The daily morning journal and courier., 1901-11-14
IN IRKJTTsK CATHEDRAL.

l
 IN IRKUTSK CATHEDRAL. | At sundown on the Saturday night | the air soft, fragrant, and full of pei | lucid 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 1 with wooden hammers.
 | With friend l drove to the cathedral a distance from the town, as every l thing is in Siberia. It, however, has not the Slavonic demure prettiness of the other churches. It is new. It is a huge doomed structure, a sort of minia- 1 ture St. Peters, 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 l squat wrinkle-faced, sore-eyed, and | twisted-limbed old men stretching pal sled 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 weird 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 coV-
 CTS the floor, and on 1t 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 even
 ing, ostentation fades away. Every
 where 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 rev. erence.
 But something better than incense fills the air It is the sound of mems voices There is no organ; there are no stringed instruments There is choir of men and their threats have deep richness. With the majesty of Greg brian 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 screen swings open. There are priests, long haired and long -whiskered, in heavy canonical robes, silver-twined. One, tall man, sallow faced, lustre 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 forheads.
 Beyond the screen, within the Holy of Holies, where lights flicker on cross, is an old priest elevating his hands and praying.
 Upon his prayer like a wave breaks pillow 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 be- fore the altar they make the sign of the cross Far more than half those pres ent are women.
 Here comes a lady, dark featured, we'll derssed, with fashionable cape up- on her shoulders, and on her head a bonnet that might have come from Re gent 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 prayes with her forhead on the ground. She moves to another pie ture.
 There is peasant, heavily bearded, his sun-burned face rugged and fur rowed He wears red shirt, velvet trousers, and big boots. He has no taper, but he stands taut, like soldier, and he crosses himself and bows and cries, Lord have mercy" The big voice of the singers scars over all re- beating the liturgy in Slavonic.
 A gentleman in 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 hu- nor asserts itself and they grin. At last they are fixed and the lads stand watching the candles with a half amused glance, wondering if there 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 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 newborn son. There were many, many tapers gefore this icon, which | glowed with a special radiance.
 To this the old woman came with | cIasped and knotted hands. Her face | was upturned, and the full gleam of the |