as her hair was being brushed; this was her habit morning and evening, and probably had lasted over fifty years.

One last point, and a very important one in the eyes of most authors, remains to be mentioned with regard to Miss Yonge's publications, viz. the profits which they produced and the use to which she put these profits. She was accustomed to tell how, before she published her first book, a family council was held, which decided that she should not herself take money for it, but that it should be used for some good work, "it being thought unladylike to benefit by one's own writings." This early dedication of her profits bore magnificent fruit in Religious Education and in the Home and Foreign Mission field. She counted it the crown and glory of her life to pour her gains The Church Quarterly Review.

into the Lord's Treasury; and a great deal of this money was given in ways that cannot be traced; yet it is known that The Heir of Redclyffe fitted up "The Southern Cross Ship" for the Melanesian Mission, and provided a missionroom in a hamlet of Hursley; The Daisy Chain endowed a Missionary College at Auckland, New Zealand, and all its proceeds were given to the Melanesian Mission; while those of New Ground went to the Mackenzie Memorial Mission in Zululand.

Death came to this dear saint of God on the eve of Lady Day, 1901, and her funeral took place on the thirty-fifth anniversary of the death of "her Master," Mr. Keble.

May God's blessing rest on them both in Paradise, where they "rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

Two months after the horrible massacre at Kishinieff, which has been kept alive in our memory by the recent trial, the town was visited by the celebrated Russian novelist, Korolenko, who made an exhaustive inquiry into the details of the tragedy. The notes of this inquiry have been issued by him under the title of "House No. 13," and are here given to English readers.

Korolenko was born in 1853, in the province of Volga. His father dying when he was quite a lad left him very poor; but by dint of giving lessons he contrived to finish his University course, and graduated with honors. This accomplished, he repaired with seventeen roubles in his pocket to the Higher Technical Institute at St. Petersburg, supporting himself as best he could, and thence to the AgriculBeing, tural Academy at Moscow. however, an ardent Liberal and humanitaran, he offended the police by joining in an address to the University Council, and ultimately refused to take the oath of allegiance, and was sent for three years to Siberia. has travelled widely in his own immense country, and written a book on the Great Famine. He is in the habit of studying not so much the senthe sational tragedies of fiction, as

He

everyday trials and sufferings which he sees around him. This explains his the painful events investigation of of Kishinieff, which he recounts under the responsibility of a writer of established reputation.

I arrived at Kishinieff two months after the massacres had taken place, when the echo of those horrors was still freshly thrilling and reverberating throughout the whole of Russia. The Kishinieff police had taken the most drastic measures, but in spite of their zeal it was difficult to efface all traces of the deeds of blood. Even in the principal streets broken doors and windows were still to be seen; whilst in the outskirts of the town there were still more traces of the same sort. At St. Petersburg a Jew, Daschefsky, struck M. Kroushevan with a knife; but, strange to say, another Jew came forward prepared to give first aid to the wounded man. Kroushevan repelled this proffered aid with a movement of disgust, and wrote later that "Daschefsky's soul was forfeit to him." Together with M. Koumaroff he demanded that sentence of death should be passed on Daschefsky, for the spe

cific reason that he, M. Kroushevan, was not a private person, but a "man representing a principle of State." Two or three days after my arrival at Kishinieff, three unknown young men at tacked a Jewish youth returning from school, one of them stabbing him in the side with a dagger. The dagger was better aimed than was the knife of Daschefsky, and though the blow was weakened by the weapon coming in contact with a book, tightly buttoned up inside the boy's jacket, he did not escape unwounded. This Jewish youth, returning from school, could not of course be said to represent “a principle of State," and consequently, neither Koumaroff, nor Kroushevan, nor the editor of the local paper of Bessarabia took any notice of the occurrence (at least during my stay at Kishinieff), though the Jews of the town discussed the matter with a sense of uneasiness which may well be understood. Amongst other things it was reported that the blow struck at the student was a reply to the outrage committed by Daschefsky. Foolish as this may seem, it may possibly be the truth. Anything may happen in the town of Kishinieff, where the moral atmosphere is still surcharged with fiery animosity and hatred. The ordinary life of the town is at a standstill; building operations have stopped; the Jewish inhabitants are tense with fear, and with uncertainty about the morrow.

II.

