No More Learning

He was born in Arezzo in 1512. There as a child he copied the
pictures in the churches, encouraged always by his good father,
Messer Antonio. When Giorgio was nine years of age, his father
took him to pay his respects to their kinsman, Cardinal Silvio Pas-
serini, who was visiting Arezzo. This prelate was much impressed
by the boy's familiarity with Virgil and with the rudiments of learn-
ing, as well as by his proficiency in drawing. He persuaded Messer
Antonio to conduct his son to Florence; and here the boy was placed
with Alessandro and Ippolito dei Medici in the study of the classics,
and was put to learn design under the great Michel Angelo.
Early in life Giorgio Vasari began a career of success.
an indomitable worker; and during a very brief interval between his
days of student life and those of the remunerated artist, he painted
assiduously frescoes for the peasantry outside of Arezzo, for the mere
sake of the experience to be gained therefrom. On the death of his
father, the care of younger brothers and sisters devolved on him;
and in order to meet the responsibility, he was forced to practice for
a time in Florence the art of the goldsmith. Commissions for paint-
ing soon overtook him, however; and despite the astonishing rapidity
with which he worked, it was no longer possible for him to fulfill the
demands made upon his time. He became the darling of the court;
but the precariousness of such a popularity speedily impressed itself
“The promises of this world,” he writes, are for the
most part but vain phantoms; to confide in one's self and to become
something of worth and value is the best and safest course. ” His
popularity, however, in no way diminished after he ceased to rely
upon it as a means of advancement. His personality was such as to
inspire affection.
It was largely his quality of friendliness which led him to accom-
plish so admirably the literary work by which he lives to-day. He
was in close personal relations with the artists of his country, and
XXVI–954
upon him.


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15250
GIORGIO VASARI
-
one of their own calling. He was always their comrade, never their
rival. “Who, exclaims the Padre della Valle, “would not become
the friend of Vasari! » He had the power of drawing into sympathy
those who were gathered round him: thus it is that in the Lives
we feel, not like students ferreting for facts in the careers of great
men, but rather as honored guests introduced to a coterie of con-
genial spirits. The work has not escaped the just charge of inaccu-
racies, and has been corrected and annotated by Della Valle, Rumohr,
Förster, and others. As a critic, however, Vasari has always the
spirit of justice, and is usually able to lay aside personal sympathy
and to assume dispassionate judgment. His style is pure and ingen-
.
uous, relieved by a refined and subdued humor; not infrequently he
ascends to elequence,- that somewhat rare eloquence in which one
thinks less of rhetoric than of the sentiment expressed, and in which,
despite the enthusiasm of the writer, one yet feels that he is not
controlled by his subject, but is still master of it.
Vasari died in Florence in 1574. while occupied in painting the
cupola of the Duomo. As the tourist reads in his Baedeker to-day
that the prophets in the lantern were the last work of Giorgio Vasari,
he looks at them curiously, knowing that it was not as a literary
critic, but as an artist, that this man expected to go down to poster-
ity. Yet after the passage of three hundred years, his book remains
an authority; if not in every particular congenial to the disciples of
Ruskin, it yet accords with the prevailing judgment of to-day.
He
himself says of his works that if the future finds no excellence in
them, it must yet recognize an ardent wish to do well, . . with
great and enduring industry, and a true love for these our arts. ”
What greater tribute than this modest assertion can be paid to a work
accomplished by a master whom three centuries have pronounced a
man of knowledge and intelligence ?
RAPHAEL SANZIO
From Lives
the Most Em
ent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects)
E wherewith is
T"pleased to accumulate the infinite riches of its treasures on
are
the head of one sole favorite — showering on him all those
rare gifts and . graces which more commonly distributed
among a larger number of individuals, and accorded at long
intervals of time only - has been clearly exemplified in the well-
known instance of Raphael Sanzio of Urbino.


