Chapter XXI: Part IV (2)

To account for the melancholy character of the Russian music and poetry, and to reconcile it with the well-known cheerful disposition of the nation, has been attempted by several Russian critics. "The peculiarities of a nation," Karamzin remarks, "may always be explained by the circumstances which have operated on it; although the grandchildren may have some of the virtues and some of the vices of their ancestry, even if they are differently situated. Perhaps the present character of the Russians may exhibit faults, which it contracted during the barbarism of the Mongolian subjugation." The pensiveness which pervades the Russian songs has also been considered as a remnant of that gloom, necessarily impressed on the Russian character during two centuries of the most cruel oppression. There is no doubt that the Russians before, during, and after their subjugation by the Mongols, had a thousand causes of discouragement and disasters; bloody civil wars, the most barbarian despotism, the plague, slavery,[23] and the like. But it is just as certain, that notwithstanding all the causes of sorrow, the Russians are still the most cheerful and light-hearted people on earth; with all their hearts and senses enjoying the scanty pleasures of life; though deprived of all civil privileges, and even of many social rights. The truth is, that it is with nations as with individuals. Neither in the one case nor in the other must we expect always to see them deposit their _habitual_ feelings in their poetry. It is a well-known fact that Molière was a man of a most serious disposition. Cowper, immediately before writing his "John Gilpin," was in a mood bordering on despair. Young, while composing his melancholy Night Thoughts, enjoyed his life as well as any man. The Russians do not sing their every-day sentiments, but their holiday feelings. That sweet pensiveness, which thrills so affectingly through their music and poetry, is to them a species of luxury. A soft, melancholy emotion, not deep enough indeed to cause suffering, and slumbering in every-day life in the recesses of the poet's soul, awakes in the hour of inspiration and spreads a gentle shadow over his habitual sunshine. The peculiar melancholy _resignation_ of Slavic lovers we have already attempted to explain. Indeed, it is to their love songs, principally, that the general remark on the pensiveness of Russian songs and airs is applicable.

We here subjoin some specimens of them. The first is extant in a great many versions, differing somewhat from each other. We choose the one we like best, as given by Sacharof:[24]

A PARTING SCENE.

"Sit not up, my love, late at evening hour,
Burn the light no more, light of virgin wax,
Wait no more for me till the midnight hour;
Ah, gone by, gone by is the happy time!
Ah, the wind has blown all our joys away,
And has scattered them o'er the empty field.
For my father dear, he will have it so,
And my mother dear has commanded it,
That I now must wed with another wife,
With another wife, with an unloved one!
But on heaven high two suns never burn,
Two moons never shine in the stilly night;
And an honest lad never loveth twice!
But my father shall be obey'd by me,
And my mother dear I will now obey;
To another wife I'll be wedded soon,
To another wife, to an early death,
To an early death, to a forced one."

Wept the lovely maid many bitter tears,
Many bitter tears, and did speak these words:
"O beloved one, never seen enough,
Longer will I not live in this white world,
Never without thee, thou my star of hope!
Never has the dove more than one fond mate,
And the female swan ne'er two husbands has,
Neither can I have two beloved friends."

No more sits she now late at evening hour,
But the light still burns, light of virgin wax;
On the table stands the coffin newly made;
In the coffin new lies the lovely maid.

THE DOVE.

On an oak tree sat,
Sat a pair of doves;
And they bill'd and coo'd
And they, heart to heart,
Tenderly embraced
With their little wings;
On them, suddenly,
Darted down a hawk.

One he seized and tore,
Tore the little dove,
With his feather'd feet,
Soft blue little dove;
And he poured his blood
Streaming down the tree.
Feathers too were strew'd
Widely o'er the field;
High away the down
Floated in the air.

Ah! how wept and wept;
Ah! how sobb'd and sobb'd
The poor doveling then
For her little dove.

"Weep not, weep not so,
Tender little bird!"
Spake the light young hawk
To the little dove.
"O'er the sea away.
O'er the far blue sea,
I will drive to thee
Flocks of other doves.
From them choose thee then.
Choose a soft and blue,
With his feathered feet,
Better little dove."

"Fly, thou villain, not,
O'er the far blue sea
Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah! of all thy doves
None can comfort me;
Only he, the father
Of my little ones."

P.

The following little elegy we translate from a Russian Annual; the editor of which, Baron Delvig, took it down from the lips of a peasant girl.

THE FAITHLESS LOVER.

