The churches of the Greek faith present a general resemblance in their internal decorations.  There is a glitter of gold, silver, and flaring colors in the poorest.  Statues are not permitted, but the pictures of dark Saviours and Saints are generally covered with a drapery of silver, with openings for the head and hands.  Konewitz, however, boasts of a special sanctity, in possessing the body of Saint Arsenius, the founder of the monastery.  His remains are inclosed in a large coffin of silver, elaborately chased.  It was surrounded, as we entered, by a crowd of kneeling pilgrims; the tapers burned beside it, and at the various altars; the air was thick with incense, and the great bell still boomed from the misty tower.  Behind us came a throng of our own deck-passengers, who seemed to recognize the proper shrines by a sort of devotional instinct, and were soon wholly absorbed in their prayers and prostrations.  It is very evident to me that the Russian race requires the formulas of the Eastern Church; a fondness for symbolic ceremonies and observances is far more natural to its character than to the nations of Latin or Saxon blood.  In Southern Europe the peasant will exchange merry salutations while dipping his fingers in the holy water, or turn in the midst of his devotions to inspect a stranger; but the Russian, at such times, appears lost to the world.  With his serious eyes fixed on the shrine or picture, or, maybe, the spire of a distant church, his face suddenly becomes rapt and solemn, and no lurking interest in neighboring things interferes with its expression.

One of the monks, who spoke a little French, took us into his cell.  He was a tall, frail man of thirty-five, with a wasted face, and brown hair flowing over his shoulders, like most of his brethren of the same age.  In those sharp, earnest features, one could see that the battle was not yet over.  The tendency to corpulence does not appear until after the rebellious passions have been either subdued, or pacified by compromise.  The cell was small, but neat and cheerful, on the ground-floor, with a window opening on the court, and a hard, narrow pallet against the wall.  There was also a little table, with books, sacred pictures, and a bunch of lilacs in water.  The walls were whitewashed, and the floor cleanly swept.  The chamber was austere, certainly, but in no wise repulsive.

It was now growing late, and only the faint edges of the twilight glimmered overhead, through the fog.  It was not night, but a sort of eclipsed day, not much darker than our winter days under an overcast sky.  We returned to the tower, where an old monk took us in charge.  Beside the monastery is a special building for guests, a room in which was offered to us.  It was so clean and pleasant, and the three broad sofa-couches with leather cushions looked so inviting, that we decided to sleep there, in preference to the crowded cabin.  Our supply of shawls, moreover, enabled us to enjoy the luxury of undressing.