No More Learning

His first book appeared when he was twenty-five, and bore the title
Poems, with the Tenth Satire of Juvenal Englished' (1646). Subse-
quent books were: Olor Iscanus, a Collection of Select Poems and
Translations' (1650); (Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems and Private
Ejaculations' (1650-1); <The Mount of Olives, or Solitary Devotions)
(1652); “Flores Solitudinis, or Certain Rare and Elegant Pieces' (1654);
and 'Thalia Rediviva, the Pastimes and Diversions of a Country
Muse, in Divine Poems) (1678).
The verse which preserves Vaughan's name in fragrant memory is
contained in the 'Silex Scintillans. Half a dozen pieces in that col-
lection are familiar to all students of the choicest English religious


## p. 15258 (#202) ##########################################

15258
HENRY VAUGHAN
song. The quaint classical titles of his books give a notion of the
mystic, removed nature of this poet's Muse. In many lyrics he waxes
didactic, and moralizes upon man and God in a fashion not edifying
to the present-day reader, if it was when they were composed. But
when inspiration visited him, and he could write such a unique
poem as “The Retreate' - a kind of seventeenth-century forerunner
of Wordsworth's Ode on the Intimations of Immortality) —or an
exquisite elegiac poem like «They are All Gone (a prime favorite
with Lowell), Vaughan found lyric expression for the spiritual mood
such as few men have found in the whole range of British song.
His religion did not clog his poetry, but lent it wings; and no more
sincere and intimate personal confession of faith can be named. He
has the high rhapsody of the Celt, with a piquant gift in the use of
the mother English. One thinks of him with affection, and re-reads
his best poems with a sense of beauty communicated, and a breath
deeper taken for delight.
During his last years Vaughan seems to have ceased from literary
activity. He lived quietly in the lovely vale watered by the Usk, the
river he loved; and having attained to the good age of seventy-two,
died on April 230 - Shakespeare's death-day- in the year 1693. The
genuine humility of the man is implied in the Latin inscription he
desired to have placed upon his tomb: "An unprofitable servant, the
chief of sinners, I lie here. Glory be to God! Lord have mercy
upon me! )
THE RETREATE
H*
APPY those early dayes when I
Shined in my angell infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestiall thought;
When yet I had not walkt above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back, at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flowre
My gazing soul would dwell an houre,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinfull sound,


## p. 15259 (#203) ##########################################

HENRY VAUGHAN
15259
Or had the black art to dispence
A severall sinne to every sence,
But felt through all this fleshly dresse
Bright shootes of everlastingnesse.
Oh how I long to travell back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plaine,
Where first I left my glorious traine;
From whence th’inlightned spirit sees
That shady city of palme-trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came — return.
THE ORNAMENT
THE
He lucky world shewed me one day
Her gorgeous mart and glittering store,
Where with proud haste the rich made way
To buy, the poor came to adore.
Serious they seemed, and bought up all
The latest modes of pride and lust;
Although the first must surely fall,
And the last is most loathsome dust.
But while each gay, alluring ware,
With idle hearts and busie looks,
They viewed,- for idleness hath there
Laid up all her archives and books,-
Quite through their proud and pompous file,
Blushing, and in meek weeds arrayed,
With native looks which knew no guile,
Came the sheep-keeping Syrian maid.
Whom strait the shining row all faced,
Forced by her artless looks and dress;
While one cryed out, We are disgraced !
For she is bravest, you confess.


## p. 15260 (#204) ##########################################

15260
HENRY VAUGHAN
THEY ARE ALL GONE
TY
HEY are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit ling'ring here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy brest,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Meer glimmerings and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility!
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have shewed them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death - the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know
At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted theams,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lockt her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphære.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.


## p. 15261 (#205) ##########################################

HENRY VAUGHAN
15261
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.
THE REVIVAL
U*
NFOLD! unfold! take in His light,
Who makes thy cares more short than night.
The joyes which with his day-star rise
He deals to all but drowsie eyes;
And (what the men of this world miss)
Somne drops and dews of future bliss.
Hark! how the winds have changed their note,
And with warm whispers call thee out!
The frosts are past, the storms are gone,
And backward life at last comes on.
The lofty groves, in express joyes,
Reply unto the turtle's voice:
And here, in dust and dirt, - oh, here,
The lilies of his love appear!
RETIREMENT
F
RESH fields and woods! the earth's fair face!
God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!
I ask not why the first believer
Did love to be a country liver,
Who to secure pious content
Did pitch by groves and wells his tent,
Where he might view the boundless skie,
And all these glorious lights on high,
With flying meteors, mists and showers,
Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flowers,
And every minute bless the King
And wise Creator of each thing.
I ask not why he did remove
To happy Mamre's holy grove,
Leaving the cities of the plain
To Lot and his successless train.
All various lusts in cities still
Are found: they are the thrones of ill;