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GIORGIO VASARI
15251
No less excellent than graceful, he was endowed by nature
with all that modesty and goodness which may occasionally be
perceived in those few favored persons who enhance the gracious
sweetness of a disposition more than usually gentle, by the fair
ornament of a winning amenity, always ready to conciliate, and
constantly giving evidence of the most refined consideration for
all persons, and under every circumstance. The world received
the gift of this artist from the hand of Nature, when, vanquished
by Art in the person of Michel Angelo, she deigned to be sub-
jugated in that of Raphael, not by art only but by goodness also.
And of a truth, since the greater number of artists had up to
that period derived from nature a certain rudeness and eccen-
tricity, which not only rendered them uncouth and fantastic, but
often caused the shadows and darkness of vice to be more con-
spicuous in their lives than the light and splendor of those
virtues by which man is rendered immortal,- so was there' good
cause wherefore she should, on the con ary, make all the rarest
qualities of the heart to shine resplendently in her Raphael; per-
fecting them by so much diffidence, grace, application to study,
and excellence of life, that these alone would have sufficed to
veil or neutralize every fault, however important, and to efface
all defects, however glaring they might have been. Truly may
we affirm that those who are the possessors of endowments so
rich and varied as were assembled in the person of Raphael, are
scarcely to be called simple men only,- they are rather, if it be
permitted so to speak, entitled to the appellation of mortal gods;
and further are we authorized to declare, that he who by means
of his works has left an honored name in the records of fame
here below, may also hope to enjoy such rewards in heaven as
are commensurate to and worthy of their labors and merits.
Raphael was born at Urbino- a most renowned city of Italy
on Good Friday of the year 1483, at three o'clock of the night.
His father was a certain Giovanni de' Santi; a painter of no
great eminence in his art, but a man of sufficient intelligence
nevertheless, and perfectly competent to direct his children into
that good way which had not, for his misfortune, been laid open
to himself in his younger days. And first, as he knew how im-
portant it is that a child should be nourished by the milk of its
own mother, and not by that of the hired nurse, so he deter-
mined when his son Raphael (to whom he gave that name at his
baptism, as being one of good augury) was born to him, that


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15252
GIORGIO VASARI
+
1
1
the mother of the child, he having no other,— as indeed he never
had more,- should herself be the nurse of the child. Giovanni
further desired that in his tender years the boy should rather be
brought up to the habits of his own family, and beneath his pa-
ternal roof, than be sent where he must acquire habits and man-
ners less refined, and modes of thought less commendable, in the
houses of the peasantry or other untaught persons. As the child
became older, Giovanni began to instruct him in the first princi-
ples of painting; perceiving that he was much inclined to that
art, and finding him to be endowed with a most admirable genius:
few years had passed, therefore, before Raphael, though still but
a child, became a valuable assistant to his father in the numer-
ous works which the latter executed in the State of Urbino.
At length this good and affectionate parent, knowing that his
son would acquire but little of his art from himself, resolved to
place him with Pietro Perugino, who, according to what Giovanni
had been told, was then considered to hold the first place among
the painters of the time. Wherefore, proceeding to Perugia for
that purpose, and finding Pietro to be absent from the city, he
occupied himself — to the end that he might await the return of
the master with the less inconvenience — in the execution of cer-
tain works for the church of San Francesco in that place. But
when Pietro had returned to Perugia, Giovanni, who was a per-
son of very good manners and pleasing deportment, soon formed
an amicable acquaintanceship with him; and when the proper
opportunity arrived, made known to him the desire he had con-
ceived, in the most suitable manner that he could devise. There-
upon Pietro, who was also exceedingly courteous, as well as a
lover of fine genius, agreed to accept the care of Raphael. Gio-
vanni then returned to Urbino; and having taken the boy,
though not without many tears from his mother, who loved him
tenderly, he conducted him to Perugia: when Pietro no sooner
beheld his manner of drawing, and observed the pleasing deport-
ment of the youth, than he conceived that opinion of him which
was in due time so amply confirmed by the results produced in
the after life of Raphael.
But I have now discoursed respecting these questions of art
at more length perhaps than was needful, and will return to the
life and death of Raphael. This master lived in the strictest inti-
macy with Bernardo Divizio, Cardinal of Bibbiena, who had for
many years importuned him to take a wife of his selection; nor
***
1
11


