No More Learning

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HENRY VAN DYKE
him at his happiest in prose. The National Sin of Literary Piracy'
appeared in 1888, and The People Responsible for the Character of
Their Rulers) in 1895. A volume of Dr. Van Dyke's verse entitled
“The Builders and Other Poems) was published in 1897, and added
materially to his reputation; for the verse is artistic, has genuine
imagination, and is full of noble ethical feeling. This book of
verse, together with the Yale lectures, the Tennyson estimate, and
Little Rivers,' represents that portion of Dr. Van Dyke's writing
which establishes his claim to inclusion among American men of let-
ters.
LITTLE RIVERS
From Little Rivers. )
Copyright 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons
A things.
RIVER is the most human and companionable of all inanimate
. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own; and
is as full of good-fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap.
It can talk in various tones, loud or low; and of many subjects,
grave or gay. Under favorable circumstances it will even make
a shift to sing; not in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and
set down in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague,
refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that goes
“Over the hills and far away. ”
For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the
animal kingdom that is comparable to a river.
I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favor
of some other objects of natural affection, For example, a fair
apology has been offered by those ambitious persons who have
fallen in love with the sea. But after all, that is a formless and
disquieting passion. It lacks solid comfort and mutual confi-
dence. The sea is too big for loving, and too uncertain. It will
not fit into our thoughts. It has no personality, because it has
so many
It is a salt abstraction. You might as well think of
loving a glittering generality like the American woman. ” One
would be more to the purpose.
Mountains are more satisfying because they are
more indi-
vidual. It is possible to 'feel a very strong attachment for a
certain range whose outline has grown familiar to our eyes; or
a clear peak that has looked down, day after day, upon our joys


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1
1
HENRY VAN DYKE
15239
>
and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm aspect. We
come back from our travels, and the sight of such a well-known
mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged. But it is a
one-sided affection. The mountain is voiceless and imperturb-
able; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes makes us the
more lonely.
Trees seem to come closer to our life. They are often rooted
in our richest feelings; and our sweetest memories, like birds,
build nests in their branches. I remember, the last time I saw
James Russell Lowell (only a few weeks before his musical voice
was hushed), he walked out with me into the quiet garden at
Elmwood to say good-by. There was a great horse-chestnut
tree beside the house, towering above the gable, and covered with
blossoms from base to summit, - a pyramid of green supporting
a thousand smaller pyramids of white. The poet looked up at it
with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand
upon the trunk. "I planted the nut,” said he, from which this
tree grew. And my father was with me, and showed me how to
plant it. ”
Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship;
and when I recline with my friend Tityrus' beneath the shade of
his favorite oak, I consent to his devotions. But when I invite
him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge
the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet turn not to
a tree, but to the bank of a river; for there the musings of soli-
tude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is
purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water. It
is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive
old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my
faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my
'mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and
peace of living. Like David's hart, I pant for the water-brooks;
and would follow the advice of Seneca, who says, “Where a
spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and
offer sacrifices. »
The personality of a river is not to be found in its water, nor
in its bed, nor in its shore. Either of these elements, by itself,
would be nothing. Confine the fluid contents of the noblest
stream in a walled channel of stone, and it ceases to be a stream;
it becomes what Charles Lamb calls “a mockery of a river -
liquid artifice - a wretched conduit. ” But take away the water
a


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HENRY VAN DYKE
from the most beautiful river-banks, and what is left ? An ugly
road with none to travel it; a long ghastly scar on the bosom of
the earth.
The life of a river, like that of a human being, consists in the
union of soul and body, the water and the banks. They belong
together. They act and react upon each other. The stream
molds and makes the shore: hollowing out a bay here and build-
ing a long point there; alluring the little bushes close to its
side, and bending the tall slim trees over its current; sweeping
a rocky ledge clean of everything but moss, and sending a still
lagoon full of white arrow-heads and rosy knot-weed far back
into the meadow. The shore guides and controls the stream:
now detaining and now advancing it; now bending it in a hun-
dred sinuous curves, and now speeding it straight as a wild bee
on its homeward fight; here hiding the water in a deep cleft
overhung with green branches, and there spreading it out, like a
mirror framed in daisies, to reflect the sky and the clouds; some-
times breaking it with sudden turns and unexpected falls into
a foam of musical laughter, sometimes soothing it into a sleepy
motion like the flow of a dream.
And is it otherwise with the men and women whom we know
and like? Does not the spirit influence the form, and the form
affect the spirit ? Can we divide and separate them in our affec-
tions?
I am no friend to purely psychological attachments. In some
unknown future they may be satisfying; but in the present I
want your words and your voice, with your thoughts, your looks
and your gestures, to interpret your feelings. The warm, strong
grasp of Great-heart's hand is as dear to me as the steadfast
fashion of his friendships; the lively, sparkling eyes of the master
of Rudder Grange charm me as much as the nimbleness of his
fancy; and the firm poise of the Hoosier Schoolmaster's shaggy
head gives me new confidence in the solidity of his views of life.
I like the pure tranquillity of Isabel's brow as well as her
« - most silver flow
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. ”
»
The soft cadences and turns in my Lady Katrina's speech draw
me into the humor of her gentle judgments of men and things.
The touches of quaintness in Angelica's dress — her folded ker-
chief and smooth-parted hair - seem to partake of herself, and