## p. 15262 (#206) ##########################################

15262
HENRY VAUGHAN
The dismal sinks where blood is spilled,
Cages with much uncleanness filled.
But rural shades are the sweet sense
Of piety and innocence:
They are the meek's calm region, where
Angels descend and rule the sphære;
Where heaven lies leaguer, and the Dove
Duely as dew comes from above.
If Eden be on earth at all,
'Tis that which we the country call.
THE PALM-TREE
D
EARE friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade,
As I have yours long since: this plant, you see
So prest and bowed, before sin did degrade
Both you and it, had equall liberty
With other trees; but now, shut from the breath
And air of Eden, like a malcontent,
It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death
And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent,
The more he grows.
Celestial natures still
Aspire for home; this, Solomon of old,
By flowers and carvings, and mysterious skill
Of wings and cherubims and palms, foretold.
This is the life which, hid above with Christ
In God, doth always hidden multiply,
And spring and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced,
A tree whose fruit is immortality.
Here spirits that have run their race, and fought,
And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns
Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought
Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns.
Here is the patience of the saints: this tree
Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed
With dew by night; but One you cannot see
Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed.
Here is their faith too, which if you will keep
When we two part, I will a journey make
To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep,
And weave it for your head against you wake.


## p. 15263 (#207) ##########################################

15263
1
IVAN VAZOFF
(1850-)
BY LUCY CATLIN BULL
-
-
He remote principality of Bulgaria does not attract a large
share of the world's attention. But small butterflies may
have great peacock's-eyes, with glintings and delicate grada-
tions of color — inky blots too, and deep shadows! These are not
only worth examining,— they may become in a collection a source of
permanent enjoyment. And if life in Bulgaria, either from the moral
or the material point of view, has ever so
few phenomena that have a peculiar vivid-
ness not to be found elsewhere, then it is
only a question of time before the world
begins to feel the richer for them. That
the rugged little country really abounds in
poetic and picturesque elements, may be
inferred from the fact that her strongest
and most prolific writer has been able to
confine himself, partly from choice, partly
from instinct, to the treatment of life in
Bulgaria, without forfeiting his claim to the
serious consideration of readers in all parts
of the world. In other words, nothing IVAN VAZOFF
could be racier of the soil than the poems
and romances of Ivan Vazoff, born in 1850 in the little town of
Sopot, under the shadow of the Great Balkan. No book was ever
more thoroughly and lovingly steeped in local color than his most
widely read novel, Under the Yoke. ' But his patriotism, poured out
year after year in a cause that seemed utterly hopeless, takes a form
so exalted as to raise him above the mere delineator of character and
gatherer of specimens. Besides, an irresistible affinity felt in boy-
hood for writers like Béranger and Victor Hugo, could but have a
happy effect on a nervous style, and a diction reminding the reader
of the mountain torrents it dwells upon. Who shall say how far a
scrupulous choice of words, and a keen ear for the harmonies of
verse and prose, may not have tended to rescue the young revo-
lutionist from becoming the ephemeral organ of a political insurrec-
tion ?



## p. 15264 (#208) ##########################################

15264
IVAN VAZOFF
Although it was from Victor Hugo that Vazoff drew the motto,
“De verre pour gémir; d'airain pour résister” (Glass for sorrow,
brass for courage), prefixing it to a volume of his poems, still the
foreign influence only took the form of a wholesome infusion. Even
in the seventies, when a few brave hearts were pushing the cause
of emancipation in spite of their cautious countrymen, and when
only the very rich could aspire to an education, Bulgaria had preach-
ers of revolution whose eloquence was of no mean order, and the
beginnings of a literature. For the men in exile and active warfare
against Turkish oppression, who turned so readily from the sword
to the pen, looking upon both merely as a means to an end, were
nevertheless genuine poets, natural orators, and belonged to a race
who in spite of the narrowing of their horizon through four centu-
ries of suffering, could not forget that in past ages, under rulers dis-
tinguished for courage or learning, their realm had held a high place
among the nations. Even Russia, at times the benefactor of Bulga-
ria, will always remain her debtor. For the language of that power-
ful neighbor is said to have been molded by missionaries of the Greek
Church sent from Bulgaria not far from the eleventh century; and
was perhaps in large part the gift of a country that possessed an
alphabet and a written tongue, while the future empire was still in a
state of semi-barbarism. The language so similar at the outset to
Bulgarian has developed into a noble and unique instrument, which
hardly any scholar in the coming century, aware that Russian
abounds in works of importance, will think that he can do without.
And although in enslaved Bulgaria the language could not escape
degeneration, -- although modern Bulgarian is less musical than Rus-
sian, and has lost the inflections the latter retains,- still it is not
without dignity, and the nomenclature is almost enough to show that
it may have a music of its own: the name for the range we call the
Great Balkan, because the Turks have bestowed that name upon it,
is Stara Planina.
That Bulgarian comes very close to Russian is not always appre-
ciated in Russia itself. At Moscow, in the summer of 1895, a young
writer remarked to Vazoff, who had come with the deputation from
Bulgaria that laid a wreath on the tomb of Alexander III. , «What a
pity that the inscription on the wreath is in Russian instead of Bul-
garian!
“But it is from beginning to end a Bulgarian inscription that you
see there,” returned the poet, compressing into one quick movement
the mingled pride and chagrin of centuries.
The attar-yielding Valley of Roses, lying between the Stara Pla-
nina and the parallel range of the Sredna Gora, contributed a
tain aroma to the new era that ended, less than twenty years ago, in
complete emancipation from Turkish rule. It was there in 1848, in
cer-