It was whilst things were in this condition that I arrived at Kishinieff. Bent on attempting to find some explanation for the horrible and incomprehensible drama which had unrolled itself but a few weeks before, I wandered through the town, its suburbs, streets and markets, interrogating both Jews and Christians on the subject of the recent events. I cannot, of course, pretend

to give any complete explanation, in the following short account of this terrible affair, of the incidents which resulted in the rapid, almost immediate, disappearance of the ordinary restraints of civilization, so that there unexpectedly burst forth something bordering on elemental bestiality. "There is nothing hidden that shall not be made known." It is quite possible that the hidden springs which put in motion this criminal attack will some day be disclosed, when the whole affair will be as plain as is the machinery of a clock that has been taken to pieces. But possibly there will even then remain circumstances difficult to explain in the light of certain known and attested facts. One of the problems that constantly obtrudes itself is, how an average, everyday and fairly decent man, with whom intercourse under ordinary circumstances is not unpleasant, can be suddenly transformed into a wild beast, forming part of a crowd of other wild beasts? Much time and work, and very wide and careful study would be needed in order to present a picture of what took place in all its fulness of color. It is not possible for me to accomplish this; and perhaps the time for doing so has not yet come. I wish I could hope that the Court of Enquiry would do it, but I have cause to fear that they will not. . . . My desire is to place before my readers some reflection of the feeling of horror which overcame me during my short stay at Kishinieff two months after the massacres. In order to do this, I will endeavor to depict as calmly and as exactly as I can one single episode. is the story of the house in Kishinieff now become celebrated under the name of House No. 13.

III.

It

House No. 13 is situated in the fourth District of Kishinieff, in a by-street

bearing the name of Asia sky, at its juncture with another by-street, Stavrisky; the names of these narrow and tortuous little streets are known but indifferently even to the inhabitants of Kishinieff themselves. The Jewish

cabdriver who drove us (many Jewish cabdrivers were among the killed and wounded) did not understand at first where we wanted to go. Thereupon my companion, who for the last three weeks had been breathing the air of Kishinieff, and was able to find his way to all the principal places of interest connected with the massacres, explained to the driver, “House No. 13; where they killed!" "Ah! I know!" replied the driver, nodding his head, and whipping up a horse as dejected, as miserable, and as half-starved as himself. I could not see the man's face, but I heard him mutter through his beard words that sounded like "Nisensen" and "the glazier." Nisensen and the glazier were a short time ago living

men.

Now they are but symbols, representing the concentrated horrors of recent massacres. We drove for some time, passing through the wide, wellpopulated, and comparatively civilized streets of the new town, to the narrow and tortuous, but most original back streets of old Kishinieff, where stones, tiles and bricks and mortar choke the growth of the young trees planted amongst the flag-stones; and where shadows of the stories of olden days,— stories of feudal lords and of Turkish invasions still seem to hover. The houses here are very small, and stone walls hide the entrances to the courtyards; many of the windows, too, are as narrow as the old lancet windows of the Middle Ages. At last we found ourselves in the street where the house was situated for which we were search:ing; it was low, and roofed like all the houses in the town with tiles; it stood in a prominent position at the corner of a small square, into which it pro

jected in the shape of an obtuse angle. It was surrounded by similarly roofed houses, of smaller and more dejected appearance. These all showed signs of life. House No. 13 suggested nothing but death. It glared into the square with empty windows and broken, twisted window-frames. Its doorways had been hastily boarded up with broken fragments of wood.

One must do justice to the Kishinieff police. Although they did little to stop the massacres, they have dealt ever since both energetically and promptly with the Jews in order to compel them to restore as quickly as possible their wrecked and ruined houses. But the owner of House No. 13 can no longer be called upon to obey police regulations! The courtyard still bears eloquent traces of the riots; it is covered with feathers and down from mattresses, fragments of furniture, bits of broken glass and crockery, and scraps of torn clothing. A mere glance suffices to call up a picture of unbridled destruction; the furniture lies in small splinters; the plates have been stamped under foot into a thousand pieces; the clothing has been ripped into shreds; here lies a torn sleeve, there a child's pinafore. The window-frames have been torn out, and from some of the black, gaping openings still hang fragments of the woodwork swaying in the air like crushed hands. In one corner of the court, near a shed at the entrance to one of the dwellings, can still be seen a huge crimson patch, easily recognizable as dried blood, mixed with bits of glass, mortar, bricks and feathers.

IV.

"Grienschpoun was killed on this spot," said a strange, hollow voice from behind us. When we first entered the courtyard, death and emptiness seemed to be in sole possession; but now there