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GIORGIO VASARI
15253
had Raphael directly refused compliance with the wishes of the
cardinal, but had put the matter off, by saying that he would wait
some three or four years longer. The term which he had thus
set, approached before Raphael had thought of it, when he was
reminded by the cardinal of his promise; and being as he ever
was, just and upright, he would not depart from his word, and
therefore accepted a niece of the cardinal himself for his wife.
But as this engagement was nevertheless a very heavy restraint
to him, he put off the marriage from time to time; insomuch
that several months passed, and the ceremony had not yet taken
place. Yet this was not done without a very honorable motive;
for Raphael having been for many years in the service of the
count, and being the creditor of Leo X. for a large sum of
money, had received an intimation to the effect that when the
hall with which he was then occupied was completed, the pontiff
intended to reward him for his labors as well as to do honor to
his talents by bestowing on him the red hat, of which he meant
to distribute a considerable number, many of them being designed
for persons whose merits were greatly inferior to those of Ra-
phael. The painter meanwhile did not abandon the light attach-
ment by which he was enchained: and one day, on returning to
his house from one of these secret visits, he was seized with
a violent fever, which being mistaken for a cold, the physicians
inconsiderately caused him to be bled; whereby he found him-
self exhausted, when he had rather required to be strengthened.
Thereupon he made his will, and as a good Christian he sent
the object of his attachment from the house, but left her a suf-
ficient provision wherewith she might live in decency: having
done so much, he divided his property among his disciples, –
Giulio Romano, that is to say, whom he always loved greatly, and
Giovanni Francesco, with whom was joined a certain priest of
Urbino who was his kinsman, but whose name I do not know.
He furthermore commanded that a certain portion of his prop-
erty should be employed in the restoration of one of the ancient
tabernacles in Santa Maria Ritonda, which he had selected as his
burial-place, and for which he had ordered that an altar, with
the figure of Our Lady in marble, should be prepared; all that
he possessed besides he bequeathed to Giulio Romano and Gio-
vanni Francesco, - naming Messer Baldassare da Pescia, who was
then datary to the Pope, as his executor. He then confessed,
and in much contrition completed the course of his life, on the


## p. 15254 (#198) ##########################################

15254
GIORGIO VASARI
1
1
day whereon it had commenced, which was Good Friday. The
master was then in the thirty-seventh year of his age, and as he
embellished the world by his talents while on earth, so is it to
be believed that his soul is now adorning heaven.
After his death, the body of Raphael was placed at the upper
end of the hall wherein he had last worked, with the picture of
the Transfiguration which he had executed for Cardinal Giulio
de' Medici, at the head of the corpse. He who, regarding that
living picture, afterwards turned to consider that dead body, felt
his heart bursting with grief as he beheld them. The loss of
Raphael caused the cardinal to command that this work should
be placed on the high altar of San Pietro-a-Montorio, where it
has ever since been held in the utmost veneration for its own
great value, as well as for the excellence of its author. The
remains of this divine artist received that honorable sepulture
which the noble spirit whereby they had been informed had so
well deserved; nor was there any artist in Rome who did not
deeply be wail the loss sustained by the departure of the master,
or who failed to accompany his remains to their repose.
The death of Raphael was in like manner deplored by all
the papal court: not only because he had formed part thereof,
since he had held the office of chamberlain to the pontiff, but
also because Leo X. had esteemed him so highly, that his loss
occasioned that sovereign the bitterest grief. O most happy
and thrice blessed spirit, of whom all are proud to speak, whose
actions are celebrated with praise by all men, and the least of
whose works left behind thee is admired and prized!
When this noble artist died, well might Painting have departed
also; for when he closed his eyes, she too was left as it were
blind. But now to us, whose lot it is to come after him, there
remains to imitate the good, or rather the excellent, of which he
has left us the example; and as our obligations to him and his
great merits well deserve, to retain the most grateful remembrance
of him in our hearts, while we ever maintain his memory in the
highest honor with our lips. To him of a truth it is that we
owe the possession of invention, coloring, and execution, brought
alike and altogether to that point of perfection for which few
could have dared to hope; nor has any man ever aspired to pass
before him.
And in addition to the benefits which this great master con-
ferred art, being as he was its best friend, we have the
6
on


