteppes and deserts lying between the Volga and Lake Balkash. Much of\nthis tract is sandy waste, with dots of herbage here and there, and\nmost of it lies beyond the Russian lines. Within these lines some\norder may be kept; beyond them, in what is called the Independent\nSteppe, the Kirghiz devilry finds an open field. These children of the\ndesert plunder friend and foe, not only lifting cattle and robbing\ncaravans, but stealing men and women to sell as slaves. All through\nthese deserts, from Fort Aralsk to Daman-i-koh, the slave-trade is in\nvogue; the Kirghiz bandits keeping the markets of Khiva and Bokhara\nwell supplied with boys and girls for sale. Nor is the traffic likely\nto decline until the flag of some civilized people floats from the\nTower of Timour Beg. Fired by hereditary hate, these Kirghiz bandits\nlook on every man of Mongolian birth and Buddhistic faith as lawful\nspoil. They follow him to his pastures, plunder his tent, drive off\nhis herds, and sell him as a slave. But when this lawful prey escapes\ntheir hands they raid and rob on more friendly soil; and many of the\ncaptives whom they carry to Khiva and Bokhara come from the Persian\nvalleys of Atrek and Meshid. Girls from these valleys fetch a higher\nprice, and Persia has not strength enough to protect her children from\ntheir raids.\n\nWhen Ubasha fled from the Volga with his Kalmuk hosts, these Kirghiz\nhad a year of sweet revenge. They lay in wait for their retiring foes;\nthey broke upon their camps by night; they stole their horses; they\ndevoured their food; they carried off their women. Hanging on the\nflank and rear of this moving mass, they cut off stragglers, stopped\ncommunications, hid the wells; inflicting far more miseries on the\nKalmuks than these rovers suffered from all the generals sent against\nthem by the crown.\n\nThese Kalmuks gone, the Kirghiz crossed the borders and appeared on\nthe Volga, where they have been well received. Their khan is rich and\npowerful, and in coming in contact with Europe he has learned to value\nscience; but the attempts which have been made to settle some portions\nof his tribe at Ryn Peski have met with no success. The Emperor has\nbuilt a house for the khan, but the khan himself, preferring to live\nout-of-doors, has pitched his tent on the lawn! A Bedouin of the\ndesert is not more untamable than a Kirghiz of the steppe.\n\nThe Nogays are Mongolians of a separate horde. Coming into the country\nwith Jani Beg, they spread themselves through the southern plains,\ntook wives of the people, and embraced the Mussulman faith. At first\nthey were a nomadic soldiery, living in camps; and even after the war\nhad died out, they kept to their wagons, and roamed through the\ncountry as the seasons came and went. \"We live on wheels,\" they used\nto say: \"one man has a house on the ground, another man has a house on\nwheels. It is the will of God.\" Yet, in the course of five hundred\nyears, these Nogays have in some measure changed their habits of life,\nthough they have not changed their creed. Many of them are settlers on\nthe land, which they farm in a rough style; growing millet, grapes,\nand melons for their daily food. Being strict Mohammedans, they drink\nno wine, and marry two or three wives apiece. All wives are bought\nwith money; and divorce, though easy to obtain, is seldom tried. The\nmen are proud of their descent and their religion, and the crown\nallows their cadis and mollahs to settle most of their disputes. They\npay a tax, but they are not enrolled for war.\n\nThese Mongolians occupy the Russian Steppe between the Molochnaya\nRiver and the Sea of Azof.\n\nThe Gypsies, here called Tsiganie, live a nomadic life in the Eastern\nSteppe, as in other countries, sleeping in wretched tents of coarse\nbrown cloth, and grovelling like dogs and swine in the mire. They own\na few carts, and ponies to match the carts, in which they carry their\nwives and little folk from fair to fair, stealing poultry, telling\nfortunes, shoeing horses, and existing only from hand to mouth. They\nwill not labor--they will not learn. Some Gypsies show a talent for\nmusic, and many of their girls have a beauty of person which is highly\nprized. A few become public singers; and a splendid specimen of her\nrace may marry--like the present Princess Sergie Golitsin of\nMoscow--into the highest rank; but as a race they live apart, in true\nAsiatic style; reiving and prowling on their neighbors' farms, begging\nat one house, thieving at the next; a class of outlaws, objects of\nfear to many, and of disgust to all. In summer they lodge on the\ngrass, in winter they burrow in the ground; taking no more thought of\nthe heat and dew than of the frost and snow. In color they are almost\nbronze, with big fierce eyes and famished looks, as though they were\nthe embodied life of the dirt in which they wallow by day and dream by\nnight. Some efforts have been made by Government to civilize these\nmysterious tribes, but hitherto without results; and the marauders are\nonly to be kept in check on the Eastern Steppe by occasional onsets of\nKozak horse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV.\n\nDON KOZAKS.\n\n\nSince the flight of their countrymen under Ubasha, the Kalmuks have\nbeen closely pressed by their Moslem foes.\n\nTheir chief tormentors came from the Caucasus; from the hills of which\ncountries, Nogays and Turkomans, eternal enemies of their race and\nfaith, descended on their pasture lands, drove out their sheep and\ncamels, broke up their corrals, and insulted their religious rites. No\ngovernment could prevent these raids, except by following the raiders\nhome. But then, these Nogays and Turkomans were independent tribes;\ntheir homes were built on the heights beyond the Russian lines; and\nthe necessities under which Russia lay--first, to protect her own\nplains from insult; next, to preserve the peace between these\nBuddhists and Moslems, gave her a better excuse for occupying the\nhill-countries in her front than the sympathy felt in high quarters\nfor the Georgian Church. Pressed by these enemies, some of the Kalmuks\nhave appealed to the crown for help, and have even quitted their\ncamps, and sought protection within the Kozak lines.\n\nThe Kozak camps along the outer and inner frontiers--the Ural line and\nthe Volga line--are peopled by a mixed race of Malo-Russians, Kalmuks,\nand Kirghiz; but the element that fuses and connects these rival\nforces comes from the old free Ukraine, and is thoroughly Slavonic in\ncreed and race.\n\nA Kozak of the Volga and the Don is not a Russian of Moscow, but of\nNovgorod and Kief; a man who for hundreds of years has held his own.\nHis horse is always saddled; his lance is always sharp. By day and\nnight his face is towards the enemy; his camp is in a state of siege.\nCompared with a Russian of Moscow, the Kozak is a jovial fellow, heady\nand ready, prompt in remark, and keen in jest; his mouth full of song,\nhis head full of romance, and his heart full of love.\n\nOn the Ural River the Kozak has a little less of the Kalmuk, a little\nmore of the Kirghiz, in his veins; but the Ukraine blood is dominant\nin both. It would be impossible for the Kalmuk and Kirghiz to live in\npeace, if these followers of the Grand Lama and the Arabian Prophet\nwere not held in check by the Kozak camps.\n\nFirst at St. Romanof, afterwards at Cemikarakorskoe, and other camps\non the Don, I find the Kozaks in these camps; eat and drink with them,\njoin in their festivals, watch their dances, hear their national\nsongs, and observe them fight their fights. An aged story-teller comes\ninto my room at St. Romanof to spin long yarns about Kozak daring and\nadventure in the Caucasian wars. I notice, as a peculiarity of these\ngallant recitals, that the old warrior's stories turn on practices and\nstratagems, never on open and manly fights; the tricks by which a\npicket was misled, a village captured, a caravan cut off, a heap of\nbooty won. As the old man speaks of a farm-yard entered, of a herd of\ncows surprised, his face will gleam with a sudden joy; and then the\nyounkers listening to his tale will clap their hands and stamp their\nfeet, impatient to mount their stallions and ride away. When he tells\nof harems forced and mosques profaned, the Kalmuks who are present\ncolor and pant with Asiatic glee.