rays of glory springing from his head; the
picture was hung up in a frame, and a small church
built on the spot where he died. To this church
resorted many thousands every year on the
anniversary of Ids death, the ninth of May. They
who had diseases were healed, the lame walked,
and the blind saw, after a visit to Colpino on the
saint's day. By-and-by the Empress Catherine
established at this place a cannon-foundry, and
brought Gasgoine, from Carron, in Scotland,
to teach her to make guns. He brought more
people, and she also sent a host of Russians, so
the little church became too small, besides being
found at an inconvenient distance from the great
new village. Then there was built a grand new
church, as large and handsome as any ordinary
saint could desire, for Nikoli; and as he had been
a source of great profit in the old church, it was
deemed that he would be more profitable than ever
in the new one. They thought, therefore, to
remove him; and one day they did, with great pomp
and ceremony, remove him from among his old
friends and old faces. The ceremony over and the
door locked, the popes retired to play at cards
at a party in Vassilia Petrovitch's grand go-
vernment house. But if Nikoli came to Colpino
on a stone without any free will of his own, he
was not going to be removed from his old
comfortable quarters by the will of the priests
without his own sanction, so he got up in the night,
kicked open the door, walked three miles back
to his dear old church, and hung himself up
again on his old nail, close to the altar. There
he was found in the morning. The priests
were not to be put out by an old picture, so they
took Nikoli back, double nailed him, rolled
stones to the door of the church, and set a
watch. It wouldn't do. Nikoli came out at
a window, and was found in his old berth on the
morning of the second day. The priests now
appealed to the empress, who sent Potemkin to
negotiate with the saint, and after considerable
trouble he managed to bring the old fellow to
terms. Nikoli consented to be removed, on the
condition that on the ninth of May in every
year for all time to come, a procession of great
priests should carry him on a visit to the old
church, and carry him back. For, he was
determined that the people should have this
opportunity of receiving his blessing and enjoying his
miraculous healing powers. This is the legend;
now for its effects.

For a week previous to the ninth of May, I
have seen the principal road to Colpino gradually
assuming the appearance of a road leading to
some great fair. Pilgrims of all ages and both
sexes begin to pass me first singly and at
intervals, then by groups in closer file, until the
road is covered with weary travel-stained footsore
and hungry-looking travellers. Many of them
come from far distances, two or three hundred
miles away. The great proportion are not
moushuks, or mere peasants, but very respectably-
dressed persons above the rank of serfs, and
evidently possessing means. They are nearly
all barefoot, and carry the pilgrim's staff and
wallet. They must not enter a house on
their journey, unless they would spoil the
blessing they expect. The sun may be blazing
on their devoted heads, the rain may be coming
down in torrents—this does not signify, on flows
the stream of devotees. I have seen them ill
and sick and fainting, and I have seen cordials
given to them by kind English women. The
lame pass, and the blind, and the rheumatic, and
people afflicted with various diseases; sick
children in the arms of their fond mothers, and
old tottering age supported by stalwart sons and
daughters. On the eighth the road is densely
crowded; the Petersburg pilgrims, who do not
take the liberty " to boil their peas," start in
the evening to walk all night, and arrive in good
time in the morning. For those who do " boil
their peas," trains run to Colpino, beginning
early on the ninth, and pour out their teeming
freight at the stations every half hour until
twelve o'clock. Those who can command a
team, drive clown, instead of mixing with the
poorer sinners in the train. The pedestrians
and more sincere dupes have by this time reached
the spot, so that on the final day carriages
only are seen on the road.

I have been present at Colpino Place on the
evening of the eighth, and have seen from fifteen
thousand to twenty thousand wayfarers such
as I have described, lying in the wind and rain
all night around the church. I have been
there on the ninth, and have seen this
number doubled by fresh arrivals from Petersburg
by train and road. Taking my stand at
ten o'clock to see the procession, which begins
at noon, I have had to wait until one, because
Nikoli would not consent to move, until the
large iron box for offerings was filled with
money. I have gone into the church and taken
my hat off to as ugly an old saint as it is
possible to see; I have waited, not I am afraid in a
very patient frame of mind, until my eyes have
been gladdened by the sight of the holy banners,
old tawdry and motheaten images and pictures,
to the number of thirty, carried each by two
priests clothed in sacred vestments. Then I
have seen this great multitude rushing, crushing,
squeezing, and pushing, to get into the line of
march, and prostrating themselves in the mud in a
long line huddled together, a mile long and more,
enjoying the extreme felicity of having these
banners and pictures— but especially old Nikoli
— in a wormeaten frame, carried over them by
the priests, who trod without mercy on the poor
superstitious slaves. Then, as I have thought of
the Indian Juggernaut, I have had my hat
knocked over my ears, because I forgot to take
it off as the humiliating spectacle passed by.
I have followed this immense crowd with my eyes,
as the people rushed again and again to be
trampled over by the priests, and throw
themselves again and again in the mud and dirt before
and under the images. I have heard of miraculous
cures effected on that great day; of those who
came blind, going away seeing; of those who
came on crutches, going away without them; of
those who brought rheumatisms, leaving them
behind; and even of women who never had