to change
his character and become a pilgrim, going to pray to the holy images
of Solovetsk, on the White Sea. There are four of these holy places to
which pious Russians resort, and everywhere the wayfarers are well
received, hospitality and alms being freely dispensed to those who are
going to pray for the peace of the donor. Passports are not rigorously
exacted, and he hoped to join himself to a company, trusting to be
less marked than if alone. As he was standing irresolute in the
market-place, a young man accosted him, and finding that they were
bound to the same place, invited him to join their party. There were
about twenty; but no less than two thousand were in the city on their
way, waiting until the thaw should have opened the Dwina for the rafts
and boats which would transport them to Archangel, and then to
Solovetsk. It was a scene for Chaucer: the half-idiot, who sought to
be a saint; the knave who played upon the charity of others; and the
astute hypocrite. The rafts are loaded with corn, and the pilgrims
receive a free passage; or a small sum of money is given them, if they
consent to row; from forty to sixty sailors being required for each,
the oars consisting of a thin fir-tree. Piotrowski was only too happy
to increase his small store of money by working. At the break of day,
before starting, the captain cried--"Seat yourselves, and pray to
God." Every one squatted down like a Mussulman for a moment, then rose
and made a number of salutations and crossings; and next, down to the
poorest, each threw a small piece of money into the river to secure a
propitious voyage.

Fifteen days passed, during which Piotrowski learned to be an expert
oarsman. Then the golden spires of Archangel rose before them; a cry
of joy was uttered by all; and the rowers broke off the lower parts of
their oars with a frightful crash, according to the universal custom.
It was a heartfelt prayer of gratitude that Piotrowski raised to God
for having brought him thus far in safety. How pleasant was the sight
of the ships, with their flags of a thousand colors, after the snow
and eternal forests of the Urals! But there was again disappointment.
He wandered along the piers, but could not find a single vessel bound
for France or Germany, and not daring to enter the cafes, where
perhaps the captains might have been, he left Archangel in sadness,
determined to skirt the coast towards Onega. He would thus pass the
celebrated monastery wi