\n\nThese Kozaks live in villages, composed of houses and gardens built in\na kind of maze; the houses thatched with straw, the walls painted\nyellow, and a ring-fence running round the cluster of habitations,\nwith an opening only at two or three points. The ins and outs are\ndifficult; the passages guarded by savage dogs; the whole camp being a\npen for the cattle as well as a fortress for the men. A church, of no\ngreat size and splendor, springs from the highest mound in the hamlet;\nfor these Kozaks of the Eastern Steppe are nearly all attached to the\nancient Slavonic rite. A flock of sheep is baa-ing on the steppe, a\ntrain of carts and oxen moving on the road. A fowler crushes through\nthe herbage with his gun. On every side we see some evidence of life;\nand if the plain is still dark and bare, the Kozak love of garden,\nfence, and color lends a charm to the Southern country never to be\nseen in the North.\n\nA thousand souls are camped at St. Romanof, in a rude hamlet, with the\nusual paint and fence. Each house stands by itself, with its own yard\nand garden, vines, and melon-beds, guarded by a savage dog. The type\nis Malo-Russ, the complexion yellow and Tartar-like; the teeth are\nvery fine, the eyes are burning with hidden fire. Men and boys all\nride, and every child appears to possess a horse. Yet half the men are\nnursing babies, while the women are doing the heavier kinds of work. A\nsuperstition of the steppe accounts for the fact of half these men\ncarrying infants in their arms, the naked brats pressed closely\nbeneath their coats. They think that unless a father nurses his\nfirst-born son his wife will die of the second child; and as a woman\ncosts so many cows and horses, it is a serious thing--apart from his\naffections--for a man on the Eastern Steppe to lose his wife.\n\nNo smoking is allowed in a Kozak camp, for dread of fire; though my\nhost at Cemikarakorskoe smokes himself, and invites his guests to\nsmoke. Outside the fence the women are frying melons and making\nwine--a strong and curious liquor, thick as treacle, with a finer\ntaste. It is an ancient custom, lost, except on the Don. A plain\nchurch, with a lofty belfry, adorns the camp; but a majority of the\nKozaks being Old Believers, the camp may be said to absent itself from\nmass. These rough fellows, ready as they seem for raiding and\nthieving, are just now overwhelmed with sorrow on account of their\nchurch affairs!\n\nTheir bishop, Father Plato, has been seized in his house at Novo\nCherkask, and sent up the Don to Kremenskoe, a convent near Kalatch. A\nvery old man, he has now been two years a prisoner in that convent;\nand no one in the camp can learn the nature of his offense. The Kozaks\nbear his trouble with saddened hearts and flashing eyes; for these\ncolonists look on the board of Black Clergy sitting in St. Isaac's\nSquare, not only as a conclave going beyond its functions, but as the\nChert, the Black One, the incarnate Evil Spirit.\n\nCemikarakorskoe is a chief camp or town on the Lower Don. \"How many\nsouls have you in camp?\" I ask my host, as we stroll about. \"We do not\nknow; our folk don't relish counting; but we have always five hundred\nsaddles ready in the stalls.\" The men look wild, but they are\ngradually taming down. Fine herds of cattle dot the plains beyond\ntheir fence, and some of the families sow fields of corn and maize.\nThey grow abundance of purple grapes, from which they press a strong\nand sparkling wine. My host puts on his table a vintage as good as\nAsti; and some folk say the vineyards of the Don are finer than those\nof the Garonne and the Marne!\n\nThese Kozaks have soil enough to grow their food, and fill the markets\nwith their surplus. No division of land has taken place for thirty-two\nyears. A plain extends in front as far as the eye can reach; it is a\ncommon property, and every man can take what he likes. The poorest\nfellows have thirty acres apiece. In their home affairs, these\ncolonists are still a state within the state. Their hetman has been\nabolished; their grand ataman is the crown prince; but his work is\nwholly nominal, and they elect their own atamans and judges for a\nlimited term. Every one is eligible for the office of local ataman--a\ncolonel of the camp, who commands the village in peace and war; but he\nmust not leave his quarters for the whole of his three years. An\nofficer is sent from St. Petersburg to drill and command the troops.\nEvery one is eligible as judge--an officer who tries all cases under\nforty rubles of account, and, like an ataman, the judge may not quit\nhis village even in time of war.\n\nA great reform is taking place among these camps. All officers above\nthe rank of ataman and judge are now appointed by the crown, as such\nmen are in every branch of the public force. An ataman-general resides\nwith an effective staff at Novo Cherkask, a town lying back from the\nDon, in a position to guard against surprise--a town with streets and\nhouses, and with thoroughfares lit by lamps instead of being watched\nby savage dogs. But Novo Cherkask is a Russian city, not a Kozak camp;\nthe ataman-general is a Russian soldier, not a Kozak chief; and the\nobject kept in view at Novo Cherkask is that of safely and steadily\nbringing these old military colonists on the Eastern Steppe under the\naction of imperial law.\n\nBut such a change must be a work of time. General Potapoff, the last\nruler in Novo Cherkask, a man of high talents, fell to his work so\nfast that a revolt seemed likely to occur along the whole line of the\nDon. On proof that he was not the man for such a post, this general\nwas promoted to Vilna, as commander-in-chief in the fourth military\ndistrict; while General Chertkoff, an old man of conservative views,\nwas sent down from St. Petersburg to soothe the camps and keep things\nquiet in the steppe. The Emperor made a little joke on his officers'\nnames:--\"After the flood, the devil;\" Potap meaning deluge, and Chert\nthe Evil One; and when his brave Kozaks had laughed at the jest, every\nthing fell back for a time into the ancient ruts.\n\nOf course, in a free Russia all men must be put on an equal footing\nbefore the law, and Kozak privilege must go the way that every other\nprivilege is going. Yet where is the class of men that willingly gives\nup a special right?\n\nA Kozak is a being slow to change; and a prince who has to keep his\neye fixed day and night on these Eastern steppes, and on the cities\nlying beyond them, Khiva and Bokhara, out of which have come from age\nto age those rolling swarms of savage tribes, can hardly be expected,\neven in the cause of uniform law, to break his lines, of defense, and\ndrive his faithful pickets into open revolt against his rule.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXV.\n\nUNDER ARMS.\n\n\nAn army is in every state, whether bond or free, a thing of privilege\nand tradition; and in giving a new spirit to his Government, it is\nessential that the Emperor should bring his army into some closer\nrelation to the country he is making free.\n\nThe first thing is to raise the profession of arms to a higher grade,\nby giving to every soldier in the ranks the old privilege of a prince\nand boyar--his immunity from blows and stripes. A soldier can not now\nbe flogged. Before the present reign, the army was in theory an open\nschool of merit, and occasionally a man like General Skobeleff rose\nfrom the rank of peasant to the highest posts. But Skobeleff was a man\nof genius--a good writer, as well as a splendid soldier; and his\nnomination as commander of St. Petersburg took no one by surprise.\nSuch cases of advancement are extremely rare; rare as in the Austrian\nservice, and in our own. But the reforms now introduced into the army\nare making this opening for talent wide enough to give every one a\nchance. The soldiers are better taught, better clothed, and better\nlodged. In distant provinces they are not yet equal to the show-troops\nseen on a summer day at Tsarskoe Seloe; but they are lodged and\ntreated, even in these far-off stations, with a care to which\naforetime they were never used. Every man has a pair of strong boots,\na good overcoat, a bashlik for his head. His rations are much\nimproved; good beef is weighed to him; and he is not compelled to\nfast. The brutal punishment of running the ranks has been put down.\n\nA man who served in the army, just before the Crimean war broke out,\nput the difference between the old system and the new in a luminous\nway.