Apropos of priests and priesthood.  Whilst quietly at work yesterday morning my attention was suddenly called off, first by a hurried exclamation, and then the inharmonious—­ah, how utterly discordant!—­ding-donging of church-bells.  “Listen!” fell upon my ear:  “one of the secular priests belonging to St. Gregory’s church died two days ago, and is to be buried this morning.  They are still saying masses over his body, the church is packed, and it is a sight such as you may possibly not have an opportunity of again witnessing.”  In half an hour we were within the church-walls.  The place was already thronged, and the air close almost to suffocation.  Never can one forget that peculiar heat, the sort of indescribable vapor, that arose, and the perspiration that streamed down the faces of all present, each of whom, from the oldest to the youngest, carried a lighted candle.  After many vigorous efforts, and occasional collisions with the flaring tapers, the wax or tallow dropping at intervals upon our cloaks, we found ourselves at last in the centre of the edifice, immediately behind a dozen or more officiating priests clad in magnificent robes, before whom lay their late confrere reposing in his coffin, and dressed, according to custom, in his ecclesiastical robes.  Tall lighted candles draped with crape surrounded him, and the solemn chant had been going on around him ever since life had become extinct.  The dead in Russia are never left alone or in the dark.  Relays of singing priests take the places of those who are weary, and friends keep watch in an adjoining room.  The Russian temperament inclines to the strongest manifestation of the inmost feelings, and the method here of mourning for the dead is exceptionally demonstrative.  The corpse of the old priest lay surrounded by what was of bright colors or purest white, the coffin being of the last-mentioned hue.  Black was utterly proscribed.  The face and hands were half buried in a lacy texture, whilst on the brow was placed a label, “fillet-fashion,” on which was written “The Thrice Holy,” or Trisagion—­“O Holy God!  O Holy Mighty!  O Holy Immortal! have mercy upon us!”

Chant after chant ascended for the repose of his soul.  The deacon’s deep bass voice rose ever and anon in leading fashion, the other voices following suit.  There was of course no instrumental music.  This Russian singing is curiously unique—­of a character wholly different from any heard elsewhere.  It is weird in the extreme, and, if the expression be permissible, gypsy-like.  The deacons’ voices are of wonderful capability, the popular belief being that they are specially chosen on account of this peculiar power.  At last there came a pause.  Not only the priests’ and deacons’ voices, but those of the chanting men and boys—­alike unsurpliced and uncassocked, lacking, therefore, much of the attraction offered by a service in the Western Catholic Church—­had all at once ceased to be heard.  All were now pressing forward to kiss