## p. 15265 (#209) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15265
the free town of Calofer, clinging to the mountain-side, that the truly
inspired poet and revolutionist Boteff was born; and as it happened,
his fellow-poet Vazoff, born in the Valley of the Strema, attended
school for a short time in the same place. A boy like Christo Boteff,
ardent and high-strung, — destined to lay down his life for his country
before reaching his thirtieth year,— could not have been brought up
in surroundings more stimulating to the imagination. It was in a
veritable garden of roses that his life began; and he can scarcely
write without some mention of the mighty forest that lay so near.
His birthplace, founded by the brigand Calofer and named after
him, was one of the few places that by virtue of their remoteness
had preserved a measure of independence. Unlike most Bulgarian
towns and villages, it had at the centre no Turkish habitation; so
that the poet's love of freedom, which was far from being local and
national, — recognizing the effects of misrule not only in his own
country, but in Russia, in Africa, indeed throughout the world, — was
taken in with the mountain air he breathed. The founder, Calofer,
belonged to a distinct class called haïdouti or brigands (otherwise it
is impossible to translate a word half-way between hero and high-
wayman), whose open hostility to the Turkish government coinpelled
them to take refuge, oftentimes in Rumania, but in mild weather in
the stupendous gorges and caverns of the Stara Planina.
Boteff was
neither one of the earliest nor one of the latest martyrs to the cause.
He did not live to shudder at the massacres of the Sredna-Gora,
which moved the Emperor of Russia, Alexander II. , to come to the
relief of Bulgaria, and his son, afterwards Alexander III. , to take an
active part in the campaign which in 1878 exacted her independence.
Boteff's poem on the death of his friend Hadjy-Dimitre is remarka-
ble for its unconscious foreshadowing of his own death, similar in
all respects to that of the hero he brooded over with such intense
affection:-
HADJY DIMITRE
H*
E LIVES, he lives! There on the Balkan's crest,
Low-lying in his blood, he maketh moan
The hero with a deep wound in his breast,
The hero in his youth and might o'erthrown.
He hath laid down his gun, in bitter woe
Laid down the two halves of his broken sword;
His eyes more dim and head more restless grow,
While maledictions from his mouth are poured.
Helpless he lies; and at her harvesting –
Beneath the blazing sky, the startled sun-
XXVI–955


## p. 15266 (#210) ##########################################

15266
IVAN VAZOFF
A maiden somewhere in the field doth sing,
And swifter than before the blood doth run.
'Tis harvest-time,- sing then your mournful staves,
Ye melancholy folk that toil apart!
Burn fiercely, sun, across a land of slaves!
One hero more must die — but hush, my heart!
Who falls in fight for liberty's dear sake
Can never die; — heaven weeps for him, and earth;
Nature herself — the woodland creatures wake
Hymns in his honor; poets sing his worth.
By day the eagle lends a hovering shade;
The wolf steals softly up to lick his wound;
The falcon, bird of battle, droops dismayed
To see his brother stretched upon the ground.
Night falls: uncounted stars are in the sky;
The moon looks forth; the woods and winds erelong
Begin an ever-waxing melody,-
The Balkan chants the brigand's battle-song.
At last the nymphs, half hid in filmy white, -
Enchantresses that tender lays repeat, -
Downsliding, on the emerald turf alight,
And gently near the sufferer take their seat.
One binds his wounds with herbs and healing strips;
One sprinkles him with water from the brook;
A third has kissed him lightly on the lips,
And wistfully he meets her winning look:-
“Tell me, my sister, tell me only this:
Where is Karadjata, my comrade dear?
Where too the faithful company I miss ?
Then take my soul, for I would perish here. ”
They clap their hands, that done they interlace.
Singing they soar into the first faint streak
Of morning, soar and sing through boundless space:
Karadjata, it is thy soul they seek.
Day breaks, and ever on the Balkan's brow
The hero maketh moan, his blood still flows,
And the wolf licks his yawning wound.
Lo, now,
The in bursts forth and still more fiercely glows! !