\n\n\"God bless the Emperor,\" he said \"he gave me life, and all that I can\ngive him in return is his.\"\n\n\"You were a prisoner, then?\"\n\n\"I was a soldier, young and hot. Some Kozak blood was in my veins;\nunlike the serfs, I could not bear a blow, and broke my duty as a\nsoldier to escape an act of shame.\"\n\n\"For what were you degraded?\"\n\n\"Well! I was a fool. A fool? I was in love; and staked my liberty for\na pretty girl. I kissed her, and was lost.\"\n\n\"That is what the greatest conquerors have done. You lost yourself for\na rosy lip?\"\n\n\"Well--yes; and--no,\" said Michael. \"You see, I was a youngster then. A\nman is not a graybeard when he counts his nineteen summers; and a pair\nof bright eyes, backed by a saucy tongue, is more than a lad of spirit\ncan pass without a singe. Katinka's eyes were bright as her words were\narch. You see, in those days we were all young troops on the road;\ngoing down from Yaroslav into the South, to fight for the Holy Cross\nand the Golden Keys. The Frank and Turk were coming up into our towns,\nto mock our religion and to steal our wives; and after a great festa\nin the Church, when the golden icon was brought round the ranks, and\nevery man kissed it in his turn, we marched out of Yaroslav with\nrolling drums, and pious hymns, and blessings on our arms. The town\nsoon dropped behind us, and with the steppe in front, we turned back\nmore than once to look at the shining domes and towers, which few of\nus could hope to see again. For three days we kept well on; the fourth\nday some of our lads were missing; for the roads were heavy, the wells\nwere almost dry, and the regiment was badly shod. Many were sick; but\nsome were feigning; and the punishment for shamming is the rod. Our\ncolonel, a tall, gaunt fellow, stiff as a pike and tight as a cord,\nwhom no fatigue could touch, began to flog the stragglers; and as\nevery man in the ranks had to take his turn in whipping his fellows,\nthe temper of the whole regiment became morose and savage. In those\nold times--some eighteen years ago--we had a rough-and-ready sort of\npunishment, called running the ranks.\"\n\n\"Running the ranks?\"\n\n\"It is done so: if a lad has either fallen asleep on his post, or\nvexed his officer, or stolen his comrade's pipe, or failed to answer\nat the roll, he is called to the parade-ground of his company, told to\ngive up his gun, and strip himself naked to the waist. A soldier\ngrounds the musket, to which the culprit's two hands are now tied fast\nnear the muzzle; the bayonet is then fixed, and the butt-end lifted\nfrom the ground so as to bring the point of the bayonet close to the\nculprit's heart. The company is then drawn up in two long lines, in\nopen order; and into every man's hand is given a rod newly cut and\nsteeped for a night in water to make it hard. The offender is led\nbetween these lines; led by the butt-end of his gun, the slightest\nmotion of which he must obey, on pain of being pricked to death; and\nthe troops lay on his naked back, with a will or not, as their mood\nmay chance to be. The pain is always great, and the sufferer dares not\nshrink before the rod; as in doing so he would fall on the\nbayonet-point. But the shame of running the ranks was greater than the\npain. Some fellows learned to bear it; but these were men who had lost\nall sense of shame. For my own part, I think it was worse than death\nand hell.\"\n\n\"You have not borne it?\"\n\n\"Never! I will tell you. We had marched about a thousand versts\ntowards the South. Our companies were greatly thinned; for every\nsecond man who had left Yaroslav with beating heart and singing his\njoyous psalm, was left behind us, either in the sick-ward or on the\nsteppe--most of them on the steppe. Many of the men had run away; some\nbecause they did not want to fight, and others because they had vexed\ntheir officers by petty faults. We had a fortnight yet to march before\nreaching those lines of Perikop, where the Tartars used to fight us;\nand our stiff colonel cried out daily down our squads, that if we\nskulked on the march the Turks would be in Moscow, not the Russians at\nStamboul.\"\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"We had a fortnight yet to march; but the men were so spent and sore\nthat we halted in a roadside village three days to mend our shoes and\nrecruit our strength. That halt unmade me. What with her laughing eyes\nand her merry tricks, the girl who served out whisky and halibut to\nour company won my heart. Her father kept the inn and posting-house of\nthe village; he had to find us quarters, and supply us with meat and\ndrink. The girl was about the sheds in which we lay from early morning\nuntil late at night. I don't say she cared for me, though I was\nthought a handsome lad; but she was like a wild kitten, and would purr\nand play about you till your blood was all on fire; and into the\nstable or the straw-shed, screaming with laughter, and daring you to\nchase and capture her--with a kiss, of course. It was rare good sport;\nbut some of the men, too broken to engage in making love, were jealous\nof the fun, and said it would end in trouble. Well, when the drum\ntapped for our companies to fall in, my cloak was missing, and I began\nto hunt through the shed in which we had slept the last three nights.\nThe cloak could not be found. While running up and down, upsetting\nstools and scattering sheaves of straw, I caught Katinka's laughing\nface at the window of the shed, and at the very same instant heard the\nword of command to march. I had no intention to quit the ranks; but I\nwanted my cloak, the loss of which would have been visited upon me by\nthe anger of my captain and by the wintry frosts. I ran after Katinka,\nwho darted round the sheds with the cloak on her arm, crowing with\ndelight as she slipped through the stakes and past the corners, until\nshe bounded into the straw-yard, panting and spent. To get the cloak\nfrom her was the work of a second; but to smother her red mouth with\nkisses was a task which must have taken me some time; for just as I\nwas getting free from her, two men of my company came up and took me\nprisoner. Graybeards of twenty-five, who had seen what they call the\nworld, these fellows cared no more for a pretty girl than for a holy\nsaint. They told the colonel lies; they said I meant to straggle and\ndesert; and the colonel sentenced me to run the ranks.\"\n\n\"You escaped the shame?\"\n\n\"By taking my chance of death. The colonel stood before me, bolt\nupright, his hand upon the shoulder of his horse. Too well I knew how\nto merit death in a time of war; and striding up to him, by a rapid\nmotion, ere any one could pull me back, I struck that officer with my\nopen palm across his cheek. A minute later I was pinioned, thrown into\na cart, and placed under a double guard. At Perikop I was brought\nbefore commissioners and condemned to die; but the Franks were now\ncoming up the Bosphorus in ships, and the prince commanding in the\nCrimea, being anxious to make the war popular, was in a tender mood;\nand finding that my record in the regiment was good, he changed my\nsentence of death into one of imprisonment in a fortress during life.\nMy comrades thought I should be pardoned in a few weeks and placed in\nsome other company for service; but my crime was too black to be\nforgiven in that iron reign.\"\n\n\"Iron reign?\"\n\n\"The reign of Nicolas was the iron reign. I was sent to a fortress,\nwhere I lay, a prisoner, until Nicolas went to heaven.\"\n\n\"You lived two years in jail?\"\n\n\"Lived! No; you do not live in prison, you die. But when the saints\nare cross you take a very long time to die.\"\n\n\"You wished to die?\"\n\n\"Well, no; you only wish to sleep, to forget your pain, to escape from\nthe watcher's eyes. When the rings are soldered round your ankles, and\nthe cuffs are fastened round your wrists, you feel that you have\nceased to be a man. Cold, passive, cruel in your temper, you are now a\nsavage beast, without the savage freedom of the wolf and bear. Your\nlegs swell out, and the bones grow gritty, and like to snap.\"\n\n\"Which are the worse to bear--the leg-rings or the cuffs?