Nightingale, O nightingale,
Nightingale so full of song,
Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest,
Where to sing now in the night?
Will another maiden hear thee
Like to me, poor me, all night
Sleepless, restless, comfortless,
Ever full of tears her eyes?
Fly, O fly, dear nightingale,
Over hundred countries fly,
Over the blue sea so far;
Spy the distant countries through,
Town and village, hill and dell,
Whether thou find'st any one,
Who so sad is, as I am?

O, I bore a necklace once,
All of pearls like morning dew;
And I bore a finger-ring,
With a precious stone thereon;

And I bore deep in my heart
Love, a love so warm and true.
When the sad, sad autumn came,
Were the pearls no longer clear;
And in winter burst my ring,
On my finger, of itself![25]
Ah! and when the spring came on,
Had forgotten me my love.

There is one trait in the Russian character, which we recognize distinctly in their poetry, namely, their peculiar and almost Oriental veneration for their sovereign, and a blind submission to his will. There is indeed somewhat of a religious mixture in this feeling; for the Tzar is not only the sovereign lord of the country and master of their lives, but he is also the head of the orthodox church. The _orthodox_ Tzar is one of his standing epithets. The following ballad, which we consider as one of the most perfect among Russian popular narrative ballads, exhibits very affectingly the complete resignation with which the Russian meets death, when decreed by his Tzar. In its other features, also, it is throughout natural. Its historical foundation is unknown. There are several versions of it extant, slightly differing from each other; which seems to prove that it has been for a long time handled by the people.

THE BOYAR'S EXECUTION.

"Thou, my head, alas! my head,
Long hast served me, and well, my head;
Full three-and-thirty summers long;
Ever astride of my gallant steed,
Never my foot from its stirrup drawn.
But alas! thou hast gained, my head,
Nothing of joy or other good;
Nothing of honours or even thanks."

Yonder along the Butcher's street,
Out to the fields through the Butcher's gate,[26]
They are leading a prince and peer.

Priests and deacons are walking before,
In their hands a great book open;
Then there follows a soldier troop,
With their drawn sabres flashing bright.
At his right, the headsman goes,
Holds in his hand the keen-edged sword;
At his left goes his sister dear,
And she weeps as the torrent pours,
And she sobs as the fountains gush.

Comforting speaks her brother to her:
"Weep not, weep not, my sister dear!
Weep not away thy eyes so clear,
Dim not, O dim not thy face so fair,
Make not heavy thy joyous heart!
Say, for what is it thou weepest so?
Is 't for my goods, my inheritance?
Is 't for my lands, so rich and wide?
Is 't for my silver, or is 't for my gold?
Or dost thou weep for my life alone?"

"Ah, thou, my light, my brother dear,
Not for thy goods or inheritance,
Not for thy lands, so rich and wide,
Is 't that my eyes are weeping so;
Not for thy silver and not for thy gold,
'Tis for thy life, I am weeping so."

"Ah, thou, my light, my sister sweet!
Thou mayest weep, but it won't avail;
Thou mayest beg, but 't is all in vain;
Pray to the Tzar, but he will not yield.
Merciful truly was God to me,
Truly gracious to me the Tzar,
So he commanded my traitor head
Off should be hewn from my shoulders strong."

Now the scaffold the prince ascends.
Calmly mounts to the place of death;
Prays to his Great Redeemer there,
Humbly salutes the crowd around;
"Farewell world, and thou people of God;
Pray for my sins that burden me sore!"

Scarce had the people ventured then
On him to look, when his traitor head
Off was hewn from his shoulders strong.[27]

P.

We add another more modern heroic ballad, composed, perhaps, by one of the soldiers, who was present at the exploit. The first siege of Azof took place in 1695. The fortress was, however, not taken by storm, although repeated assaults were made; but the garrison capitulated in the following year. The great white Tzar is of course Peter I.[28]

THE STORMING OF AZOF.

The poor soldiers have no rest,
Neither night nor day!
Late at evening the word was given
To the soldiers gay;
All night long their weapons cleaning,
Were the soldiers good,
Ready in the morning dawn,
All in ranks they stood.

Not a golden trumpet is it,
That now sounds so clear;
Nor the silver flute's tone is it,
That thou now dost hear.
'Tis the great white Tzar who speaketh,
'Tis our father dear.
Come, my princes, my Boyars,
Nobles, great and small!
Now consider and invent
Good advice, ye all!
How the soonest, how the quickest,
Fort Azof may fall?