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HENRY VAN DYKE
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1
enhance my admiration for the sweet odor of her thoughts and
her old-fashioned ideals of love and duty. Even so the stream
and its channel are one life; and I cannot think of the swift
brown flood of the Batiscan without its shadowing primeval for-
ests, or the crystalline current of the Boquet without its beds
of pebbles and golden sand, and grassy banks embroidered with
flowers.
Every country- or at least every country that is fit for habi-
tation - has its own rivers; and every river has its own quality:
and it is the part of wisdom to know and love as many as you
can; seeing each in the fairest possible light, and receiving from
each the best that it has to give. The torrents of Norway leap
.
down from their mountain homes with plentiful cataracts, and
run brief but glorious races to the sea. The streams of England
move smoothly through green fields and beside ancient, sleepy
towns. The Scotch rivers brawl through the open moorland, and
flash along steep Highland glens. The rivers of the Alps are
born in icy caves, from which they issue forth with furious,
turbid waters; but when their anger has been forgotten in the
slumber of some blue lake, they flow down more softly to see
the vineyards of France and Italy, the gray castles of Germany,
and the verdant meadows of Holland. The mighty rivers of the
West roll their yellow floods through broad valleys, or plunge
down dark . cañons. The rivers of the South creep under dim
arboreal archways heavy with banners of waving moss. The
Delaware and the Hudson and the Connecticut are the children
of the Catskills and the Adirondacks and the White Mountains,
cradled among the forests of spruce and hemlock, playing through
a wild woodland youth, gathering strength from numberless tribu-
taries to bear their great burdens of lumber, and turn the wheels
of many mills, issuing from the hills to water a thousand farms,
and descending at last, beside new cities, to the ancient sea.
Every river that flows is good, and has something worthy to
be loved. But those that we love most are always the ones that
we have known best, – the stream that ran before our father's
door, the current on which we ventured our first boat or cast
our first fly, the brook on whose banks we first picked the twin
flower of young love. However far we may travel, we
back to Naaman's state of mind: “Are not Abana and Pharpar,
rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel ? ”
1
come
.
.


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15242
HENRY VAN DYKE
THE MALADY OF MODERN DOUBT
From "The Gospel for an Age of Doubt. Copyright 1896, by the Macmillan
Company
BºT
:
7
}
1
UT why despair, unless indeed because man, in his very
nature and inmost essence, is framed for an immortal hope?
No other creature is filled with disgust and anger by the
mere recognition of its own environment, and the realization of
its own destiny. This strange issue of a purely physical evolu-
tion in a profound revolt against itself is incredibly miraculous.
Can a vast universe of atoms and ether, unfolding out of dark-
ness into darkness, produce at some point in its progress, and
that point apparently the highest, a feeling of profound dis-
appointment with its partially discovered processes, and resentful
grief at its dimly foreseen end? To believe this would require
a monstrous credulity. Agnosticism evades it. There are but
two solutions which really face the facts. One is the black, un-
speakable creed, that the source of all things is an unknown,
mocking, malignant power, whose last and most cruel jest is the
misery of disenchanted man. The other is the hopeful creed,
that the very pain which man suffers when his spiritual nature is
denied is proof that it exists, and part of the discipline by which
a truthful, loving God would lead man to Himself. Let the world
judge which is the more reasonable faith. But for our part,
while we cling to the creed of hope, let us not fail to cleave
ever to the sunnier side of doubt,” and see in the very shadow
that it casts, the evidence of a light behind and above it. Let
us learn the meaning of that noble word of St. Augustine:
“Thou hast made us for thyself; and unquiet is our heart until
it rests in thee. ”
Yes, the inquietude of the heart which doubt has robbed of
its faith in God is an evidence that skepticism is a malady, not a
normal state. The sadness of our times under the pressure of
positive disbelief and negative uncertainty has in it the prom-
ise and potency” of a return to health and happiness. Already
we can see, if we look with clear eyes, the signs of what I have
dared to call the reaction out of the heart of a doubting age
towards the Christianity of Christ, and the faith in Immortal
Love. "
Pagan poets, full of melancholy beauty and vague regret for
lost ideals, poets of decadence and despondence, the age has
(
i