\"\n\n\"The cuffs. When they are taken off, a man goes all but mad. He clasps\nand claps his hands for joy; he can lift his palms in prayer, besides\nbeing able to chase the spiders and kill the fleas. Worst of all to\nthe prisoner are the eyelets in his door, through which the sentinel\nwatches him from dawn to dusk. Though lonely, he is never alone. Do\nwhat he may, the passionless holes are open, and a freezing glance may\nbe fixed upon him. In his sleeping and in his waking hour those eyes\nare on him, and he gladly waits for darkness to come down, that he may\nfeel secure from that maddening watch. Sometimes a man goes boldly to\nthe door, spits through the holes, yells like a wild beast, and forces\nthe sentinel to retire in shame.\"\n\n\"You gained your freedom in the general amnesty?\"\n\n\"Yes; when the young prince came to his throne he opened our\nprison-doors and set us free. Were you ever a prisoner? No! Then you\ncan never know what it is to be free. You walk out of darkness into\nlight; you wake out of misery into joy. The air you breathe makes you\nstrong like a draught of wine. You feel that you belong to God.\"\n\nUnder Nicolas the soldiers were so dressed and drilled that they were\nalways falling sick. A third of the army was in hospital the whole\nyear round, and little more than half the men could ever be returned\nas fit to march. Being badly clothed and poorly fed, they flew to\ndrink. They died in heaps, and rather like sheep than men.\n\nThe case is different now; for the soldier is better clothed and fed\nthan persons of his class in ordinary life. The men are allowed to\nstand and walk in their natural way; and, having more bread to eat,\nthey show less craving after drink. A school is opened in every\nbarrack, and pressure is put on the men to make them learn. Many of\nthe soldiers can read, and some can write. Gazettes and papers are\ntaken in; libraries are being formed; and the Russian army promises to\nbecome as bright as that of Germany or France. The change is great;\nand every one finds the root of this reform in that abolition of the\nTartar stick, which comes, like other great reforms, from the Crimean\nwar.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVI.\n\nALEXANDER.\n\n\nThe Crimean war restored the people to their national life.\n\"Sebastopol!\" said a general officer to me just now, \"Sebastopol\nperished, that our country might be free.\" The Tartar kingdom, founded\nby Ivan the Terrible, reformed by Peter the Great, existed in the\nspirit, even where it clothed itself in Western names and forms, until\nthe allies landed from their transports. Routed on the Alma, beaten at\nBalaclava, that kingdom made her final effort on the heights of\nInkermann; hurling, in Tartar force and fashion, her last \"great\nhorde\" across that Baidar valley, in the rocks and caves of which a\nremnant of the tribes of Batu Khan and Timour Beg still lingers;\nfighting in mist and fog, on wooded slope and stony ridge, her gallant\nand despairing fight. What followed Inkermann was detail only. Met and\nfoiled that wintry day, she reeled and bled to death. A grave was made\nfor her, as one may say, not far from the spot on which she fought and\nfell. Before the landing-place in Sebastopol sprang the walls and\nfrowned the guns of an imperial fort--the strongest pile in Russia,\nperhaps in Europe; rising tier on tier, and armed with two hundred and\nsixty guns; a fort in the fire of which no ship then floating on the\nsea could live. It bore the builder's name--the name of Nicolas,\nAutocrat of all the Russians; a colossal sovereign, who for thirty\nyears had awed and stifled men like Genghis Khan. That fort became a\nruin. The guns were torn to rags, the walls were shivered into dust.\nNo stone was left in its place to tell the tale of its former pride;\nand it is even now an easier task to trace the outlines of Kherson,\ndead for five hundred years, than to restore, from what remains of\nthem, the features of that proud, imperial fort. The prince, the\nfortress, and the kingdom fell; their work on earth accomplished to\nthe final act. This ruin is their grave.\n\nAsiatic Russia passed away, and European Russia struggled into life.\n\nHolding under the \"Great Cham,\" the Duke of Moscow was in ancient\ntimes a dependent prince, like the Hospodar of Valachia, like the\nPasha of Egypt in modern days. Doing homage, paying tribute to his\nTartar lord, the duke ruled in his place, coined money in his name,\nadopted his dress and habits, fought his battles, and took into pay\nhis officers and troops. Cities which the Tartar could not reach, his\nvassal crushed.\n\nThe Tartar system was a village system, as it is with every pastoral\nand predatory race; a village for the followers, and a camp or\nresidence for the prince. The Russian system was a mixed system, as it\nwas in Germany and France; a village for the husbandman, a town for\nthe boyar, merchant, and professional man. The old Russian towns were\nrich and free; ruled by codes of law, by popular assemblies, and by\nelected dukes. Novgorod, Moscow, Pskoff, Vladimir, Nijni, were models\nof a hundred prosperous towns; but when the Duke of Moscow wrested his\nindependence from the khan in the seventeenth century, he took up the\nTartar policy of weakening the free cities, and centring all authority\nin his camp. That camp was Moscow, which Ivan put under martial law,\nand governed, in Asiatic fashion, by the stick. The court became a\nTartar court. The dress and manners of Bakchi Serai were imitated in\nthe Kremlin; women were put into harems; the Tartar distinction of\nwhite and black (noble and ignoble) was established. From the time\nwhen the grand dukes became Tsars they were called White, the peasants\nBlack; and the poor of every class, whether they lived in towns or\nvillages, were styled, in contempt, as their Moslem masters had always\nstyled them, Christians--bearers of the cross--a name which descended\nto the serfs, and clung to them so long as a serf existed on Russian\nsoil.\n\nIn leaving Moscow, Peter the Great was only acting like the Crim\nTartar who had changed his camp from Eski-Crim to Bakchi Serai. The\ncamp was his country, and where he rested for a season was his camp.\nIn Old Russia, as in Germany and France, authority was historical; in\nCrim-Tartary, as in Turkey and Bokhara, it was personal. Ivan the\nTerrible introduced, and Peter the Great extended, the personal\nsystem. In her better days Russia had a noble class, as well as a\ncitizen class and a peasant class; but these signs of a glorious past\nwere gradually put away. \"No man is noble in my empire, unless I make\nhim so,\" said Peter. \"No man is noble in my empire, except when I\nspeak to him, and only while I speak to him,\" said Paul. The governors\nof provinces became pashas, with the right of living on the districts\nthey were sent to rule; that is to say, of taking from the people\nmeat, drink, house, dogs, horses, women, at their sovereign will.\n\nThough softened from time to time, here by fine phrases, there by\nmystic patriotism, this Tartar system lived into the present reign.\nUnder this system, the prince was every thing, the people nothing; the\narmy a horde, the nobility an official mob, the Church a department of\npolice, the commons a herd of slaves.\n\nNicolas prized that system, and being a man of powerful frame and\ndaring mind, he carried it forward to a point from which it had been\nfalling back since the reign of Peter the Great. Unlike Peter, Nicolas\nsaw no use in Western science and Western arts. He hated railways, he\nabhorred the press. He made his court a camp; he dressed his students\nin uniform; he turned education into drill. He was the State, the\nChurch, the Army, all in one. Desiring to shut up his empire, as the\nKhans of Khiva and Bokhara close their states, he drew a cordon round\nhis frontier, over which it was nearly as difficult for a stranger to\nenter as for a subject to escape; and while he occupied the throne,\nhis country was almost as much a mystery to mankind as the realm of\nPrester John. With mystery came distrust, for the unknown is always\nfeared; and Europe lay in front of this Tartar prince, exactly as in\nformer ages Moscow lay before Timour Beg. A system such as Nicolas\nloved could not exist in presence of free and powerful states; and\nEurope had to march upon the armies of Nicolas, even as Ivan the\nTerrible had to march upon the troops of Yediguer Khan.