Waterbury Democrat

AS SEEN BY A PROTESTANT.
A Saturday Night Visit to the Cathedral of Irkutsk

At sundown on the Saturday night -the air soft, fragrant and full of pellucid blueness-all Irkutsk seemed to clang with bells calling the faithful to prayers. It was a mellow, vibrant sound, for the bells, many toned, were struck with wooden hammers.

With a friend I drove to the cathedral-a distance from the town, as everything is in Siberia. It, however. has not the Slavonic demure prettiness of the other churches. It is new. It is a. huge, domed structure, a sort of miniature St Peter's. stucco faced and drab colored. It stands on a sandy waste and has a cramped appearance.

A long covered colonnade with steps leads up to the church, and on them squat wrinkle faced, core eyed and twisted limbed old men stretching palsied arms for charity.

At the top of the steps as we push open the glass door, the thick aroma of incense fills the nostrils. Dusk has fallen and a wierd gloom, broken by a hundred taper lights, pervades the church. The cup of the dome is blue. sprinkled with golden stars. There are no pews or seats. A purple carpet covers the floor, and on it are kneeling men and women.

In front is a great screen of gold, and the candle lights catch cornices and make them glow like shafts from the sun. Possibly all this massed gold would be ostentatious in the light of day. But now. in the softness of the evening. ostentation fades away. Everywhere. are pictures of saints. and before them stand heavy candelabra with a hundred sockets. It is for the devout to bring their tapers, fix them and do reverence.

But something better than incense fills the air. It is the sound of men's voices. There is no organ; there are no stringed instruments. There is a choir of men and their voices have deep richness. With the majesty of a Gregorian chant they sing their Slavonic adoration, but tinged with pity, like the low melody of wind on the plains.

A door in the middle of the sereen swings open, There are priests, long haired and long whiskered, in heavy canonical robes. silver twined. One, a tall man, sallow faced, luster eyed, his black beard that of a young man, his hair falling over his: shoulders, came forward swaying a censer. He stood on the step and in voice of sweetness and strength cried:. "Gospodi pomilui, Lord have mercy!" His face is like that of Christ-not an unusual type among Russian priests.

"Gospodi pomilui" responded the worshippers, kneeling and touching the ground with their foreheads.

Beyond the screen. within the Holy of Holies, where lights flicker on a cross, is an old priest elevating his hands and praying.

Upon his prayer like a wave breaks a billow of sound from the choristers. And the people who had come to pray cry, "Lord, have mercy; Lord, have mercy: Lord, have mercy!" many times.

The light is dim. The tapers blink before the gold encompassed saints: the cathedral is full of music and incense.

There are worshippers continually coming. They carry tapers. some only one, some many. and as they bow before the altar they make the sign of the cross.. Far more than half those present are women.

Here comes a lady. dark featured. well dressed, with. fashionable cape upon her shoulders. and on her head a bonnet that might have come from Regent street. She goes to the picture of a saint, makes obeisance, and then, she lights a taper from another taper. To make it grip she puts the end of her taper in the flame for a second. and presses it tight in the little gilt socket. Then she goes to the picture, kisses the foot of the saint, and, kneeling. crosses herself and prays with her forehead on the ground.

She moves to another picture.

There is a peasant, heavily bearded. his sun-burned face rugged and furrowed, He wears red shirt, velvet trousers, and big boots. He has no taper. but stands taut, like a soldier, and he crosses himself and bows and cries, "Lord have mercy." The big voice of the singers soars over all repeating the liturgy in Slavonic.

A gentleman in a frock coat. be-gloved, and carrying a cane comes forward, takes his candle, bows, and goes away.

A couple of slim boys. in the dull gray uniform of the gymnasium, hurry along. They stand heel-clapped and with dexterous wrist make the cross signs. They light their tapers. But the tapers won't stick up right in their sockets. They are well-behaved little fellows. but as the tapers will persist in toppling over. the boyish sense of humor asserts itself. and they grin. At last they are fixed. and the lads stand watching the candles with a half- amused glance. wondering if they are to be any more tricks. No, they hold. Then the boys swing round, make their bows and hasten away.

Here comes tottering an old lady-a very old woman. short and bent. and with a black shawl round her head. From that rim of black shawl peers a worn face, the upper lip fallen in, the eyes sunken and dull, and yet with that beautiful resignation showing through the countenance you often see on the faces of old women whose thoughts are not of this world. There was a picture of the Madonna and Child-the young mother with eyes all love looking upon her new-born son. There were many tapers before this icon. which glowed with a special radiance.

To this the old woman came with clasped and knotted hands. Her face was upturned. and the full gleam of the tapers fell upon it. There was a yearning in the sunken eyes. The dried, yellow lips quivered. The bones of the old woman ached, for she groaned as she knelt. She lowered her face to the ground, and there she stayed long. a dark. crouching figure of adoration before.the picture. when she looked up there were no tears; only I think there was a brighter light in the eyes than before. She rose. With faltering steps she went to the picture and reverently kissed the feet of the child. then she kissed the arm that held him,
The old woman finds peace and comfort to her soul, and may be sees the lifting of the curtain. It is not for one of another faith to say aught in disparagement. It is a pathetic sight. So I nudge my companion, and we come away.-Correspondence of the London Daily News.