ONE glorious hymn or psalm, or anthem from the service followed another, the boys singing as naturally as the birds in the branches of the trees, the men with their marvellous, organ-like bass, no accompaniment, such as one felt one could hear nowhere else. Then we went into an inner room, where were gathered together most of the officials of the University, as well as ecclesiastics, standing deferentially, and listening attentively to what the Archbishop, who had seated me beside himself on a sofa, said to me in the way of appreciation and admiration for our country and its associations.*

I remember still, as distinctly as I felt it then, how I looked out through the window upon the beautiful garden, and blue sky beyond the monastery buildings, and said to myself, “This is Old Russia as it has been for centuries. The bloom is still upon the grape; all the old charm is here still. I wonder how long it will be so.” In a year’s time all had completely vanished and entirely gone, and whatever happens everyone must feel that in all such experiences as those, Russia can never be the same again.