usly influenced, not
through any effort of the reason, that ancient deeds and memories do, in
truth, linger about their birthplace.

Ancient frescoes, discovered about forty years ago, some remaining in
their original state, others touched up with more or less skill and
knowledge, mingle harmoniously with those of more recent date. Very
singular are the best preserved, representing hunting parties and
banquets of the Grand Princes, and scenes from the earthly life of
Christ. But they are on the staircase leading to the old-fashioned
gallery, and do not disturb the devotional character of the decoration
in the church itself.

From the wall of the apse behind the chief of the ten altars gazes down
the striking image of the Virgin, executed in ancient mosaic, with her
hands raised in prayer, whom the people reverently call "The
Indestructible Wall." This, with other mosaics and the frescoes on the
staircase, dates from the eleventh century.

I stood among the pillars, a little removed from the principal aisle,
one afternoon near sunset, listening to the melodious intoning of the
priest, and the soft chanting of the small week-day choir at vespers,
and wondering, for the thousandth time, why Protestants who wish to
intone do not take lessons from those incomparable masters in the art,
the Russian deacons, and wherein lies the secret of the Russian
ecclesiastical music. That simple music, so perfectly fitted for church
use, will bring the most callous into a devotional mood long before the
end of the service. Rendered as it invariably is by male voices, with
superb basses in place of the non-existent organ, it spoils one's taste
forever for the elaborate, operatic church music of the West performed
by choirs which are usually engaged in vocal steeplechases with the
organ for the enhancement of the evil effects. My meditations were
interrupted by the approach of a young man, who asked me to be his
godmother! He explained that he was a Jew from Minsk, who had never
studied "his own religion," and was now come to Kieff for the express
purpose of getting himself baptized by the name of Vladimir, the tenth
century prince and patron saint of the town. As he had no acquaintances
in the place, he was in a strait for god-parents, who were
indispensable.

"I cannot be your godmother," I answered. "I am neither _pravoslavnaya_
nor Russian. Cannot the priest find sponsors for you?"

"That is not the priest's place. His business is