St. George was able to defend his cells and shrines; and in all the
ravages committed by Tartar hordes, the rich convent near Lake Ilmen
was never profaned by Moslem hoof. Cold critics assume that the belt
of peat and bog lying south of Novgorod for a hundred miles was the
true defense; but the poets of Novgorod assert, in many a song and
tale, that they owed their safety from the infidel spoilers to no
freak of nature and no arm of flesh. St. George defended his convent
and his city by a standing miracle; and, in return for his protecting
grace, the people of this province came to kneel and pray, as their
fathers for a thousand years have knelt and prayed, before his holy
shrine.
My visit to the Convent of St. George is paid (in company with Father
Bogoslovski, Russian pope, and Mr. Michell, English diplomat) on the
autumnal festival of the saint. Three or four thousand pilgrims,
chiefly from the town and province of Novgorod, camp in a green
meadow; their carts unyoked; their horses tethered to the ground;
their camp-fires lighted here and there. Each pilgrim brings a present
to St. George; a load of hay, a sack of flour, a pot of wax, a roll of
linen, an embroidered flag. That poor old creature, who can hardly
walk, has brought him a ball of thread; a widow's mite, as welcome as
an offering in gold and silver. Booths are built for the sale of bread
and fruit; tea is fizzing on fifty stalls; grapes, nuts, and apples
are sold on every side. The peasants are warmly and brightly clad: the
men in sheep-skin vests, fur caps, and boots; the women in damask
gowns and jackets, quilted and puckered, the edges fringed with silver
lace. A fine day tempts the women and children to throw themselves on
the green in groups. Monks move among the crowd; country folk stare at
the finery; hawkers chaffer with the girls; and more than one
transparent humbug makes a market of relics and pious ware. Every one
is in holiday humor; and the general aspect of the field in front of
the convent gates is that of a village fair, with just a dash of the
revival camp.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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