## p. 15267 (#211) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15267
Dimitre perished, and his army were scattered and slain in 1868.
The poem is dated 1873. In 1876 Boteff, with less than three hun-
dred followers, arrived in the same wilderness, and fell in battle near
the town of Vratza; where his head, which had been remarkable for
its beauty, was displayed by the Turks on a pole.
The enthusiasm and personal magnetism of Boteff were for a long
time a distinct influence in the life of Vazoff. Of the two, Boteff
was the more creative, original, and impassioned singer; yet the ex-
quisitely finished verse of Vazoff is not without spontaneity. One
of his most fervent lyrics was sung at the insurrection of Klissoura;
and his range, embracing not only two large volumes of verse, but an
astonishing variety of works in prose, is much wider.
The year 1870 was a memorable one for Bulgaria. It was marked
by her first step toward freedom; the Turkish government at last
recognizing the constitution of the Bulgarian Church, and thus reluct-
antly paving the way for intellectual progress and political self-
assertion. The year was further marked by Vazoff's first original
poem, “The Pine-Tree'; sent in October to the Perioditchesko Spisa-
nie, or Memorial of the Bulgarian Literary Association, conducted by
exiles in Rumania. The poet's father, a merchant in comfortable cir-
cumstances, had done his utmost to fit the boy for a business life,
but in vain: he had shown his energy chiefly in the verses he scrib-
bled on the margin of the books of the establishment. The Pine-
Tree is a powerful allegory, painting in a few masterly strokes the
development and downfall of that ancient kingdom of Bulgaria to
which a stunted nation looked wistfully back, and closing with a
vivid picture of the victorious Turk bending in compassion over his
fallen enemy. For it is matter of history that the Oriental monarch
regarded with admiration the reigning tsar of Bulgaria, and after his
retirement continued to show him every mark of respect and court-
esy.
In 1877 word came to Vazoff that his birthplace had been de-
stroyed, his father put to death by the Turks, and his mother and
brothers imprisoned in a monastery “in the heart of the Rhodope »
(a region afterwards described in one of his principal works, bearing
that title). His afflictions, far from diminishing his powers, seem only
to have stimulated them; and were followed by the period of rapid
production to which his best work belongs. It was at this time that
he composed “The Epic'— not strictly an epic-'of the Forgotten,'
which a Bulgarian journal calls his most popular book. He also con-
ducted the journal Knowledge; and undertook, in collaboration with
Velitchkoff, a complete anthology of Bulgarian literature, besides be-
ginning with him the task of translating into Bulgarian the literature
of ancient and modern times. After the independence of Bulgaria


## p. 15268 (#212) ##########################################

15268
IVAN VAZOFF
had been established, he became deputy to the national assembly:
but the active part he took in the political troubles of 1886 resulted
in his banishment; and it was at Odessa, in 1889, that he completed
his masterpiece, — whose title, Pod Igoto,' is the exact equivalent for
the phrase Under the Yoke. '
Recalled to Sofia in the same year, he has made it his home ever
since; and has poured out poems, novels, idyls, historical sketches -
and several dramas, one or two of which were performed with signal
success. After visiting the antique monastery of the Rilo, far up
in the Balkan and hemmed in by the forest, he wrote an admirable
work in prose called “The Vast Solitude of the Rilo. ' The site of
the monastery is significant. On the borderland between Thrace and
Macedonia, and in the centre of the Balkanic peninsula, it reminds
the student of Oriental affairs that at one period the province of
Macedonia formed half of the realm of Bulgaria. Even now it is said
that you cannot go shopping or marketing in Macedonia without a
knowledge of Bulgarian. But owing to the indecision of the Powers,
instead of sharing in 1878 the good fortune secured to Bulgaria by
the treaty of Berlin, Macedonia remained a Turkish province; and
bleeding and helpless, awaits the wave of emancipation that of late
years has lifted so many classes and communities out of intolerable
serfdom.
Crowded with incidents, episodes, and types of humanity, the rich
mosaic called Pod Igoto) has been pronounced by an English critic
the most brilliant romance that the East of Europe has given to the
Occident. The rollicking humor and home-bred sense pervading the
book, and tempering not a little the barbarities that must enter into
any narrative of life in a Turkish dependency; the high sense of
honor shown by the hero Ognianoff; the descriptions of dainty vil-
lages, trim rose-fields, and foaming torrents; the strong love story, and
the vigorous treatment of minor characters, — make a unique impres-
sion, and render the tale equally absorbing to old and young. The
idiot Mouncho, in his devotion to Ognianoff, contributes some of the
most telling strokes in the story; and there is other evidence that
the author had read Shakespeare and Scott to some purpose.
Another episode puts the insurgents vividly before the reader.
Not being allowed to carry arms, and consequently pitifully lacking
in ammunition, the villagers are seized with the idea of constructing
cannon from the hard wood of the cherry-tree. Several of these
hollow trunks that were turned so confidently against the Turks, but
cracked ignominiously when the first spark was applied to them, are
still to be seen in the national museum at Sofia.
On the second day of October, 1895 — exactly a quarter of a cen-
tury having elapsed since the boy of twenty published his poem