\n\nThe system was Mongolian, not Slavonic; and the mighty sovereign who\nupheld it, and perished with it, will be regarded in future ages as\nthe prince who was at once the last Asiatic emperor and the last\nEuropean khan.\n\nWhen Alexander the Second came to his sceptre, what was his estate?\nHis empire was a wreck. The allies were upon his soil; his ports were\nclosed; his ships were sunk; his armies were held at bay. Looking from\nthe Neva to the Thames, he could not see one friend on whom in his\ntrouble he could call for help. The system was perfect; the isolation\nwas complete. But why had that system, reared at such a price,\ncollapsed so thoroughly at the point where it seemed to be most\nstrong?\n\nHis armies counted a million men. Why were these hosts unable to\nprotect their soil? They were at home; they knew the country; they\nwere used to its windy plains, its summer heats, and its wintry snows.\nThey were fighting, too, for every thing that men hold dear on earth.\nWhen Alexander compared his million men against the forces of his\nrivals actually in the field, his wonder grew into amazement. These\nsoldiers of his foes were weak in number, far from home, and fighting\nonly for pride and pay. How were such armies able to maintain\nthemselves on Russian ground?\n\nBefore the Emperor Nicolas died, he read the truth--read it in the\nlight of his burning towns, his wasting armies, and his fruitless\ncannonades. He found that he and his million troops were matched\nagainst a hundred millions of eager and adventurous foes. Free nations\nwere all against him; and the serf nation which he ruled so sternly\nwas not for him. Russia was not with him. Here he was weak, with an\nincurable fret and sore. The serfs, the Old Believers, and the\nsectaries of every name, were all against him, looking on his system\nas a foreign, not to say an abominable thing, and praying night and\nday that the hour of their deliverance from his rule might quickly\ncome. No people stood behind the soldiery in his war against the\nWestern Powers.\n\nIn spite of genius, valor, enterprise, success, an army fighting for\nitself, unwarmed by popular applause, is sure in the end to fail. The\ndiscovery that he and his troops were fighting against the world of\nfree thought and liberal science killed him. When the blow was dealt,\nand his pride was gone, Nicolas is said to have confided to his son\nAlexander the causes of his failure as he had come to see them, and to\nhave urged the prince to pursue another and more liberal course. Who\ncan say whether this is true or not, for who can know the secrets of\nthat dying bed?\n\nYet every man can see that the new sovereign acted as if some such\nwarning had been given. He began his reign with acts of mercy.\nHundreds of prison doors were opened, thousands of exiles were\nreleased from bonds. An honorable peace was made with the Western\nPowers, and the dream of marching on Stamboul was brushed aside. An\nempire of seventy millions was found big enough to hold her own.\nAlexander proved that he had none of the Tartar's lust of territory by\ngiving up part of Bessarabia for the sake of peace.\n\nSecured on his frontiers, Alexander turned his eyes on the people and\nthe provinces committed to his care. A vast majority of his countrymen\nwere serfs. Not one in ten could read; not one in fifty could sign his\nname. Great numbers of his people stood aloof from the Official\nChurch. The serfs were much oppressed by the nobles; the Old Believers\nwere bitterly persecuted by the monks; yet these two classes were the\nbone and sinew of the land. If strength was sought beyond the army and\nthe official classes, where could he find it, save among these serfs\nin the country, these Old Believers in the towns? In no other places.\nHow could such populations, suffering as they were from physical\nbondage and religious hate, be reconciled to the empire, added to the\nnational force?\n\nStudying the men over whom he was called to rule, the Emperor went\ndown among his people; living on their river banks and in their rural\ncommunes; passing from the Arctic to the Caspian Sea, from the Vistula\nto the Ural mines; kneeling with them at Solovetsk and Troitsa;\nparleying with them on the roadside and by the inland lake; observing\nthem in the forest and in the mine; until he felt that he had seen\nmore of the Russian soil, knew more of the Russian people, than any of\nthe ministers about his court.\n\nIn the light of knowledge thus carefully acquired, he opened the great\nquestion of the serfs; and feeling strong in his minute acquaintance\nwith his country, had the happy courage to insist on his principle of\n\"liberty with land,\" against the views of his councils and committees\nin favor of \"liberty without land.\"\n\nBefore that act was carried out in every part, he began his great\nreform in the army. He put down flogging, beating, and striking in the\nranks. He opened schools in the camp, cleared the avenues of\npromotion, and raised the soldier's condition on the moral, not less\nthan on the material side.\n\nThe universities were then reformed in a pacific sense. Swords were\nput down, uniforms laid aside, and corporate privileges withdrawn.\nEducation was divorced from its connection with the camp. Lay\nprofessors occupied the chairs, and the young men attending lectures\nstood on the same level with their fellows, subject to the same\nmagistrate, amenable to the common code. The schools became free, and\nstudents ceased to be feared as \"servants of the Tsar.\"\n\nThis change was followed by that immense reform in the administration\nof justice which transferred the trial of offenders from the police\noffice to the courts of law; replacing an always arbitrary and often\ncorrupted official by an impartial jury, acting in union with an\neducated judge.\n\nAt the same period he opened those local parliaments, the district\nassemblies and the provincial assemblies, which are training men to\nthink and speak, to listen and decide--to believe in argument, to\nrespect opposing views, and exercise the virtues required in public\nlife.\n\nIn the wake of these reforms came the still more delicate question of\nChurch reform; including the relations of the Black clergy to the\nWhite; of the Orthodox clergy, whether Black or White, to the Old\nBelievers; of the Holy Governing Synod to Dissenters; as also the\ninfluence which the Church should exercise over secular education, and\nthe supremacy of the canon law over the civil law.\n\nEach of these great reforms would seem, in a country like Russia, to\nrequire a lifetime; yet under this daring and beneficent ruler they\nare all proceeding side by side. Opposed by the three most powerful\nparties in the empire--the Black Clergy, who feel that power is\nslipping from their hands--the old military chiefs, who think their\nsoldiers should be kept in order by the stick--the thriftless nobles,\nwho prefer Homberg and Paris to a dull life on their estates--the\nEmperor not the less keeps steadily working out his ends. What wonder\nthat he is adored by peasants, burghers, and parish priests, by all\nwho wish to live in peace, to till their fields, to mind their shops,\nand to say their prayers!\n\nA free Russia is a pacific Russia. By his genius and his occupation, a\nRussian is less inclined to war than either a Briton or a Gaul; and as\nthe right of voting on public questions comes to be his habit, his\nvoice will be more and more cast for the policy that gives him peace.\nIn one direction only he looks with dread--across that opening of the\nEastern Steppe through which he has seen so many hordes of his enemies\nswarm into his towns and fields. Through that opening he has\npushed--is now pushing--and will push his way, until Khiva and Bokhara\nfall into his power, as Tashkend and Kokan have fallen into his power.\n\nWhy should we English regret his march, repine at his success? Is he\nnot fighting, for all the world, a battle of law, of order, and of\ncivilization? Would not Russia at Bokhara mean the English at Bokhara\nalso? Would not roads be made, and stations built, and passes guarded\nthrough the steppe for traders and travellers of every race? Could any\nother people undertake this task? Why then should we cry down the\nMoscovite? Even in our selfish interests, it would be well for us to\nhave a civilized neighbor on our frontier rather than a savage tribe;\na neighbor bound by law and courtesy, instead of a savage khan who\nmurders our envoy and rejects our trade!