## p. 15255 (#199) ##########################################

GIORGIO VASARI
15255
further obligation to him of having taught us by his life in what
manner we should comport ourselves towards great men, as well
as towards those of lower degree, and even towards the lowest;
nay, there was among his many extraordinary gifts one of such
value and importance, that I can never sufficiently admire it, and
always think thereof with astonishment. This was the power
accorded to him by Heaven, of bringing all who approached his
presence into harmony; an effect inconceivably surprising in our
calling, and contrary to the nature of our artists: yet all, I do
not say of the inferior grades only, but even those who lay claim
to be great personages (and of this humor our art produces
immense numbers), became as of one mind, once they began to
labor in the society of Raphael; continuing in such unity and
concord that all harsh feelings and evil dispositions became sub-
dued, and disappeared at the sight of him, every vile and base
thought departing from the mind before his influence. Such
harmony prevailed at no other time than his own. And this hap-
pened because all were surpassed by him in friendly courtesy
as well as in art; all confessed the influence of his sweet and
gracious nature, which was so replete with excellence, and so
perfect in all the charities, that not only was he honored by
men, but even by the very animals, who would constantly follow
his steps, and always loved him.
We find it related that whenever any other painter, whether
known to Raphael or not, requested any design or assistance of
whatever kind at his hands, he would invariably leave his work
to do him service; he continually kept a large number of artists
employed, all of whom he assisted and instructed with an affec-
tion which was rather as that of a father to his children, than
merely as of an artist to artists. From these things it followed
that he was never seen to go to court but surrounded and ac-
companied, as he left his house, by some fifty painters,- all men
of ability and distinction,- who attended him thus to give evi-
dence of the honor in which they held him. He did not, in
short, live the life of the painter, but that of a prince. Where-
fore, O art of painting! well mightest thou for thy part then
esteem thyself most happy, having, as thou hadst, one artist
among thy sons by whose virtues and talents thou wert thyself
exalted to heaven. Thrice blessed indeed mayest thou declare
thyself, since thou hast seen thy disciples, by pursuing the foot-
steps of a
man so exalted, acquire the knowledge of how life


## p. 15256 (#200) ##########################################

15256
GIORGIO VASARI
should be employed, and become impressed with the importance
of uniting the practice of virtue to that of art. Conjoined as
these were in the person of Raphael, their force availed to con-
strain the greatness of Julius II. and to awaken the generosity
of Leo X. ; both of whom, high as they were in dignity, selected
him for their most intimate friend, and treated him with every
kind of familiarity: insomuch that by means of the favor he en-
joyed with them, and the powers with which they invested him,
he was able to do the utmost honor to himself and to art. Most
happy also may well be called those who, being in his service,
worked under his own eye; since it has been found that all who
took pains to imitate this master have arrived at a safe haven,
and attained to a respectable position. In like manner, all who
do their best to emulate his labors in art will be honored on
earth, as it is certain that all who resemble him in the rectitude
of his life will receive their reward in heaven.
Translation of Mrs. Jonathan Foster.


## p. 15257 (#201) ##########################################

15257
HENRY VAUGHAN
(1621-1693)
HERE is a quality about certain seventeenth-century writers of
religious verse — Herbert, Crashaw, Quarles, and Vaughan-
SO which makes them precious to the lovers of poetry. They
had at times a mystic worshipfulness, a tenderness and depth of
feeling, in the expression of spiritual aspiration, very rare and very
lovely. They had too in common, though in varying degrees, some-
thing of literary genius; which, if it did not show in work steadily
artistic and above criticism, was manifested in gleams and flashes,
when the magic word was caught and the inevitable phrase coined.
This applies in full force to Henry Vaughan, whose poems, in a few
classic examples, burn with a pure flame of religious fervor, and have
a charm that makes them unforgettable.
Henry Vaughan — the Silurist, as he was called because of his
residence among the Silures, the ancient name for the folk of South
Wales - was born at Newton-by-Usk in that principality, in the year
1621. His family was an old and highly respectable one of the vici-
nage. Educated by a private tutor, he with his twin brother Thomas
entered Jesus College, Oxford, in 1638, but was not graduated. Both
the young Vaughans were stanch royalists, that political complexion
being a tradition in the family; Henry was imprisoned during the
Civil War. His private patrimony being inadequate to his support,
he qualified for medicine, and practiced that profession with repute
for many years in his native place. His literary work was thus
an avocation pursued for the love of it. During his long and quiet
life, Vaughan published various volumes of poems and translations.
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.


## p. 15272 (#216) ##########################################

15272
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,
(


## p. 15274 (#218) ##########################################

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.