tyranny. I knew this, but noticing that this measure proved efficacious, did not object to his system.
I had hardly, by my tyranny, brought the seminary into subjection when miracles began to occur among the adults. One day I was informed that a load of hay had been driven into the inside of the Arch-presbyter of the Cathedral, and could not get out again. I sent to find out what had really happened. They said it was quite true. The Arch-priest was very corpulent; after the liturgy, he had gone to christen a child in a merchant's house, where he had filled himself plentifully with the good viands set before him, from which cause, or owing to another fruit—a wild one—he had found there, and partaken of not less plenteously; deep and stupid intoxication had resulted. This was not enough. He went home, lay down and slept for four hours, rose and drank a mug of kvass,[1] and lay down again with his breast to the window, to talk to somebody standing below—when suddenly a cart-load of hay drove into him. All this was so stupid that one could not help being disgusted, but when I heard the end of the story, I was, perhaps, even more disgusted. The next morning the lay-brother brought me my boots and said, "Thank God, the cart
- ↑ A sort of light beer.