\n\nRussia requires a hundred years of peace; but she will not find that\npeace until she has closed the passage of her Eastern Steppe by\nplanting the banner of St. George on the Tower of Timour Beg.\n\nMeantime, the reforming Emperor holds his course--a lonely man, much\ncrossed by care, much tried by family afflictions, much enduring in\nhis public life.\n\nOne dark December day, near dusk, two Englishmen hail a boat on the\nNeva brink, and push out rapidly through the bars of ice towards that\ngrim fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, in which lie buried under\nmarble slab and golden cross the emperors and empresses (with one\nexception) since the reign of Peter the Great. As they are pushing\nonward, they observe the watermen drop their oars and doff their caps;\nand looking round, they see the imperial barge, propelled by twenty\nrowers, athwart their stern. The Emperor sits in that barge alone; an\nofficer is standing by his side, and the helmsman directs the rowers\nhow to pull. Saluting as he glides past their boat, the Emperor jumps\nto land, and muffling his loose gray cloak about his neck, steps\nhastily along the planks and up the roadway leading to the church. No\none goes with him. The six or eight idlers whom he meets on the road\njust touch their hats, and stand aside to let him pass. Trying the\nfront door of that sombre church, he finds it locked; and striding off\nquickly to a second door, he sees a man in plain clothes, and beckons\nto him. The door is quickly opened, and the lord of seventy millions\nwalks into the church that is to be his final home. The English\nvisitors are near. \"Wait for an instant,\" says the man in plain\nclothes; \"the Emperor is within;\" but adds, \"you can step into the\nporch; his majesty will not keep you long.\" The porch is parted from\nthe church by glass doors only, and the English visitors look down\nupon the scene within. Long aisles and columns stretch and rise before\nthem. Flags and trophies, won in a hundred battles, fought against the\nSwede and Frank, the Perse and Turk, adorn the walls, and here and\nthere a silver lamp burns fitfully in front of a pictured saint.\nBetween the columns stand, in white sepulchral rows, the imperial\ntombs--a weird and ghastly vista, gleaming in that red and sombre\nlight.\n\nAlone, his cap drawn tightly on his brow, and muffled in his loose\ngray coat, the Emperor passes from slab to slab; now pausing for an\ninstant, as if conning an inscription on the stone, now crossing the\nnave absorbed and bent; here hidden for a moment in the gloom, there\nmoving furtively along the aisle. The dead are all around him--Peter,\nCatharine, Paul--fierce warriors, tender women, innocent babes, and\noverhead the dust and glory of a hundred wars. What brings him hither\nin this wintry dusk? The weight of life? The love of death? He stops,\nunbonnets, kneels--at the foot of his mother's tomb! Once more he\npauses, kneels--kneels a long time, as it in prayer; then, rising,\nkisses the golden cross. That slab is the tomb of his eldest son!\n\nA moment later he is gone.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\nVALUABLE STANDARD WORKS\n\nFOR PUBLIC AND PRIVATE LIBRARIES,\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n\u261e_For a full List of Books suitable for Libraries, see_ HARPER &\n BROTHERS' TRADE-LIST _and_ CATALOGUE, _which may be had gratuitously\n on application to the Publishers personally, or by letter enclosing\n Five Cents._\n\n\u261eHARPER & BROTHERS _will send any of the following works by mail,\n postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the\n price._\n\n\nMOTLEY'S DUTCH REPUBLIC. The Rise of the Dutch Republic. By JOHN\nLOTHROP MOTLEY, LL.D., D.C.L. With a Portrait of William of Orange. 3\nvols., 8vo, Cloth, $10\u00a050.\n\nMOTLEY'S UNITED NETHERLANDS. History of the United Netherlands: from\nthe Death of William the Silent to the Twelve Years' Truce--1609. With\na full View of the English-Dutch Struggle against Spain, and of the\nOrigin and Destruction of the Spanish Armada. By JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY,\nLL.D., D.C.L. Portraits. 4 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $14\u00a000.\n\nNAPOLEON'S LIFE OF C\u00c6SAR. The History of Julius C\u00e6sar. By His Imperial\nMajesty NAPOLEON III. Two Volumes ready. Library Edition, 8vo, Cloth,\n$3\u00a050 per vol.\n\n _Maps to Vols. I. and II. sold separately. Price $1\u00a050 each, NET._\n\nHAYDN'S DICTIONARY OF DATES, relating to all Ages and Nations. For\nUniversal Reference. Edited by BENJAMIN VINCENT, Assistant Secretary\nand Keeper of the Library of the Royal Institution of Great Britain;\nand Revised for the Use of American Readers. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000; Sheep,\n$6\u00a000.\n\nHARTWIG'S POLAR WORLD. The Polar World: a Popular Description of Man\nand Nature in the Arctic and Antarctic Regions of the Globe. By Dr. G.\nHARTWIG, Author of \"The Sea and its Living Wonders,\" \"The Harmonies of\nNature,\" and \"The Tropical World.\" With Additional Chapters and 163\nIllustrations. 8vo, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $3\u00a075.\n\nWALLACE'S MALAY ARCHIPELAGO. The Malay Archipelago: the Land of the\nOrang-Utan and the Bird of Paradise. A Narrative of Travel, 1854-1862.\nWith Studies of Man and Nature. By ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE. With Ten\nMaps and Fifty-one Elegant Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3\u00a050.\n\nWHYMPER'S ALASKA. Travel and Adventure in the Territory of Alaska,\nformerly Russian America--now Ceded to the United States--and in\nvarious other parts of the North Pacific. By FREDERICK WHYMPER. With\nMap and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2\u00a050.\n\nORTON'S ANDES AND THE AMAZON. The Andes and the Amazon; or, Across the\nContinent of South America. By JAMES ORTON, M.A., Professor of Natural\nHistory in Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, N.Y., and Corresponding\nMember of the Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia. With a New\nMap of Equatorial America and numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo,\nCloth, $2\u00a000.\n\nWINCHELL'S SKETCHES OF CREATION. Sketches of Creation: a Popular View\nof some of the Grand Conclusions of the Sciences in reference to the\nHistory of Matter and of Life. Together with a Statement of the\nIntimations of Science respecting the Primordial Condition and the\nUltimate Destiny of the Earth and the Solar System. By ALEXANDER\nWINCHELL, LL.D., Professor of Geology, Zoology, and Botany in the\nUniversity of Michigan, and Director of the State Geological Survey.\nWith Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n\nWHITE'S MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW. The Massacre of St. Bartholomew:\nPreceded by a History of the Religious Wars in the Reign of Charles\nIX. By HENRY WHITE, M.A. With Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1\u00a075.\n\nLOSSING'S FIELD-BOOK OF THE REVOLUTION. Pictorial Field-Book of the\nRevolution; or, Illustrations, by Pen and Pencil, of the History,\nBiography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the War for\nIndependence. By BENSON J. LOSSING. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $14\u00a000;\nSheep, $15\u00a000; Half Calf, $18\u00a000; Full Turkey Morocco, $22\u00a000.\n\nLOSSING'S FIELD-BOOK OF THE WAR OF 1812. Pictorial Field-Book of the\nWar of 1812; or, Illustrations, by Pen and Pencil, of the History,\nBiography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the Last War for\nAmerican Independence. By BENSON J. LOSSING. With several hundred\nEngravings on Wood, by Lossing and Barritt, chiefly from Original\nSketches by the Author. 1088 pages, 8vo, Cloth, $7\u00a000; Sheep, $8\u00a050;\nHalf Calf, $10\u00a000.\n\nALFORD'S GREEK TESTAMENT. The Greek Testament: with a critically-revised\nText; a Digest of Various Readings; Marginal References to Verbal and\nIdiomatic Usage; Prolegomena; and a Critical and Exegetical\nCommentary. For the Use of Theological Students and Ministers. By\nHENRY ALFORD, D.D., Dean of Canterbury. Vol. I., containing the Four\nGospels. 944 pages, 8vo, Cloth, $6\u00a000; Sheep, $6\u00a050.