## p. 15269 (#213) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15269
(The Pine-Tree, a jubilee was held at Sofia: the poet receiving in
the building of the National Assembly the thanks and acclamations
of his fellow-countrymen, as well as letters and greetings in verse
from authors in other parts of Europe. At this writing, a portion of
his latest work, New Ground, has been translated into French.
Lucy Callin Bull
THE PINE-TREE
ALLEGORY OF THE ANCIENT KINGDOM OF BULGARIA
B
ELOW the great Balkan, a stone's-throw from Thrace,
Where the mountain, majestic and straight as a wall,
Lifts his terrible back — in a bird-haunted place
Where green boughs are waving, white torrents appall.
With yellowing marbles, with moldering eaves,
Mute rises the cloister, girt round with the hills
And mingling its gloom with the glimmer of leaves,
The newness of blossoms, the freshness of rills.
Without the high walls what commotion and whirr!
Within them how solemn, how startling the hush!
All is steeped in a slumber that nothing can stir-
Not the waterfall shattered to foam in its rush.
In that hallowed inclosure, above the quaint shrine,
With angel and martyr in halo and shroud,
Looms a giant-limbed tree - a magnificent pine,
Whose black summit is plunged in the soft summer cloud.
As the wings of an eagle are opened for flight,
As a cedar of Lebanon shields from the heat,
So he shoots out his branches to left and to right,
Till they shade every tomb in that tranquil retreat.
The monk with white beard saw him ever the same,
Unaltered in grandeur, in height or in girth;
Nor can any one living declare when that frame
Was first lifted in air, or the root pierced the earth.
That mysterious root that has long ceased to grow,
Sunken deep in the soil, — who can tell where it ends ?
That inscrutable summit what mortal can know ?
Like a cloud, with the limitless azure it blends.


## p. 15270 (#214) ##########################################

15270
IVAN VAZOFF
And perchance the old landmark, by ages unbent,
Is sole witness to valor and virtue long past.
Peradventure he broods o’er each mighty event
That once moved him to rapture or made him aghast.
And 'tis thus he lives on, meeting storm after storm
With contempt and defiance a stranger to dread.
Nor can summer or winter, that all things transform,
Steal the plumes from his shaggy and resolute head.
From the crotches and tufts of those wide-waving boughs,
Blithe birds by the hundred are pouring their lays;
There in utter seclusion their nestlings they house,
Far from envy and hate passing halcyon days.
Last of all save the mountain, the Balkan's own son
Takes the tinge of the sunset. A crown as of fire
First of all he receives from the new-risen one,
And salutes his dear guest with the small feathered choir.
But alas! in old age, though with confident heart
He yet springs toward the zenith, majestic and tall -
Since he too of a world full of peril is part,
The same fate hath found him that overtakes all.
On a sinister night came the thunder's long roll;
No cave of the mountain but echoed that groan.
All at once fell the storm upon upland and knoll
With implacable fury aforetime unknown.
The fields were deserted, the valleys complained;
The heavens grew lurid with flash after flash;
In the track of the tempest no creature remained -
Only terror and gloom and the thunderbolt's crash.
As of old, the huge tree his assailant repays
With intense indignation, with thrust after thrust;
Till uprooted, confounded, his whole length he lays,
With a heart-rending cry of despair, in the dust.
As a warrior attacked without warning rebounds.
Undismayed from each stroke of his deadliest foe-
Then staggers and languishes, covered with wounds,
Knowing well that his footing he soon must forego;
As he still struggles on in the enemy's grasp,
Falling only in death, yielding only to fate


## p. 15271 (#215) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15271
With a final convulsion, a single deep gasp,
That at least he sur ve not his fallen estate,
So the pine-tree, perceiving the end of his reign,
Yet unsplintered, uncleft in that desperate strife,
Vouchsafed not to witness the victor's disdain,
But with dignity straightway relinquished his life.
He is fallen! he lies there immobile, august;
Full of years, full of scars, on the greensward he lies.
Till last evening how proudly his summit he thrust,
To the wonder of all men, far into the skies.
And behold, as a conqueror closes the fray
With one mortal stroke more to his down-trodden foe,
Then ignoring the conquest, all honors would pay,
Shedding tears for the hero his hand hath brought low,-
Thus the whirlwind, forgetting his fury, grew dumb,
Now that prone on the turf his antagonist lay;
And revering the victim his stroke had o'ercome,
To profound lamentation and weeping gave way.
Translation of Lucy C. Bull.
THE SEWING-PARTY AT ALTINOVO
From (Under the Yoke)
O lay in the western corner of the valley,
GNIANOFF now turned back towards Altinovo, a village which
It was a two-
hours' journey; but his horse was exhausted and the road
was bad, so that he only just reached the village before dark,
pursued right up to the outskirts by the famished howls of the
wolves.
He entered by the Bulgarian quarter (the village was a mixed
one, containing both Turks and Bulgarians), and soon stopped
before old Tsanko's door.
Tsanko was a native of Klissoura, but had long ago taken
up his abode in the village. He was a simple, kindly peasant,
and a warm patriot. The apostles often slept at his house.
He
received Ognianoff with open arms.
"It is a piece of luck, your coming to me. We've got a
sewing-party on to-night-you can have a good look at our girls.


