heard of it with displeasure, and when he arrived at Pechora he struck off the head of the Abbot bowing in welcome of him. It is not the wall and the Archimandrite that make it holy, however, but the hermits and the caves.

Near this monastery live the Seta tribe, converted from Paganism to Orthodoxy only half a century ago. Though akin in language to Esthonians and Finns, they identify themselves through their religion more with the Russians than with the others. It is an obscure region, heavily forested, little visited, and possessed of many ancient peoples with outlandish customs.

I turned somewhat aside and visited Dorpat (Yurief, Tartu), and found it very full of educational life. The university is crowded with Esthonians. The nation is trying to educate itself at once. Every one wants a university education for his children. Girls have now the same opportunity as boys in this respect. Russian and German take a back seat. Education is conducted from an Esthonian point of view. Dorpat has, in fact, become a factory for a nation. Out of it the future Esthonia must grow. Esthonia, as I have said, is accidental and experimental, and, despite all qualifications, an interesting accident and an interesting experiment.

VI

IN THE CATHEDRAL AT REVAL

OFTEN in life one goes to do a certain thing and finds oneself doing something else, something quite unpremeditated and unexpected.

So I reflected, as with candle in hand I knelt on the stone floor of the Russian cathedral at Reval. Round about were a number of unfamiliar people doing the same, and in the midst of us was an open coffin on trestles and a Russian General lying in it facing towards the altar of the cathedral. A priest was saying prayers for the peace of his soul.

I had set out at four to find a certain Count X., once Minister at Rome, to whom I had an introduction. He was not at his rooms. They said to me there," Your best plan will be to go to the cathedral; he is bound to be there at seven o'clock."

So I went to the cathedral and inquired for

him at the door of one of those who sold candles.

Yes, he is there," said he, and led me into the congregation. I threaded a way in and out of the throng, and as I passed the coffin I looked upon the aged, peaceful, and simple face of the dead Russian General lying in state with his head gently raised upon a white pillow, a tiny ikon in one of his marble hands. The flowers of Esthonia were lavished at his feet. All was serene and beautiful there in the presence of the dead. The old soldier's many campaigns had closed at last. There was the peace of the stars on his brows and his eyes. "Count X. is not here. He was here. Perhaps he will come."

So with candle in hand I found myself waiting and, as it were, praying for the peace of a soldier's soul.

Then the candles were put out and collected on to trays, and the people got up from their knees and gathered into groups and conversed, but the Count did not come.

"Your best plan would be to come here the same time to-morrow," I was told.

Next day accordingly I did the same, and might have been seen in the midst of a much larger congregation looking wistfully at a coffin about which now were many more flowers.

Walking up the steep cobbled way to the cathedral I had noticed a man with no legs or thighs, a top of a man on a sort of tray on little wheels, struggling in the dust. He had wooden blocks in his hands, the size and shape of fourpound weights, and with these he moved his ragged buttock over the humps of the stones. Presently, as I knelt, I was aware of some movement behind me, at the door of the cathedral. Some one had lifted the cripple and, carrying him up the steep stone steps, had put him down by the door. Then, clack, clack with his wooden blocks he came forward toward the coffin and settled down a yard from where I knelt.

"He served under him," somebody had time to whisper, and the idea thrilled like a violin string in the soul, banishing all other thoughts than those of the dead General and the cripple.

The prayers for the dead went forward, and a marvellous bass voice searched the heavens above and the earth beneath, reverberating from stones and whispering about screens. The candles burned and lit up our faces, and then the candles were put out and our faces jumped into the grey light of the every-day. The priest gave his blessing and we went away.

Curiously enough, next Sunday morning, with

map in hand, Esthonian map, I painfully sought another address. The streets of Reval have each two or three different names. I was verifying turnings by their Esthonian names, and I came accidentally to the cathedral. I stopped. There was a crowd on the steps. One vast choric throng within was singing the "Eternal Memory " hymn, which swelled from the stone floors to the golden domes. Once more I found myself in the church. It was the moment of the bearing out of the dead. There issued forth a singing multitude and a man carrying on a velvet cushion the ribbons and medals and crosses of the soldier. Then came the many stretched hands of those holding or touching the coffin as it passed, and then the marvellous flower tribute. In the midst of the cortège I saw Count X.; in a corner of the cathedral waited the legless soldier. Many hearts beat as one, and it seemed as if somehow Russia for a moment realised herself in the presence of one who had lived and died for her.

"We

At another time I had a long talk with the Count which I will not repeat here. Russians are nothing", was the note of it. "I am nothing. I am a man sans état-look at my passport. Yes, the General was a fine old man ; served in all his country's wars, died in poverty