\n\nABBOTT'S HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. The French Revolution of\n1789, as viewed in the Light of Republican Institutions. By JOHN S. C.\nABBOTT. With 100 Engravings. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nABBOTT'S NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. The History of Napoleon Bonaparte. By\nJOHN S. C. ABBOTT. With Maps, Woodcuts, and Portraits on Steel. 2\nvols., 8vo, Cloth, $10\u00a000.\n\nABBOTT'S NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA; or, Interesting Anecdotes and\nRemarkable Conversations of the Emperor during the Five and a Half\nYears of his Captivity. Collected from the Memorials of Las Casas,\nO'Meara, Montholon, Antommarchi, and others. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.\nWith Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nADDISON'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Joseph Addison, embracing the\nwhole of the \"Spectator.\" Complete in 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $6\u00a000.\n\nALCOCK'S JAPAN. The Capital of the Tycoon: a Narrative of a Three\nYears' Residence in Japan. By Sir RUTHERFORD ALCOCK, K.C.B., Her\nMajesty's Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary in Japan.\nWith Maps and Engravings. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3\u00a050.\n\nALISON'S HISTORY OF EUROPE. FIRST SERIES: From the Commencement of the\nFrench Revolution, in 1789, to the Restoration of the Bourbons, in\n1815. [In addition to the Notes on Chapter LXXVI., which correct the\nerrors of the original work concerning the United States, a copious\nAnalytical Index has been appended to this American edition.] SECOND\nSERIES: From the Fall of Napoleon, in 1815, to the Accession of Louis\nNapoleon, in 1852. 8 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $16\u00a000.\n\nBANCROFT'S MISCELLANIES. Literary and Historical Miscellanies. By\nGEORGE BANCROFT. 8vo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nBALDWIN'S PRE-HISTORIC NATIONS. Pre-Historic Nations: or, Inquiries\nconcerning some of the Great Peoples and Civilizations of Antiquity,\nand their Probable Relation to a still Older Civilization of the\nEthiopians or Cushites of Arabia. By JOHN D. BALDWIN, Member of the\nAmerican Oriental Society. 12mo, Cloth, $1\u00a075.\n\nBARTH'S NORTH AND CENTRAL AFRICA. Travels and Discoveries in North and\nCentral Africa: being a Journal of an Expedition undertaken under the\nAuspices of H.B.M.'s Government, in the Years 1849-1855. By HENRY\nBARTH, Ph.D., D.C.L. Illustrated. 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $12\u00a000.\n\nHENRY WARD BEECHER'S SERMONS. Sermons by HENRY WARD BEECHER, Plymouth\nChurch, Brooklyn. Selected from Published and Unpublished Discourses,\nand Revised by their Author. With Steel Portrait. Complete in 2 vols.,\n8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nLYMAN BEECHER'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, &c. 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Portraits. 12mo, Cloth, $1\u00a050\n each.\n\n C\u00c6SAR.--VIRGIL.--SALLUST.--HORACE.--CICERO'S ORATIONS.--CICERO'S\n OFFICES, &c.--CICERO ON ORATORY AND ORATORS.--TACITUS (2 vols.).--\n TERENCE.--SOPHOCLES.--JUVENAL.--XENOPHON.--HOMER'S ILIAD.--HOMER'S\n ODYSSEY.--HERODOTUS.--DEMOSTHENES.--THUCYDIDES.--\u00c6SCHYLUS.--EURIPIDES\n (2 vols.).\n\nHELPS'S SPANISH CONQUEST. The Spanish Conquest in America, and its\nRelation to the History of Slavery and to the Government of Colonies.\nBy ARTHUR HELPS. 4 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $6\u00a000.\n\nHUME'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. History of England, from the Invasion of\nJulius C\u00e6sar to the Abdication of James II., 1688. By DAVID HUME. A\nnew Edition, with the Author's last Corrections and Improvements. To\nwhich is Prefixed a short Account of his Life, written by Himself.\nWith a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $9\u00a000.\n\nGROTE'S HISTORY OF GREECE. 12 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $18\u00a000.\n\nHALE'S (MRS.) WOMAN'S RECORD. Woman's Record; or, Biographical\nSketches of all Distinguished Women, from the Creation to the Present\nTime. Arranged in Four Eras, with Selections from Female Writers of\neach Era. By Mrs. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. Illustrated with more than 200\nPortraits. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nHALL'S ARCTIC RESEARCHES. Arctic Researches and Life among the\nEsquimaux: being the Narrative of an Expedition in Search of Sir John\nFranklin, in the Years 1860, 1861, and 1862. By CHARLES FRANCIS HALL.\nWith Maps and 100 Illustrations. The Illustrations are from Original\nDrawings by Charles Parsons, Henry L. Stephens, Solomon Eytinge, W. S.\nL. Jewett, and Granville Perkins, after Sketches by Captain Hall. 8vo,\nCloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nHALLAM'S CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND, from the Accession of\nHenry VII. to the Death of George II. 8vo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n\nHALLAM'S LITERATURE. Introduction to the Literature of Europe during\nthe Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries. By HENRY HALLAM.\n2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4\u00a000.\n\nHALLAM'S MIDDLE AGES. State of Europe during the Middle Ages. By HENRY\nHALLAM. 8vo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n\nHILDRETH'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. FIRST SERIES: From the First\nSettlement of the Country to the Adoption of the Federal Constitution.\nSECOND SERIES: From the Adoption of the Federal Constitution to the\nEnd of the Sixteenth Congress. 6 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $18\u00a000.\n\nJAY'S WORKS. Complete Works of Rev. William Jay: comprising his\nSermons, Family Discourses, Morning and Evening Exercises for every\nDay in the Year, Family Prayers, &c. Author's enlarged Edition,\nrevised. 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $6\u00a000.\n\nJOHNSON'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. With an\nEssay on his Life and Genius, by ARTHUR MURPHY, Esq. Portrait of\nJohnson. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4\u00a000.\n\nKINGLAKE'S CRIMEAN WAR. The Invasion of the Crimea, and an Account of\nits Progress down to the Death of Lord Raglan. By ALEXANDER WILLIAM\nKINGLAKE. With Maps and Plans. Two Vols. ready. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000 per\nvol.\n\nKRUMMACHER'S DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. David, the King of Israel: a\nPortrait drawn from Bible History and the Book of Psalms. By FREDERICK\nWILLIAM KRUMMACHER, D.D., Author of \"Elijah the Tishbite,\" &c.\nTranslated under the express Sanction of the Author by the Rev. M. G.\nEASTON, M.A. With a Letter from Dr. Krummacher to his American\nReaders, and a Portrait. 12mo, Cloth, $1\u00a075.\n\nLAMB'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Charles Lamb. Comprising his\nLetters, Poems, Essays of Elia, Essays upon Shakspeare, Hogarth, &c.,\nand a Sketch of his Life, with the Final Memorials, by T. NOON\nTALFOURD. Portrait. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nLIVINGSTONE'S SOUTH AFRICA. Missionary Travels and Researches in South\nAfrica; including a Sketch of Sixteen Years' Residence in the Interior\nof Africa, and a Journey from the Cape of Good Hope to Loando on the\nWest Coast; thence across the Continent, down the River Zambesi, to\nthe Eastern Ocean. By DAVID LIVINGSTONE, LL.D., D.C.L. With Portrait,\nMaps by Arrowsmith, and numerous Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $4\u00a050.\n\nLIVINGSTONES' ZAMBESI. Narrative of an Expedition to the Zambesi and\nits Tributaries, and of the Discovery of the Lakes Shirwa and Nyassa.\n1858-1864. By DAVID and CHARLES LIVINGSTONE. With Map and\nIllustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nM'CLINTOCK & STRONG'S CYCLOP\u00c6DIA. Cyclopa\u00e6dia of Biblical,\nTheological, and Ecclesiastical Literature. Prepared by the Rev. JOHN\nM'CLINTOCK, D.D., and JAMES STRONG, S.T.D. _3 vols. now ready._ Royal\n8vo. Price per vol., Cloth, $5\u00a000; Sheep, $6\u00a000; Half Morocco, $8\u00a000.