The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1871-04-07
THE JOURNAL.



The writer Of the aGlimpses OF a
Russian Prison." in Chan'oerS
Jouraol, relates the following inter
esting anecdote:
GlSncing round the room, my eye
is arrested by q group OF three men,
who. having risen to look at me on
nv entrance, have instantly sat down
again. as if TOO busily occupied to
waste an7 Of their attention. The
midmost of the three is 8 little, lean,
wrinkled old man, whose brown,
dried up face, looks doubly dark in
the frame Of white hair in which it
is eneircled. He is apparently re-
iating a story, to which his two com
Panions (big brawny giants with
boards like a door matt are listening
With an eager, child-ike interest,
which contrasts strangely with their
mighty proportions. 1 draw near to
hearken, and to my surprise and de-
light, recognize in the story an old
friend; the legend of 'Illia Muro-
metz, the Crippled champion" one
Of the purest and loblest allegories
that ever amused the childhood of a
great nation. Unhappily, the old
mans version is not that Of the
quaint, racy, original, but one which
bears evident marks Of having been
improved" bv some critical deacon
Of the orthodox church; but the
shadowy beauty Of the glorious old
tradition makes itself seen through
every alienation. The narrator has
Just reached that part ofthe story
where the hero lila, after lying Grip
pied for thirty years, is endowed
with preturnstural strength by three
unknown men who visit him in the
guise Of beggars.
"And when lila ssw that he was
healed, he prayed the three men to
remain with him, that he might show
himself grateful for what they had
done. But they would not; and al
though he begged much, yet they
would not; so rs last he bade them
tell him their names, at least that he
might remember them before God.
And suddenly the face of him who
stood on the right, became the face
ofan old man with white hair and
large bright eyes, and around his
forehead was circle oflight; and he
said: I am ne who WAS slain for the
truths sase, and my name is Peter,
And the man on the left raised his
head, and showed a dark, resolute
face and grand high brow, crowned
with a circle of light like the others;
and he said: I am he who preached
to the heather, and my name is
Paul.
"And then the third laid his hand
softly on Illia's head, and said: The
next time you go into the church to
pray, look at the great picture above
the altar, and you viii know what
my name is
"And suddenly, as he spoke, on
His forehead shone a fiery cross,
which grew brighter and brighter
till lila was dazzled, and shut his
eyes; and when he opened them
again, the three strangers we're gone
Then lila knew who had been speak
ing with him; and he knelt down
and prayed one more"
As the narrator 'utters the l8st
words, the hard faces on either side
soften into a look of wondering de
light, which is very touching to see
To these poor fellows, whose whole
lives have been one long struggle
against every present want and mis-
cry, it is cheering to be told, even in
this rude and garbled form, Of pow
er which can stoop to aid even the
despised peasant, and, in the guise
Of a wauderer and outcast like
themselves, minister strength and
courage to afflicted mankind.