special miraculous power. The original image, which is in the chapel of the old church, was disfigured by the Tartars, who cut great gashes by shooting arrows across the cheek of the Virgin. Several attempts were made to paint out these gashes, but they always reappeared again -says the tradition and so a miracle was pronounced and the scars left untouched. They can be seen to-day. The picture, is set up at frequent intervals on the church walls, and wherever there is a picture there you are sure to find a group of kneeling worshippers. mild, brown-faced woman, who has heard the fervent, frantic prayers of generations-nay, centuries-and has never changed expression, seems to look down sadly, one might almost say pityingly, on it all.

This

Before this picture in the courtyard every one kneels and murmurs a prayer. The stones in this courtyard are in places literally worn into basins by the genuflections of the faithful. This is the first station; and here the strange, wonderful, picturesque panorama of Middle-Age devotion begins. At the entrance to the church itself sits a priest gathering money. He asks, begs, pleads, expostulates, argues, commands, threatens, suggests, hints, intimates, demands, suiting his method of address to the worldly station and character of the pilgrim. It is a true democracy of religion here. The kid-gloved aristocrat (a few of these come to Chenstohova) walks by the side. of the brown, dirty, barefooted peasant.

The new church is a great building of grey stone, with a black iron tower, that can be seen for miles around. This tower was destroyed by fire two or three days after my visit to the church, but is being rapidly rebuilt and restored to its former grandeur. The new church is built over and around the old edifice, which is in a fair state of preservation. Most of the buildings have been restored, the finishing touches having been put on in 1845. The ponderous bronze doors were hung fourteen years later.

Through a massive stone portal one enters a spacious vestibule with a groined roof, adorned with paintings. On the side panels of the entrance are painted portraits of Stephen and Wladislaus, kings of Hungary, although why these are given the place of honour it is difficult

to say. To the right, on a black marble cross, is a half life-size brass figure of the Christ. Dust and cobwebs cling to the cross and to the head and shoulders of the image, but the brass toe sparkles and glitters like the sun. Osculation for generations has proved an admirable polish. Every one, old and young, pauses to kiss the foot of the Saviour's image. The first altar is but a few steps farther on-a figure of the Virgin and child in silver, surrounded by many candles and flowers.

A sharp turn to the right, carefully picking one's way through the prostrate worshippers, who keep coming till there is literally not a free square foot on the floor of the room and entering corridor, and the great nave comes into view. It is a cathedral in size, with splendid groined roof, frescoed with paintings. As one enters the church itself and gets beyond the current of fresh air from the outside, the atmosphere of the interior becomes stifling. An effluvium such as can only come from three to four thousand human beings, to most of whom a bath has been unknown all their lives, closely packed together on an August day, can, as the novelists say, be better imagined than described. One can almost see it hovering over the congregation in waves, as heat rises and shimmers over a chimney.

As one grows more accustomed to this atmosphere one notices a sea of kneeling and prostrate forms in various stages of religious hysteria, depression and that peculiar exaltation so common among Slavonic peasants. A wail or groan from an old woman who lies "in the form of a cross" (as did Kmita, Volodiyovski, King Jan Kasimir), beating her aged head with its white locks against the stone floor, comes from one side. From the other arises a triumphant cry as an equally aged, venerable man rocks himself to and fro in an ecstasy, his prayerbook gripped convulsively, his eyes rolling in almost a frenzy.

There is an order of procession-a series of stations and every one follows this order as he enters, so that there is a continuous stream of worshippers passing through the different halls and chapels. Mothers with little brown, naked children stretch them out pleadingly to the image on some favourite

altar. Old men kneel and lean their feeble heads on sticks, while they tell their beads mumblingly with toothless gums.

One has to be careful in moving among the recumbent forms. One may tread on some worshipper who has humbled himself so as to touch with his tongue the stone pavement, dusty and soiled with the passage of five or six thousand feet. I all but stepped on the form of a young peasant girl. By the dim light that filters through the stained-glass windows I saw a girl's form slightly more slender than the usual peasant build, clad in the most vivid of colouring-blue bodice, red skirt, flaming yellow and green head kerchief, dotted with red roses. She was lying prone on her face in the form of a cross. Her breast was heaving, and sobs shook her entire frame. Again and again the quivering lips touched the dusty, dirty stones of the floor, and slowly as the prayers were recited one by one, a little pool of saliva and tears collected on the marble. She was calling frantically on the Virgin of Chenstohova for a boon.

