and filth; his great, brawny form
resembling that of a prize-fighter; his costume a ragged blouse, with
loose trowsers thrust in his boots; such a wretch, in short, as you
would select for an unmitigated ruffian if you were in want of a model
for that character--take off his cap, and, with superstitious awe and
an expression of profound humility, bow down before some picture of a
dragon with seven heads or a chubby little baby of saintly parentage.

That these poor people are sincere in their devotion there can be no
doubt. Their sincerity, indeed, is attested by the strongest proofs of
self-sacrifice. A Russian will not hesitate to lie, rob, murder, or
suffer starvation for the preservation of his religion. Bigoted though
he may be, he is true to his faith and devoted to his forms of
worship, whatever may be his short-comings in other respects. It is a
part of his nature; it permeates his entire being. Hence no city in
the world, perhaps--Jerusalem not excepted--presents so strange a
spectacle of religious enthusiasm, genuine and universal, mingled with
moral turpitude; monkish asceticism and utter abandonment to vice;
self-sacrifice and loose indulgence. It may be said that this is not
true religion--not even what these people profess. Perhaps not; but it
is what they are accustomed to from infancy, and it certainly develops
some of their best traits of character--charity to each other,
earnestness, constancy, and self-sacrifice.

On the morning after my arrival in Moscow I witnessed from the window
of my hotel a very impressive and melancholy spectacle--the departure
of a gang of prisoners for Siberia. The number amounted to some two or
three hundred. Every year similar trains are dispatched, yet the
parting scene always attracts a sympathizing crowd. These poor
creatures were chained in pairs, and guarded by a strong detachment of
soldiers. Their appearance, as they stood in the street awaiting the
order to march, was very sad. Most of them were miserably clad, and
some scarcely clad at all. A degraded, forlorn set they were--filthy
and ragged--their downcast features expressive of an utter absence of
hope. Few of them seemed to have any friends or relatives in the crowd
of by-standers; but in two or three instances I noticed some very
touching scenes of separation--where wives came to bid good-by to
their husbands, and children to their fathers. Nearly every body gave
them something to help them on their way--a fe