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HENRY VAN DYKE
15243
(
)
€
>>
borne to sing its grief and gloom. But its two great singers,
Tennyson and Browning, strike a clearer note of returning faith
and hope. « They resume the quest; and do not pause until they
find Him whom they seek. ” Pessimists like Hartmann work back
unconsciously, from the vague remoteness of pantheism, far in
the direction, at least, of a theistic view of the universe. His
later books — '
Religionsphilosophie' and 'Selbstersetzung des
Christenthums' — breathe a different spirit from his Philosophie
des Unbewussten. One of the most cautious of our younger
students of philosophy has noted with care, in a recent article,
the indications that the era of doubt is drawing to a close. ” A
statesman like Signor Crispi does not hesitate to cut loose from
his former atheistic connections, and declare that “The belief in
God is the fundamental basis of the healthy life of the people;
while atheism puts in it the germ of an irreparable decay. ' The
French critic, M. Edouard Rod, declares that “Only religion can
regulate at the same time human thought and human action. ”
Mr. Benjamin Kidd, from the side of English sociology, assures
us that “Since man became a social creature, the development of
his intellectual character has become subordinate to the devel-
opment of his religious character; ” and concludes that religion
affords the only permanent sanction for progress. A famous
biologist, Romanes, who once professed the most absolute rejec-
tion of revealed, and the most unqualified skepticism of natural,
religion, thinks his way soberly back from the painful void to
a position where he confesses that it is reasonable to be a
Christian believer," and dies in the full communion of the church
of Jesus.
All along the line, we see men who once thought it necessary
or desirable to abandon forever the soul's abode of faith in the
unseen, returning by many and devious ways from the far coun-
try of doubt, driven by homesickness and hunger to seek some
path which shall at least bring them in sight of a Father's house.
And meanwhile we hear the conscience, the ethical instinct of
mankind, asserting itself with splendid courage and patience, even
in those who have as yet found no sure ground for it to stand
upon.
There is a sublime contradiction between the positivist's
view of man as “the hero of a lamentable drama played in an
obscure corner of the universe, in virtue of blind laws, before an
indifferent nature, and with annihilation for its dénouement,” and
the doctrine that it is his supreme duty to sacrifice himself for
the good of humanity. Yet many of the skeptical thinkers of
C


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HENRY VAN DYKE
the age do not stumble at the contradiction. They hold fast to
love and justice and moral enthusiasm, even though they suspect
that they themselves are the products of a nature which is blind
and dumb and heartless and stupid. Never have the obligations
of self-restraint, and helpfulness, and equity, and universal broth-
erhood been preached more fervently than by some of the Eng-
lish agnostics.
In France a new crusade has risen; a crusade which seeks
to gather into its hosts men of all creeds, and men of none, and
which proclaims as its object the recovery of the sacred places of
man's spiritual life, the holy land in which virtue shines forever
by its own light, and the higher impulses of our nature are
inspired, invincible, and immortal. On its banner M. Paul Des-
jardins writes the word of Tolstoy, “Il faut avoir une âme”
(It is necessary to have a soul), and declares that the crusaders
will follow it wherever it leads them. “For my part,” he cries,
"I shall not blush certainly to acknowledge as sole master the
Christ preached by the doctors. I shall not recoil if my prem-
ises force me to believe, at last, as Pascal believed. ”
In our
own land such a crusade does not yet appear to be
necessary. The disintegration of faith under the secret processes
of general skepticism has not yet gone far enough to make the
peril of religion evident, or to cause a new marshaling of hosts
to recover and defend the forsaken shrines of man's spiritual life.
When the process which is now subtly working in so many
departments of our literature has gone farther, it may be need-
ful to call for such a crusade. If so, I believe it will come. I
believe that the leaders of thought,— the artists, the poets of the
future, - when they stand face to face with the manifest results
of negation and disillusion, which really destroy the very sphere
in which alone art and poetry can live, will rise to meet the
peril, and proclaim anew with one voice the watchword, “It is
necessary to have a soul. ” And “though a man gain the whole
world, if his soul is lost, it shall profit him nothing. ” But mean-
while, before the following of the errors of France in literature
and art has led us to that point of spiritual impoverishment
where must imitate the organized and avowed effort to
recover that which has been lost, we
new crusade of
another kind: a powerful movement of moral enthusiasm, of self-
sacrifice, of altruism,- even among those who profess to be out
of sympathy with Christianity,– which is a sign of promise,
because it reveals a force that cries out for faith to guide and
we
see
a


