cut in plain and rather uncouth
fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed
to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bare-
headed--sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them, a tall
man, was speaking, as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what
he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn "to the
glory of God"--that was the word. It was a strange-sounding hymn, as
well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all
kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who could sing and of
those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and all joined
heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd
consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers, and mechanics, and
their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people, people of no
account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn
was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have
recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on
occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious
solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band
was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their
melodious tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals--on the ice of
the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble
beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and
ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in
advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of
giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its
swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph--when the hymn was over,
another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much
younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the
middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much
intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in
which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some
distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could
remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at
ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement.
The speaker was evidently not a practised one--once or twice he hesitated
as if for wo