RUSSIAN MONASTERIES.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 3078, 9 May 1881, Page 4

RUSSIAN MONASTERIES.

TWO FAMOUS MUSCOVITE REIiICIOTTS EDIFICES.

I write at the open window of a Russian log hut, looking out upon a vast white, many-turreted wall, along which rise at intervals huge massive towers of glaring red, •with bright green roofs and quaintly carved battlements, the whole being suggestive of some ancient Tartar fortress. And, indeed, the Sergi-Troitza monastery has been a fortress of no small renown in its day, and has stood some of the hardest fighting recorded in history. But its former defenders ■would hardly recognise it now. The massive flanking towers have long since disappeared, The two great churches are now replaced by half a dozen smaller ones.' The formidable moat is a garden, the hard contested space around the wall a trim boulevard, the favorite promenade of the townsfolk in the cool of the evening. Only the iron gates that lurk within these deep, tunnel-like archways, and a few ru9t.y cannons lying helplessly in the dust beside them, remain as mementoes of one of the famous sieges on record. But, despite all its splendid national associations, the SSergi-Troitza monastery is inferior both in antiquity and in historical renown to Petcherskaya l.avra, at Kieff, which should be visited by every traveller who wishes to form a clear idea of that strange mingling of patriotism and superstition which is so marked a feature of the Russian character. The latter spot has a three-fold importance —of the oldest capital of .Russia after Novgorod, as her metropolis during the most glorious period of her early history, and as the scene of the final triumph of native Christianity over native heathenism. Nor is the aspect of Kieff in any way unworthy of its reputation. High upon the crest of a bold, rocky ridge stand the massive white ramparts and the shining towers of the famous " Lavra ' (monastery) planted on the very spot whence the rough hewn image of Peroun, the Thunder god, was hurled into the river nine centuries ago by the zeal of the newly-baptized Prince Vladimir Bulow. Spanned by the magnificent bridge which ranks among the wonders of Russia, the smooth, bright stream of the Dnieper sweeps around the base of the hill, along whose slopes lie outspread in endless profusion terraced gardens, and many colored houses, and golden cupolas, and tall, painted church towers, and broadwhite streets —all which, steeped in the brief, bright splendor of the Russian summer, burst upon the approaching traveller in one blase of glory. The glaringly modern aspect of the lower town may perhaps detract somewhat from the effect of the picture, but the ascent to the monastery itself is an ample atonement. Huge and massive with its moss grown walls, and quaintly carved turrets, and vast iron clamped gates, it seems like a relic of some perished world ; and one would hardly wonder to see the heavy doors swing open of themselves, revealing the couchant hounds, and slumbering sentinels, and tomb-like silence of the sleeping beauty's place. And, indeed, when the gates do open and a tall monk, with a long white beard flowing over his dark frock, admits us to the wide waste of grass grown courtyard within, we pass in one moment from the world of the living to that of the dead. From these gray towers overhead keen eyed sentinels watched ages ago for the first gleam of Tartar spears along the eastern sky. These shadowy cloisters, in which two or three robed and hooded figures are gliding, ghbst like, to and fro, witnessed the

same ceremonies and echoed the same prayers in days when wolves were prowling over the site of Moscow, and marsh frog 3 croaking upon that of St. Petersburg. But the catacombs of St. Anthony are still to be seen, and we stop a passing monk to ask the way to the " Podzemlie." The old man shakes his head j he cannot say, but if it please Heaven he will ask Brother Constantine. Brother Constantine being produced, is equally ignorant, but with the blessing of the saints he will ask Brother Theodosius. Brother Theodosius minutely directs us wrong, as do three or foul' others in sucoession, and only after a prolonged game of hide and-go seek we finally come out in front of a low, massy, iron studded door, already surrounded by a dozen expectant visitors. A tall, gaunt, cavaderous monk, fit. porter to the nether world, opens the door and leads us down a long, dark passage, ending at length in a small square chamber unpleasantly suggestive of a medieeval torture room. But the dim object in the farther corner, disI agreeably like a rack at first sight, proves to be nothing worse that a long oaken box, whence our guide takes a packet of consecrated tapers, which he distributed to us at the rate of 10 copecks (5 cents) each. This done, he unlocks a small door which we have hitherto overlooked, and right before us yawns the narrow, tomb-like mouth of the catacombs. As we light our candles and the heavy door closes behind us, our cadaverous leader encourages us by saying, in a hoarse whisper, " mind you keep together, for if one gets parted from the others, God help him !" The next hour is beyond the power of words to describe. In the blue, ghastly glimmer of our tapers, the clammy earth below, and the low ponderous roof above, and the damp, rugged misshapen rocks on either side, have a wierd unearthly look. The black mouths of the rock tunnels yawn dismally on every side, and countless channels wind spectrally away into the darkness, till the whole seems like a phantom of a troubled dream. In the depths of these sunless caverns, Bhut in by the gloom and silence of the grave, all sense of companionship is utterly blotted out. Touching one another at every step, we are nevertheless, each and all, as utterly alone as if upon a rock in mid-ocean. Onward, the echo of our footsteps sounding strangely loud amid the dead, grim silence. Not a bat flits overhead, not a mouse rustles below. Life has no place in these ghostly solitudes, but they are peopled nevertheless by inhabitants well worthy of them. On a sudden the gleam of our tapers is flashed back from jewels and cloth of gold, and a tall, commanding figure starts up out of the darkness right in our path. Its head is crowned with a jewelled mitre, its robes gay with splendid embroidery, but from beneath the gorgeous trappings gape the rattling jaws and eyeless sockets of a skeleton, and the patriarchal staff is clutched by the bony fingers of the grave. We pass hastily on, only to encounter fresh repetitions of the hideous mockery, and the sudden apparition of these bedizened spectres, amid the utter blackness and silence of this dismal sepulchre, has an indescribably ghastly effect. In these noisome dens lived and died, in the days when men thought to serve God by renouncing every duty of man, scores of those filthy maniacs called "Eastern Saints," and here they still remain, watching , through countless ages the scene of their pious folly. Little by little the awe which at first overwhelmed us changes to un- : mitigated disgust, and there is not one who does not draw a long breath of relief when, after a seemingly endless lapse of time, we hear a key in its rusty lock, and emerged into the daylight once more.