The Boyars, they stood in silence.--
And our father dear,
He again began to speak
In his eye a tear:
Come, my children, good dragoons,
And my soldiers all,
Now consider and invent
Brave advice, ye all,
How the soonest, how the quickest,
Fort Azof may fall?

Like a humming swarm of bees,
So the soldiers spake,
With one voice at once they spake:
"Father, dear, great Tzar!
Fall it must! and all our lives
Thereon we gladly stake."

Set already was the moon,
Nearly past the night;
To the storming on they marched,
With the morning light;
To the fort with bulwark'd towers
And walls so strong and white.

Not great rocks they were, which rolled
From the mountains steep;
From the high, high walls there rolled
Foes into the deep.
No white snow shines on the fields,
All so white and bright;
But the corpses of our foes
Shine so bright and white.
Not up-swollen by heavy rains
Left the sea its bed;
No! in rills and rivers streams
Turkish blood so red!

Different dialects are spoken, and different ballads are sung by the population of Malo-Russia[29] and of those Polish-Russian and Polish-Austrian provinces, where the peasantry is of the Ruthenian race. The musical element is still more prevalent among them; and their ditties are rhymed. The few very ancient ones, which are still extant, alone make an exception.

These have the form and the spirit of the ballads of the Great Russians, and can in no way be discerned from them; while the great mass has a different character. Indeed, such an immense number of ballads have originated in the rich and fertile steppes of the Ukraine, that it would seem as if each bough of their forest trees must harbour a singer, and each blade of grass on these endless blooming plains whisper the echo of a song.[30] The pensive character of the Great Russian popular poetry becomes, in that of the Malo-Russian and Ruthenian, a deep melancholy, that finds vent in a great variety of sweet, elegiac, melodies. According to the author of a little collection of their popular songs, published first in a German translation, "these are the after-pains of whole generations; these are the sorrows of whole centuries, which are blended in one everlasting sigh!" [31] If we look back to the history of these regions, we cannot doubt that it is the spirit of their past, that breathes out of these mournful strains. The cradle of the Kozak stood in blood; he was rocked to the music of the clashing of swords. For centuries the country on both banks of the Dnieper as far as to the northwestern branch of the Carpathian mountains, the seat of this race, was the theatre of constant warfare and aggression; there was no time for the blessings of a peaceful development. Their narrative ballads have, therefore, few other subjects than the feuds with Poles and Tartars; the Kozak's parting with his beloved one; or his lonely death on the border, or on the bloody battle field! No wonder that their little lyric effusions have imbibed the same melancholy spirit.

These vast level regions were the principal thoroughfares of the hordes of Mongols and Tartars, who from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century overspread Russia, and penetrated as far as Silesia. In Northern Russia, at least, a shade of the old forms and constitutions was preserved; and native princes reigned under Mongol dominion; but in the South every thing was broken up, and the country laid completely waste. Fugitives, reduced to a life of plunder and booty, congregated here and there; the country on the Lower Don, near the entrance of this river into the sea of Azof, was one of their strongholds; another portion found refuge on the islands of the Dnieper, just below the present site of Yekatrinoslav. Here they fortified themselves in little rude castles; while, after all, their situation out of the track of the wild barbarians was their best shelter.

The first named region was principally the asylum for fugitives from Great Russia; deserters and exiles from other parts of the country joined them; and the Tartar population, which they found on the spot, and the neighbouring Kalmuk tribes, mingled with them. These are the Kozaks of the Don; of whom the Kozaks of Grebensk, of Yaitzk, and of the Ural, are branches. They are Russians, and sing the songs of their brethren, the Russians. The river Don, or, as it is familiarly and at the same time respectfully called, _Don Ivanovitch_[32] plays a prominent part in their ballads. They have a touching childlike love for that noble river, so majestic and yet so gentle, that once gave shelter on its banks to their forefathers. Father Don, the stilly (_tikho_) Don, Don Ivanovitch, are its constant epithets. The scene of a considerable number of their ballads is in the vessels which glide upon the 'stilly' Don.