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IVAN VAZOFF
(
You won't find the time heavy on your hands, I'll be bound,”
said Tsanko with a smile, as he showed the way in.
Ognianoff hastened to tell him that he was being pursued,
and for what reason.
«Yes, yes, I know all about it,” said Tsanko: “you don't
suppose just because our village is a bit out of the way, that we
know nothing of what goes on outside ? ”
“But shan't I be putting you out ? "
Don't you mind, I tell you. You must look out among the
girls to-night for one to carry the flag,” laughed Tsanko; « there
-- you can see them all from this window, like a king. ”
Ognianoff was in a small dark closet, the window of which,
covered with wooden trellis-work, looked on to the large common
room: here the sewing-party was already assembling. It was a
meeting of the principal girls of the village; the object being
to assist in making the trousseau for Tsanko's daughter Donka.
The fire burned brightly and lighted up the walls, which boasted
no ornament save a print of St. Ivan of Rilo, and the bright
glazed dishes on the shelves. The furniture — as in most well-
to-do villagers' houses — consisted of a water-butt, a wardrobe, a
shelf, and the great cupboard which contained all Tsanko's house-
hold goods. All the guests, both male and female, were seated
on the floor, which was covered with skins and carpets. Besides
the light of the fire there were also two petroleum lamps burn-
ing -a special luxury in honor of the occasion.
It was long since Ognianoff had been present at a gathering
of this kind, a curious custom sanctioned by antiquity. From
his dark recess he watched with interest the simple scenes of the
still primitive village life. The door opened, and Tsanko's wife
came to him: she was a buxom and talkative dame, also from
Klissoura. She sat down by Ognianoff's side, and began to point
out to him the most remarkable girls present, with the necessary
details.
"Do you see that fat rosy-cheeked girl there? That's Staïka
Chonina. See what a sad, sad look Ivan Kill-the-Bear gives her
now and again. He barks for her like a sheep-dog when he
wants to make her laugh. She's very industrious, quick-witted,
and cleanly. Only she ought to marry at once, poor girl, - she's
getting so fat: she'll be thinner after marriage. It's just the op-
posite of your town girls. The girl to the left of her is Tsveta
Prodanova: she is in love with the lad over there with his


## p. 15273 (#217) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15273
mustache sticking out like a skewer. She's a lively one for you
see her eyes in every corner of the room at once; but she's a
good girl. That's Draganoff's Tsvéta by her side; and next to
her Raïka, the Pope's daughter. I'd rather have those two than
twenty of your fine ladies from Philippopolis. Do you see their
white throats, just like ducks? Why, I once caught my Tsanko
saying he'd give his vineyard at Mal Tepe, just to be allowed to
kiss one of them on the chin! Didn't I just box his ears for
him, the vagabond! Do you see that girl to the right of fat
Staïka ? That's Kara Velio's daughter: she's a great swell;
five young fellows have already been after her, but her father
wouldn't have anything to say to them. He's keeping her for
somebody, the old weasel — you know he looks just like a weasel.
Ivan Nedelioff 'll have her, or I'll bite my tongue out. There's
Rada Milkina: she sings like the nightingale on our plum-tree-
but she's a lazybones, between ourselves. I'd rather have Dimka
Todorova, standing over there by the shelf: there's a blooming
rose for you! If I was a bachelor I'd propose to her at once.
Why don't you take her yourself? That's the Péëffs' girl stand-
ing by our Donka. She's a pretty girl, and industrious into the
bargain — so they say she's as good as our Donka.
She's got a
sweet voice, like Rada Milkina, and laughs like a swallow twitter-
ing: you listen to her. ”
As she stood there by Boïcho in the dark, she reminded him
of the scene in the Divina Commedia' where Beatrice, at the
gate of hell, points out to Dante one by one the condemned, and
tells him their history.
Ognianoff listened more or less attentively: he was entirely
absorbed by the picture, and cared little for the explanations.
The bolder among the girls jested with the lads, flirted with
them archly, and laughed merrily the while. They were answered
by the deep guffaws of the youths, who looked shyly across at
the weaker sex. Jests, taunts, and chaff followed in one continual
flow: loud laughter was called forth by jokes with a double mean-
ing, which sometimes brought the hot blush to the girls' cheeks.
Tsanko alone took no part in the merry-making. His wife was
busy with the stew-pan, where the supper was preparing. As for
Donka, she couldn't stay still for a moment.
'Come, you've chaffed each other enough now: suppose you
give us a song,” cried the housewife, as she left Boïcho and
returned to her saucepans on the fire. “Now then, Rada, Stanka,
(


