but small wings and a large body like grasshoppers, they cannot fly far, nor can they pour the light of faith or the sweets of consolation into the fogs of our native land, where, from wooded dale to wooded dale, our Christ wanders, so blessed, so kind, and above all so patient, that He has taught even the worst of His servants to look submissively on the destruction of His work by those who ought to fear it most. We have become used to submit to everything, because this is not the first snow to fall on our heads. There was a time when "Our Book of Faith" was hidden, and a hammer of German workmanship was placed in our hands; they wanted to cut our hair, shave us and transform us into little abbés. One benefactor, Golitzin, ordered us to preach his crazy divinity; another, Protasov, shook his finger under our very noses; while a third, Chebyshev, excelled all the others and openly uttered "corrupt words" in the market place as well as in the Synod, affirming that there is no God, and to talk of Him is stupid. It is impossible to guess whom we shall meet next, and how some new cock or other may yet crow to us. The one consolation is that all these zealots of the Russian Church will not injure her, because theirs is an unequal struggle: the Church is indestructible like the apostolic edifice; the spirit will pass from these singers,
