THE STONE OF THE EDMUNDSBURY MONKS


'Russia,' said Prince Zaleski to me one day, when I happened to be on a
visit to him in his darksome sanctuary--'Russia may be regarded as land
surrounded by ocean; that is to say, she is an island. In the same way,
it is sheer gross irrelevancy to speak of _Britain_ as an island,
unless indeed the word be understood as a mere _modus loquendi_ arising
out of a rather poor geographical pleasantry. Britain, in reality, is a
small continent. Near her--a little to the south-east--is situated the
large island of Europe. Thus, the enlightened French traveller passing
to these shores should commune within himself: "I now cross to the
Mainland"; and retracing his steps: "I now return to the fragment rent
by wrack and earthshock from the Mother-country." And this I say not in
the way of paradox, but as the expression of a sober truth. I have in
my mind merely the relative depth and extent--the _non-insularity_, in
fact--of the impressions made by the several nations on the world. But
this island of Europe has herself an island of her own: the name of it,
Russia. She, of all lands, is the _terra incognita_, the unknown land;
till quite lately she was more--she was the undiscovered, the
unsuspected land. She _has_ a literature, you know, and a history, and
a language, and a purpose--but of all this the world has hardly so much
as heard. Indeed, she, and not any Antarctic Sea whatever, is the real
Ultima Thule of modern times, the true Island of Mystery.'

I reproduce these remarks of Zaleski here, not so much on account of
the splendid tribute to my country contained in them, as because it
ever seemed to me--and especially in connection with the incident I am
about to recall--that in this respect at least he was a genuine son of