Through all the susurration of prayer and groan the great organ pealed out its thunderous, vibrant tones, and a fine choir chanted the service. The music was Eastern, with a strange blend of harp, blare and bell effect. Away up in front, beneath the great altar, with its crowns, golden rays and mass of ornamentation, a gorgeously attired priest was saying Mass. But no one-or not one in fifty of the congregation-heard him. When he reached the point for response those near him began the chant, and then it vibrated and shuddered in mighty crescendo and diminuendo through the entire company.

It was too much to grasp at once-too much strain on the body and nerves. So, literally fighting my way out into the fresh air, I sat down on one of the old grass-grown mounds within hearing of the triumphant organ peals, and looked off to where the Swedes came up and drew their cordon of bullet and fire about the devoted church. To the right the bronze figure of the priest Kordetski lifts a hand in benison. In front is a statue of John the Baptist. To the left is the entrance to the old church, the chapel of the famous Virgin of Chenstohova. It

is a comparatively small room, but on that day it was crowded so that it was almost literally impossible for the worshippers to prostrate themselves. They could barely find space to stand upright. There was less light there than in the main chapel, and the congregation was quieter, apparently awed by the proximity of the revered altar. Here and there a confession box looms up above the mass of heads. A peasant was whispering his confession, then he seized the priest's hand, kissed it passionately, crossed himself and made his way by slow stages, with infinite toil and patience, through the densely packed mass up to the altar, which is railed off from the main room by heavy iron bars extending from floor to ceiling.

In the chapel there was a ruddy gloom not entirely dispersed by the rays of candles burning on the altar. Coloured rays fell also through the window-panes; and all these gleams, red, violet, golden, fiery, quivered on the walls, slipped along the carvings and windings, made their way into dark depths, bringing forth to sight indistinct forms buried, as it were, in a dream. Mysterious glimmers ran along and united with darkness, so indistinguishable that all difference between light and darkness was lost. The candles on the altar had golden halos; the smoke from the censers formed purple mist; the white robes of monks serving Mass played with the darkened colours of the rainbow. All things there were half visible, half veiled, unearthly; the gleams were unearthly, the darkness unearthly, mysterious, majestic, blessed, filled with prayer, adoration and holiness.

tires the eye to look at them, even in the twilight of the altar. The image scintillates and corruscates, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, garnets, amethysts, topazes, pearls blinking like eyes as the light from the swinging lamps spreads in glistening, glistering waves over the picture. On the walls gold and silver ornaments, casts of sacred relics, mirrors, rosaries of coral and pearl flash and glitter and gleam. A massive golden crown above the picture stands out prominently, with golden figures, hearts, swords, pens flanking it.

Jasna Góra is the Mecca of the Poles, and it is difficult for a foreigner to appre

ciate how much this means to them until he understands how closely welded and, indeed, identified are patriotism and religion in Poland. In the words of a refined, intelligent Polish gentleman of my acquaintance, "A visit to Jasna Góra means more, much more to a patriotic Polish Catholic than would a pilgrimage to St. Peter's at Rome or to our Saviour's tomb at Jerusalem."

III.

"PAN MICHAEL"-THE FALL OF ΚΑΜΕΝΕΤΖ.

The story of With Fire and Sword opens on the steppes with that vivid bit of description, the meeting of Skshetuski and Hmelnitski. The scene then moves westward, and movement culminates at Zbaraj. Pan Michael is almost exclusively a story of the steppes. Its theatre of action is the Ukraine and Podolia, those immense plains of southern and western Russia which at the time of which the novel treats were a portion of the Polish Commonwealth, extending southward even to the Crimea.

At the time with which Pan Michael deals these plains were the theatre of stirring events. Through the machinations of Louis XIV. of France, the Turks invaded Poland, and Sobieski was sent to guard the frontier. He defeated the invaders at all points in such short order that the rest of Europe called his exploit "the miraculous campaign." The little knight Volodiyovski fought valiantly at his side in this campaign. But another Turkish army-three hundred thousand splendid troops under the terrible leader