Beyond this point, the inlet widened into a basin where the steamer had room to turn around.  Here we found some forty or fifty boats moored to the bank, while the passengers they had brought (principally from the eastern shore of the lake, and the district lying between it and Onega) were scattered over the heights.  The captain pointed out to us a stately, two-story brick edifice, some three hundred feet long, flanking the monastery, as the house for guests.  Another of less dimensions, on the hill in front of the landing-place, appeared to be appropriated especially to the use of the peasants.  A rich succession of musical chimes pealed down to us from the belfry, as if in welcome, and our deck-load of pilgrims crossed themselves in reverent congratulation as they stepped upon the sacred soil.

We had determined to go on with our boat to Serdopol, at the head of the lake, returning the next morning in season for the solemnities of the anniversary.  Postponing, therefore, a visit to the church and monastery, we climbed to the summit of the bluff, and beheld the inlet in all its length and depth, from the open, sunny expanse of the lake to the dark strait below us, where the overhanging trees of the opposite cliffs almost touched above the water.  The honeyed bitter of lilac and apple blossoms in the garden below steeped the air; and as I inhaled the scent, and beheld the rich green crowns of the oaks which grew at the base of the rocks, I appreciated the wisdom of Sergius and Herrmann that led them to pick out this bit of privileged summer, which seems to have wandered into the North from a region ten degrees nearer the sun.  It is not strange if the people attribute miraculous powers to them; naturally mistaking the cause of their settlement on Valaam for its effect.

The deck was comparatively deserted, as we once more entered the lake.  There were two or three new passengers, however, one of whom inspired me with a mild interest.  He was a St. Petersburger, who, according to his own account, had devoted himself to Art, and, probably for that reason, felt constrained to speak in the language of sentiment.  “I enjoy above all things,” said he to me, “communion with Nature.  My soul is uplifted, when I find myself removed from the haunts of men.  I live an ideal life, and the world grows more beautiful to me every year.”  Now there was nothing objectionable in this, except his saying it.  Those are only shallow emotions which one imparts to every stranger at the slightest provocation.  Your true lover of Nature is as careful of betraying his passion as the young man who carries a first love in his heart.  But my companion evidently delighted in talking of his feelings on this point.  His voice was soft and silvery, his eyes gentle, and his air languishing; so that, in spite of a heavy beard, the impression he made was remarkably smooth and unmasculine.  I involuntarily turned to one of the young Finnish sailors, with his handsome, tanned face, quick, decided