\n\nMARCY'S ARMY LIFE ON THE BORDER. Thirty Years of Army Life on the\nBorder. Comprising Descriptions of the Indian Nomads of the Plains;\nExplorations of New Territory; a Trip across the Rocky Mountains in\nthe Winter; Descriptions of the Habits of Different Animals found in\nthe West, and the Methods of Hunting them; with Incidents in the Life\nof Different Frontier Men, &c., &c. By Brevet Brigadier-General R. B.\nMARCY, U.S.A., Author of \"The Prairie Traveller.\" With numerous\nIllustrations. 8vo, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $3\u00a000.\n\nMACAULAY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. The History of England from the\nAccession of James II. By THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. With an Original\nPortrait of the Author. 5 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10\u00a000; 12mo, Cloth,\n$7\u00a050.\n\nMOSHEIM'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY, Ancient and Modern; in which the\nRise, Progress, and Variation of Church Power are considered in their\nConnection with the State of Learning and Philosophy, and the\nPolitical History of Europe during that Period. Translated, with\nNotes, &c., by A. MACLAINE, D.D. A new Edition, continued to 1826, by\nC. COOTE, LL.D. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4\u00a000.\n\nNEVIUS'S CHINA. China and the Chinese: a General Description of the\nCountry and its Inhabitants; its Civilization and Form of Government;\nits Religious and Social Institutions; its Intercourse with other\nNations; and its Present Condition and Prospects. By the Rev. JOHN L.\nNEVIUS, Ten Years a Missionary in China. With a Map and Illustrations.\n12mo, Cloth, $1\u00a075.\n\nOLIN'S (DR.) LIFE AND LETTERS. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nOLIN'S (DR.) TRAVELS. Travels in Egypt, Arabia Petr\u00e6a, and the Holy\nLand. Engravings. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nOLIN'S (DR.) WORKS. The Works of Stephen Olin, D.D., late President of\nthe Wesleyan University. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nOLIPHANT'S CHINA AND JAPAN. Narrative of the Earl of Elgin's Mission\nto China and Japan, in the Years 1857, '58, '59. By LAURENCE OLIPHANT,\nPrivate Secretary to Lord Elgin. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3\u00a050.\n\nOLIPHANT'S (MRS.) LIFE OF EDWARD IRVING. The Life of Edward Irving,\nMinister of the National Scotch Church, London. Illustrated by his\nJournals and Correspondence. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. Portrait. 8vo, Cloth,\n$3\u00a050.\n\nPAGE'S LA PLATA. La Plata, the Argentine Confederation, and Paraguay.\nBeing a Narrative of the Exploration of the Tributaries of the River\nLa Plata and Adjacent Countries, during the Years 1853, '54, '55, and\n'56, under the Orders of the United States Government. New Edition,\ncontaining Farther Explorations in La Plata, during 1859 and '60. By\nTHOMAS J. PAGE, U.S.N., Commander of the Expeditions. With Map and\nnumerous Engravings. 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nPRIME'S COINS, MEDALS, AND SEALS. Coins, Medals, and Seals, Ancient\nand Modern. Illustrated and Described. With a Sketch of the History of\nCoins and Coinage, Instructions for Young Collectors, Tables of\nComparative Rarity, Price-Lists of English and American Coins, Medals,\nand Tokens, &c., &c. Edited by W. C. PRIME, Author of \"Boat Life in\nEgypt and Nubia,\" \"Tent Life in the Holy Land,\" &c., &c. 8vo, Cloth,\n$3\u00a050.\n\nSPRING'S SERMONS. Pulpit Ministrations; or, Sabbath Readings. A Series\nof Discourses on Christian Doctrine and Duty. By Rev. GARDINER SPRING,\nD.D., Pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in the City of New York.\nPortrait on Steel. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $6\u00a000.\n\nPOETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. The Poets of the Nineteenth Century.\nSelected and Edited by the Rev. ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT. With English and\nAmerican Additions, arranged by EVERT A. DUYCKINCK, Editor of\n\"Cyclop\u00e6dia of American Literature.\" Comprising Selections from the\nGreatest Authors of the Age. Superbly Illustrated with 132 Engravings\nfrom Designs by the most Eminent Artists. In elegant small 4to form,\nprinted on Superfine Tinted Paper, richly bound in extra Cloth,\nBeveled, Gilt Edges, $6\u00a000; Half Calf, $6\u00a000; Full Turkey Morocco,\n$10\u00a000.\n\nSHAKSPEARE. The Dramatic Works of William Shakspeare, with the\nCorrections and Illustrations of Dr. JOHNSON, G. STEEVENS, and others.\nRevised by ISAAC REED. Engravings. 6 vols., Royal 12mo, Cloth, $9\u00a000.\n\nSMILES'S LIFE OF THE STEPHENSONS. The Life of George Stephenson, and\nof his Son, Robert Stephenson; comprising, also, a History of the\nInvention and Introduction of the Railway Locomotive. By SAMUEL\nSMILES, Author of \"Self-Help,\" &c. With Steel Portraits and numerous\nIllustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3\u00a000.\n\nSMILES'S HISTORY OF THE HUGUENOTS. The Huguenots: their Settlements,\nChurches, and Industries in England and Ireland. By SAMUEL SMILES.\nWith an Appendix relating to the Huguenots in America. Crown 8vo,\nCloth, Beveled, $1\u00a075.\n\nSMILES'S SELF-HELP. Self-Help; with Illustrations of Character,\nConduct, and Perseverance. By SAMUEL SMILES. New Edition, Revised and\nEnlarged. 12mo, Cloth, $1\u00a000.\n\nSPEKE'S AFRICA. Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile. By\nCaptain JOHN HANNING SPEKE, Captain H.M. Indian Army, Fellow and Gold\nMedalist of the Royal Geographical Society, Hon. Corresponding Member\nand Gold Medalist of the French Geographical Society, &c. With Maps\nand Portraits and numerous Illustrations, chiefly from Drawings by\nCaptain GRANT. 8vo, Cloth, uniform with Livingstone, Barth, Burton,\n&c., $4\u00a000.\n\nSTRICKLAND'S (MISS) QUEENS OF SCOTLAND. Lives of the Queens of\nScotland and English Princesses connected with the Regal Succession of\nGreat Britain. By AGNES STRICKLAND. 8 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $12\u00a000.\n\nTHE STUDENT'S HISTORIES.\n\n France. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Gibbon. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Greece. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Hume. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Rome. By Liddell. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Old Testament History. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n New Testament History. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n Strickland's Queens of England. Abridged. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $2\u00a000.\n\nTENNYSON'S COMPLETE POEMS. The Complete Poems of Alfred Tennyson, Poet\nLaureate. With numerous Illustrations by Eminent Artists, and Three\nCharacteristic Portraits. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1\u00a000.\n\nTHOMSON'S LAND AND THE BOOK. The Land and the Book; or, Biblical\nIllustrations drawn from the Manners and Customs, the Scenes and the\nScenery of the Holy Land. By W. M. THOMSON, D.D., Twenty-five Years a\nMissionary of the A.B.C.F.M. in Syria and Palestine. With two\nelaborate Maps of Palestine, an accurate Plan of Jerusalem, and\nseveral hundred Engravings, representing the Scenery, Topography, and\nProductions of the Holy Land, and the Costumes, Manners, and Habits of\nthe People. 2 large 12mo vols., Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nTICKNOR'S HISTORY OF SPANISH LITERATURE. With Criticisms on the\nparticular Works, and Biographical Notices of Prominent Writers. 3\nvols., 8vo, Cloth, $5\u00a000.\n\nV\u00c1MB\u00c9RY'S CENTRAL ASIA. Travels in Central Asia. Being the Account of\na Journey from Teheran across the Turkoman Desert, on the Eastern\nShore of the Caspian, to Khiva, Bokhara, and Samarcand, performed in\nthe Year 1863. By ARMINIUS V\u00c1MB\u00c9RY, Member of the Hungarian Academy of\nPesth, by whom he was sent on this Scientific Mission. With Map and\nWoodcuts. 8vo, Cloth, $4\u00a050.\n\nWOOD'S HOMES WITHOUT HANDS. Homes Without Hands: being a Description\nof the Habitations of Animals, classed according to their Principle of\nConstruction. By J. G. WOOD, M.A., F.L.S., Author of \"Illustrated\nNatural History.\" With about 140 Illustrations, engraved by G.\nPearson, from Original Designs made by F. W. Keyl and E. A. Smith\nunder the Author's Superintendence. 8vo, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $4\u00a050.","title":"Free Russia","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":142692}