caps, and the crowd on deck bent reverently towards the consecrated shores.  As we drew near, the granite fronts of the separate isles detached themselves from the plane in which they were blended, and thrust boldly out between the dividing inlets of blue water; the lighter green of birches and maples mingled with the sombre woods of coniferae; but the picture, with all its varied features, was silent and lonely.  No sail shone over the lake, no boat was hauled up between the tumbled masses of rock, no fisher’s hut sat in the sheltered coves,—­only, at the highest point of the cliff, a huge wooden cross gleamed white against the trees.

As we drew around to the northern shore, point came out behind point, all equally bold with rock, dark with pines, and destitute of any sign of habitation.  We were looking forward, over the nearest headland, when, all at once, a sharp glitter, through the tops of the pines, struck our eyes.  A few more turns of the paddles, and a bulging dome of gold flashed splendidly in the sun!  Our voyage, thus far, had been one of surprises, and this was not the least.  Crowning a slender, pointed roof, its connection with the latter was not immediately visible:  it seemed to spring into the air and hang there, like a marvellous meteor shot from the sun.  Presently, however, the whole building appeared,—­an hexagonal church, of pale-red brick, the architecture of which was an admirable reproduction of the older Byzantine forms.  It stood upon a rocky islet, on either side of which a narrow channel communicated with a deep cove, cleft between walls of rock.

Turning in towards the first of these channels, we presently saw the inlet of darkest-blue water, pushing its way into the heart of the island.  Crowning its eastern bank, and about half a mile distant, stood an immense mass of buildings, from the centre of which tall white towers and green cupolas shot up against the sky.  This was the monastery of Valaam.  Here, in the midst of this lonely lake, on the borders of the Arctic Zone, in the solitude of unhewn forests, was one of those palaces which Religion is so fond of rearing, to show her humility.  In the warm afternoon sunshine, and the singular luxuriance of vegetation which clothed the terraces of rock on either hand, we forgot the high latitude, and, but for the pines in the rear, could have fancied ourselves approaching some cove of Athos or Euboea.  The steamer ran so near the rocky walls that the trailing branches of the birch almost swept her deck; every ledge traversing their gray, even masonry, was crowded with wild red pinks, geranium, saxifrage, and golden-flowered purslane; and the air, wonderfully pure and sweet in itself, was flavored with delicate woodland odors.  On the other side, under the monastery, was an orchard of large apple-trees in full bloom, on a shelf near the water; above them grew huge oaks and maples, heavy with their wealth of foliage; and over the tops of these the level coping of the precipice, with a balustrade, upon which hundreds of pilgrims, who had arrived before us, were leaning and looking down.