ing, he, like the martyred Philip, spoke but a single word, "Pray." Still retaining his pontifical staff and mantle, which the patriarchs, "for fear of the people," had not ventured to take from him, sheltered from the cold by a cloak thrown over him by a pitying bystander, he was hurried away to close confinement in the Therapontoff Monastery, on the bleak shores of the White Lake.
Nikon's career marks a great epoch in the history of the Russian Church.
His purpose and aim have been variously estimated; loudly extolled as a reformer and saint, he has been as severely condemned as an ambitious and narrow-minded bigot. An impartial study of his life would seem to show that he was animated by a double motive, and addressed the wonderful energies of his powerful genius to a double end. On the one hand, to the reformation of the Church by purifying it from error, by endeavoring to impart spiritual life to the whole fabric, while restoring its ceremonies and ritual, and by elevating the character of the clergy in morals and intelligence; on the other, to the liberation of the Church from civil control by freeing it from debasing subjection and submission, in spiritual matters, to the temporal power, and by asserting its independence within its special domain.
The whole course and practice of Nikon's life bear evidence to his solicitude for reform in, and of, the Church; in this cause his zeal knew no languor, and only the untiring perseverance and savage energy he displayed, only the granite-like obduracy and firmness of purpose he evinced, could hope to triumph over the besotted ignorance, prejudice, and superstition he encountered. His personal example as priest, prelate, and pontiff, the severity of the discipline he shared and enforced, the re-