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15274
IVAN VAZOFF
sing something and put the young men to shame, Young men
are not worth a brass button nowadays: they can't sing. ”
Rada and Stanka did not wait to be asked twice. They at
once began a song, which was taken up by all those girls who
could sing; these at once formed into two choruses: the first
sang one verse, and then waited while the second repeated it.
The better singers were in the first choir, the others repeating
the verse in a lower key.
The following are the words of the song they sang:-
« Well-a-day! the youthful couple; well-a-day! they fell in love;
Well-a-day! in love they'd fallen; well-a-day! from earliest youth.
Well-a-day! they met each other; well-a-day! last night they met.
Well-a-day! all in the darkness; well-a-day! just down the street.
Well-a-day! the silver moonlight; well-a-day! shone down on them.
Well-a-day! the stars were twinkling; well-a-day! within the sky.
Yet, well-a-day! the youthful couple; well-a-day! they're sitting still.
Well-a-day! yes, still they're sitting; well-a-day! in loving talk.
Well-a-day! her jug of water; well-a-day! it's frozen hard.
Well-a-day! his oaken cudgel; well-a-day! how long it's grown.
But, well-a-day! the youthful couple; well-a-day! they're sitting yet!
When the song came to an end, the youths were loud in
applause: it appealed to every one of them; its pleasing refrain
brought up memories of past experience. As for Ivan Kill-the-
Bear, he was devouring Staïka Chonina with his eyes: he was
deeply in love with her.
« That's the kind of song to sing over again - ay, and to act
all day long! ” he cried in his deep bass voice.
All the girls laughed, and many an arch look was cast at
Kill-the-Bear.
He was a perfect mountain of a man, of gigantic stature and
herculean strength, with a big, bony face, but not over bright.
However, he was great at singing ; that is to say, his voice cor-
responded with his size. He now became cross, and withdrew
silently behind the girls, where he suddenly barked like an old
sheep-dog. The girls started in terror at first, and then laughed
at him, and the bolder ones among them began to tease him:
one of them sang, mockingly:-
"Ivan, you bright-hued turtle-dove,
Ivan, you slender poplar. ”


## p. 15275 (#219) ##########################################

IVAN VAZOFF
15275
Staïka added :
Ivan, you shaggy old she-bear,
Ivan, you lanky clothes-prop!
More giggling and laughter followed. Ivan became furious.
He stared in dumb bewilderment at the rosy-cheeked Staïka
Chonina, who mocked so unkindly her fervent adorer; he opened
a mouth like a boa-constrictor's, and roared out:
«Said Peïka's aunt one day to her, -
Why, Peïka girl, why, Peika girl,
The people freely talk of you!
The people, all the neighbors, say
That you've become so fat and full,
That you're so plump and fleshy now,
All through your uncle's shepherd lad. ' –
O aunty dear, o darling aunt,
Let people freely talk of me!
Let people, all the neighbors, say
That if I'm fat and fleshy now,
If I've become so plump and full,
It's from my father's wheaten bread,
My father's white and wheaten bread;
For while I knead it in the trough,
A basket-full of grapes I pluck,
And drink a jar of red, red wine. '
> >>
Staïka blushed at this bitter innuendo: her red cheeks became
as fiery as if she had dyed them in cochineal. The spiteful
giggles of the other girls pierced her to the heart. Some with
assumed simplicity asked:-
«Why, how ever can one pick grapes and drink wine at the
same time? The song must be all wrong. ”
“Why, of course, either the song's wrong or else the girl's
wrong," answered another.
This cutting criticism still further enraged Staïka. She threw
a crushing look at the triumphant Ivan, and sang in a voice that
quivered with rage:-
»
«ÇO Peïka, brighter than the poppy,
Is all your needlework so fine,
And all my many, many visits,
Are all of these to be in vain ?
Come, Peïka, won't you have me, dear? -


## p. 15276 (#220) ##########################################

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IVAN VAZOFF
Why, Yonko, why, you filthy drudge,
Could Peïka ever fall in love
With such a swineherd as yourself?
A swineherd and a cattle drover-
Some wealthy farmer's filthy drudge?
She'd put you down before the door,
The little door behind the house;
That when she passes in and out
To fetch the calves and heifers in,
If she should chance to soil her shoes,
She'd wipe them clean upon your back. )
It was a crushing repartee to a savage attack.
Staïka now looked proudly round her. Her shaft had struck
home. Ivan Kill-the-Bear stood motionless, as if transfixed, with
staring eyes. A loud peal of laughter greeted his discomfiture.
The whole party was gazing curiously at him. Tears started to
his eyes from very shame and wounded vanity. The spectators
laughed still louder. The mistress of the house became angry.
“What's the meaning of all this, girls? Is this the way to
behave with the lads, instead of being kind and pleasant to one
another, as you ought to? Stačka - Ivan — you ought to be coo-
ing together like a pair of turtle-doves. ”
“It's only lovers who quarrel,” said Tsanko in a conciliatory
tone.
Ivan Kill-the-Bear rose and went out angrily, as if to protest
against these words.
"Like loves like,” averred Neda Liagovitcha.
"Well, Neda, God loves a good laugher,” said Kono Goran,
Kill-the-Bear's cousin.
"Now, boys, sing us some old haïdoud song, to put a little
life into us,” said Tsanko. The lads sang in chorus:—
"Alas for poor Stoyan, alas !
Two ambushes they laid for him,
But in the third they captured him.
The cruel ropes they've fastened round him –
They've bound his strong and manly arms.
Alas! they've carried poor Stoyan
To Erin's house, the village pope,
And Rouja, a stepdaughter, too;
But Rouja sat and milked the cow
Beside the little garden gate,


