of God,” or some similar term; or it may be derived from the name of the boy’s native village, or from any other word which the Bishop thinks fit to choose.  I know of one instance where a Bishop chose two French words for the purpose.  He had intended to call the boy Velikoselski, after his native place, Velikoe Selo, which means “big village”; but finding that there was already a Velikoselski in the seminary, and being in a facetious frame of mind, he called the new comer Grandvillageski—­a word that may perhaps sorely puzzle some philologist of the future.

My reverend teacher was a tall, muscular man of about forty years of age, with a full dark-brown beard, and long lank hair falling over his shoulders.  The visible parts of his dress consisted of three articles—­a dingy-brown robe of coarse material buttoned closely at the neck and descending to the ground, a wideawake hat, and a pair of large, heavy boots.  As to the esoteric parts of his attire, I refrained from making investigations.  His life had been an uneventful one.  At an early age he had been sent to the seminary in the chief town of the province, and had made for himself the reputation of a good average scholar.  “The seminary of that time,” he used to say to me, referring to that part of his life, “was not what it is now.  Nowadays the teachers talk about humanitarianism, and the boys would think that a crime had been committed against human dignity if one of them happened to be flogged.  But they don’t consider that human dignity is at all affected by their getting drunk, and going to—­to—­to places that I never went to.  I was flogged often enough, and I don’t think that I am a worse man on that account; and though I never heard then anything about pedagogical science that they talk so much about now, I’ll read a bit of Latin yet with the best of them.

“When my studies were finished,” said Batushka, continuing the simple story of his life, “the Bishop found a wife for me, and I succeeded her father, who was then an old man.  In that way I became a priest of Ivanofka, and have remained here ever since.  It is a hard life, for the parish is big, and my bit of land is not very fertile; but, praise be to God!  I am healthy and strong, and get on well enough.”

“You said that the Bishop found a wife for you,” I remarked.  “I suppose, therefore, that he was a great friend of yours.”

“Not at all.  The Bishop does the same for all the seminarists who wish to be ordained:  it is an important part of his pastoral duties.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed in astonishment.  “Surely that is carrying the system of paternal government a little too far.  Why should his Reverence meddle with things that don’t concern him?”

“But these matters do concern him.  He is the natural protector of widows and orphans, especially among the clergy of his own diocese.  When a parish priest dies, what is to become of his wife and daughters?”