But alas for romance, the Russians are restoring the church, clearing away the old stones, chopping down the trees.  An ikon has been set up within the old building, and the latter is already a place of worship.  Once more:  to the eye of a monk a ruined temple is somewhat of an insult to God.  There is no fond antiquarianism; all the old Latin inscriptions and bas-reliefs that have been found have been mortared together at random into one wall; all the human bones that have been unearthed, and they are many, have been thrown unceremoniously into an open box.  Even on the bare white ribs and ancient crumbling skulls, bourgeois visitors have written their twentieth-century names.  Some ancient skeletons have been preserved in a case from pre-Mahometan times, and under them is written: 

  With love, we ask you, look upon us. 
  We were like you; you will be like us.

The recommendation is unavailing.  The bones have been picked up, passed from hand to hand, scrawled upon, joked over.  They are probably the remains of strong warriors and early Christians, and one can imagine with what peculiar sensations they, in their day, would have regarded this irreverence to their bones could they but have looked forward a thousand years or so.

It seemed to me, looking out from the watch-tower of Iver over the diminished monastery buildings and the vast and glorious sea, on that which must change and on that which in all ages remains ever the same, some reverence might have been begotten for that in the past which shows what we shall be in the future.  The monks might have spared the bones and buried them; they might have left the ruins as they were.

I am told that in a few years the work of restoration will be completely achieved, services will be held regularly on the mountain top, and peasant pilgrims will gladly, if patiently, climb morning and evening up the stone way to the church, having no thoughts of any time but that in which they are worshipping.  The Russian is racially young.  He is in the morning and full of prophecy; only in the evening will his eye linger here in the emotions of romance.

Life at the monastery is new life; it is morning there—­it is indeed only a little after the dawn.  The day is as yet cool and sweet, and it gives many promises.  We can see what the morning is like if we will journey thither.

III

I

THE BOY WHO NEVER GROWS OLD

Up to Christmas we are walking with the kings to the Babe’s cradle, to the birth of new life and new hope.  High in the heavens, and yet before us over the hard frost-bitten way, gleams the guiding star whose promise we divine.  After Christmas we are walking with the spring, with a new, young, whispering child-life in the old heart.  Though the winds be cold and snow sweep over the land, we know that winter and death are spent.  Whilst