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IVAN VAZOFF
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(
While they were sweeping in the yard,
And gayly cried the sisters twain
Ha! ha! Stoyan,' they cried to him:
(To-morrow morn they'll hang you up
Before the palace of the king, -
You'll dangle for the queen to see,
And all the princes and princesses. '
But Stoyan softly said to Rouja: -
Dear Rouja, you the pope's stepdaughter,
It's not my life I care about,
It's not for the bright world I mourn,-
A brave man never weeps or mourns:
But yet, I beg you, Rouja dear,
Oh! let them put a clean shirt on me,
And let them brush and deck my hair;
That's all I ask for, Rouja dear.
For when a man's led out to die,
His shirt should spotless be, and white,
His hair should be arrayed and trim. )”
Ognianoff listened with secret excitement to the close of the
song.
“This Stoyan,” he thought, is the very type of the legend-
ary Bulgarian haïdoud, with his calm courage in facing death.
Not a word of sorrow, of despair, or even of hope. He only
wants to die looking his best. Ah! if this heroical fatalism has
only passed into the Bulgarian of to-day, I shall be quite easy in
mind as to the end of our struggle. That's the struggle I seek
for that's the strength I want: to know how to die — that's half
the battle. ”
Just then the kavala, or shepherd's reed-pipes, struck up.
Their sound, at first low and melancholy, swelled gradually and
rose higher and higher; the eyes of the pipers flashed, their faces
flushed with excitement, the clear notes rang out and filled the
night with their weird mountain melody. They summoned up
the spirit of the Balkan peaks and gorges, they recalled the dark-
ness of the mountain glades, the rustling of the leaves at noon
while the sheep are resting, the scent of the corn-flower, the
echoes of the rocks, and the cool, sweet air of the valleys. The
reed-pipe is the harp of the Bulgarian mountains and plains.
All were now listening enchanted as they drank in the famil-
iar and friendly sounds of the poetic music. Tsanko and his
wife, standing with clasped hands by the fire, listened as if
-
»


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15278
IVAN VAZOFF
entranced. But the most affected of all was Ognianoff, who could
scarcely keep from applauding.
The brisk conversation and merry laughter soon broke out
again. But Ognianoff began to listen to what was being said, for
he heard his name mentioned. Petr Ovcharoff, Raïchin, Spir-
donoff, Ivan Ostenoff, and a few others were talking of the com-
ing insurrection.
“I'm ready for the fun now; I'm only waiting for my revolver
from Philippopolis. I've sent the money, 170 piastres. That's
the price of three rams,” said Petr Ovcharoff, the president of the
local committee.
“Yes, but we don't know when the flag's to be raised. Some
say we shall blood our knives at the Annunciation, others at St.
Gregory's Day, and Uncle Bojil says not till the end of May,”
said Spirdonoff, a handsome, well-built lad.
“It'll be somewhere about the coming of the cuckoo, when
the woods are getting green; but I'm ready now,—they've only
to give the word. ”
“Well, well: our Stara Planina has sheltered many a brave
fellow before now; it'll shelter us too,” said Ivan Ostenoff.
"Petr, didn't you say the teacher [Ognianoff] had killed two
of them? There's a plucky one for you. "
« When's he going to pay us a visit ? I want to kiss the hand
that polished them off,” asked Raïchin.
“He's got a start of us, has the teacher, but we must try and
catch him up. I know something of the game myself,” answered
Ivan Ostenoff.
Ivan Ostenoff was a bold youth, and a good shot as well.
Popular rumor ascribed the death of Deli Ahmed last year to
him; and the Turks had long tried to get hold of him, but so far
ineffectually.
At supper Ognianoff's health was drunk.
“God grant that we may soon see him here safe and sound.
Take an example from him, boys,” said Tsanko, as he swallowed
his wine.
"I'll bet any one whatever he likes,” said Tsanko's wife im-
patiently, “that teacher'll be here the first thing to-morrow, like
a hawk. ”
“What are you talking of, Boulka Tsankovitsa ? Why, I'm off
to K— to-morrow,” said Raïchin regretfully. "If he comes you
must keep him for Christmas, and we'll enjoy ourselves together. ”
>
))
C


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IVAN VAZOFF
15279
(
(
>
C
»
What's all that noise outside ? ” cried Tsanko, leaving his
wine.
In truth, men's and women's voices were heard making an
uproar outside. Tsanko and his wife ran out. The guests rose
to follow. Just then the mistress of the house rushed in, in great
excitement, and cried:-
“Well, that business is finished. God prosper it. ”
What? What ?