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HENRY VAN DYKE
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3
direct it. Never was there a time when the fine aspirations of
the young manhood and young womanhood of our country needed
a more inspiring and direct Christian leadership. The indications
of this need lie open to our sight on every side. Here is a com-
pany of refined and educated people going down to make a col-
lege settlement among the poor and ignorant, to help them and
lift them up.
They declare that it is not a religious movement,
that there is to be no preaching connected with it, that the only
faith which it is to embody is faith in humanity. They choose a
leader who has only that •faith. But they find, under his guid-
ance, that the movement will not move, that the work cannot be
done, that it faints and fails because it lacks the spring of moral
inspiration which can come only from a divine and spiritual
faith. And they are forced to seek a new leader, who, although
he is not a preacher, yet carries within his heart that power of
religious conviction, that force of devotion to the will of God,
that faith in the living and supreme Christ, which is in fact the
centre of Christianity. All around the circle of human doubt and
despair, where men and women are going out to enlighten and
uplift and comfort and strengthen their fellow-men under the
perplexities and burdens of life, we hear the cry for a gospel
which shall be divine, and therefore sovereign and unquestionable
and sure and victorious. All through the noblest aspirations and
efforts and hopes of our age of doubt, we feel the longing, and
we hear the demand, for a new inspiration of Christian faith.
AN ANGLER'S WISH
From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
I
HEN tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
WHEN
When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes toward sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;


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HENRY VAN DYKE
Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing, -
For this the month of May was made.
II
I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plow.
The thistle-birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show's begun.
The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these ?
III
I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.
The Airting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, «Good cheer. ”
And best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:
How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music's balm!
IV
'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line:
Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf and dream;


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HENRY VAN DYKE
15247
Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
No more I'm wishing - old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.
TENNYSON
From “The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
ROM the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendors of the
moon,
(noon,
To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than
Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune.
F
Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art;
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart:
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?
Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail;
Silence here — for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels fail;
Silence here — but far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail!
THE VEERY
From “The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright 1897, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
T**
VE moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie:
I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie:
I only know one song more sweet, - the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure;
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,–
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; [ing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ring-
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.


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15248
GIORGIO VASARI
(1512-1574)
Area
He contemporary of Michel Angelo, of Raphael, and of Andrea
del Sarto, Giorgio Vasari was himself a painter and archi-
tect of reputation. His name would however probably be
forgotten to-day, were it not for his literary achievement in the
Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. ' In
the sketch of himself which Vasari gives in this work, he tells the
story of the book's origin and development, evidently regarding it as a
mere incident in a busy and renowned life.
«One evening,” he writes, — «one evening
among others the conversation fell on the Mu-
seum of Giovio, and on the portraits of illus-
trious men placed there in admirable order and
with appropriate inscriptions; when, passing from
one thing to another, as is done in conversation,
Monsignore Giovio said that he always had felt,
and still did feel, a great wish to add to his
museum, and to his book of Eulogies) a treatise
concerning men who had distinguished them-
selves in the art of design, from Cimabue down
to our own times. He spoke at some length on
the subject, giving proof of much knowledge and
judgment in matters concerning our arts. It is
GIORGIO VASARI nevertheless true, that as he was treating only
of generalities, and did not enter into the matter
very closely, he often made some confusion among the artists cited, changing
their names, families, birthplaces, etc. , or attributing the work of one to the
hand of another; not describing things as they were precisely, but rather
treating of them in the mass.
«When Giovio had finished his discourse, the cardinal turning to me said,
(What think you, Giorgio — would not this be a fine work, a noble labor ? )
(Admirable, indeed, most illustrious my lord,' replied 1: (provided Giovio be
assisted by some one belonging to our calling, who can put things into their
right places, and relate them as they have really occurred; and this I say be.
cause, although the discourse he has just concluded is admirable, yet he has
often made assertions that are not correct, and said one thing for another. )
(Could you not, then,' replied the cardinal, being incited thereunto by Giovio,
Caro, Tolomei, and the rest, — (could you not supply him with a summary of

-


## p. 15249 (#193) ##########################################

GIORGIO VASARI
15249
these matters, and with notices of all these artists, – their works being arranged
in the order of time,- whereby you would confer that benefit also on your
arts ? ) This, although I knew the undertaking beyond my strength, I was
yet willing to attempt, with such power as I possessed, and promised to do it
according to the best of my ability. ”
He was
He continues to tell us that he promptly gathered his material
together for this work. He was, indeed, somewhat abundantly sup-
plied with notes, as since his boyhood he had collected for his own
recreation what items he could find concerning the great artists.
When he presented the summary to Monsignore Giovio, that gentle-
man was so pleased with the style that he persuaded Vasari to pre-
pare the book himself. Thus it is that Signor Giorgio Vasari won
his title to many generations of fame.
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.


## p. 15250 (#194) ##########################################

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.


## p. 15251 (#195) ##########################################

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


## p. 15252 (#196) ##########################################

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


## p. 15253 (#197) ##########################################

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.