The fugitives who had congregated on the Dnieper were also Russians; but the mixture of other nations, which they received, would appear to have come principally from the Circassians of the Caucasus, as the still beautiful shape and countenance of the Tshernomorski seem to indicate;[33] and also in part from the Ruthenian tribes of the Carpathian mountains, as their language proves. These are the Zaporoguean Kozaks; so called from having their principal seats beyond the _porogues_, or water-falls of the Dnieper. Both sections of the Kozaks founded a kind of military democratic government; and tried to shelter themselves against their enemies in those rude castles called _Sicza_, best protected by thick woods and the surrounding water. They soon began to spread out in the small towns called _Groazisko_, fortified also indeed, but built so slightly that they were almost as soon erected as destroyed. The Kozaks of the Don, after the deliverance of Russia in the second half of the fifteenth century, acknowledged in some degree the sovereignty of the Russian Tzar; and aided Ivan II to conquer Siberia. They were used by his successors as border guardians against the wild Asiatic hordes; whom they partly chased from their homes in the Ural mountains, and settled there in their stead. Thus they spread all over Siberia; always looking back with a pensive and languishing feeling to their "dear fatherling," their gentle "nourisher," their "stilly Don Ivanovitch." [34]

From the Zaporoguean Kozaks, meanwhile, had issued the population of the Ukraine. Their first establishment consisted of a strict republic of warriors; no female was admitted into their strongholds on the islands of the Dnieper. By degrees they relaxed; and began with keeping their families in villages in the vicinity, where they spread with incredible rapidity. Then a line of separation was drawn between the inhabitants of the settlements, and the Zaporogueans in the castles; none of these latter were allowed to marry. Thus their youth were always ready for the enemy; and the distinction was only dropped in more peaceful times. They kept themselves independent of Russia until the latter part of the seventeenth century; but their more dangerous enemies had long been the Poles, their north-western neighbours. It was the period of Poland's glory. The Poles were conquerors in the North and in the East. At last the Kozaks, after a century of struggles, acknowledged the authority of the Polish sovereign Stephan Bathori (ob. 1586); moved partly, it is said in their traditions, by the personal grandeur of that chevaleresque monarch. But now the Polish nobility overspread the Ukraine. They became land-owners and oppressors; and their stewards, their still more detested assistants. They were followed by the Jesuits; who alternately by persuasion and compulsion attempted to entice the natives, who all belonged to the Greek church, to come under the dominion of the Pope. A war of religious persecution and resistance arose. The Kozaks ultimately revolted in 1648; and a few years after (in 1654) their Hetman Chmielnitzky submitted himself and the whole Ukraine to Tzar Alexei, the father of Peter I.

The struggles of this insurrection, their previous feuds with the Poles their oppressors, and afterwards their repeated revolts from the Russians, who tried to undermine their liberties, have given birth to a great number of simple ballads, the bold spirit of which presents a noble relief to the habitual melancholy of Malo-Russian poetry in general. They have professional singers, who are called _Bandurists_; and who, with a kind of simple guitar in their hand, ramble through the country, sure to find a willing audience in whatever village they may stop. Their ballads are of course not confined to the scenes of the earlier centuries; the more recent wars with the Turks and Tartars also, and the campaigns made in modern times in the service of Russia, present subjects enough of interest; for their productiveness is still alive, although the race of the professional bards is growing more and more scarce. They call their historical ballads _Dumi_, or _Dumki_, an appellation for historical elegies, which has recently been adopted by Polish literati.[35]

We give here a few characteristic specimens of their poetry; serving to illustrate their warlike spirit, as well as their domestic relations; their skill in narrative ballads, as well as their power of expressing in lyric strains the unsophisticated feelings of a tender heart. We begin with two genuine Kozak elegies.

ON THE MURDER OF YESSAUL TSHURAÏ.[36]

O eagle, young gray eagle,
Tshuraï, thou youth so brave,
In thine own land, the Pole,
The Pole dug thee thy grave!

The Pole dug thee thy grave,
For thee and thy Hetman;
They killed the two young heroes,
Stephen, the valiant Pan.

O eagle, young gray eagle,
Thy brethren are eagles too;
The old ones and the young ones,
Their custom well they knew!

The old ones and the young ones
They are all brave like thee,
An oath they all did take
Avenged shalt thou be!

The old ones and the young ones,
In council grave they meet;
They sit on coal black steeds,
On steeds so brave and fleet.

On steeds so brave and fleet
They are flying, eagle like;
In Polish towns and castles
Like lightning they will strike.

Of steel they carry lances,
Lances so sharp and strong;
With points as sharp as needles,
With hooks so sharp and long.

Of steel they carry sabres,
Two edged, blunted never;
To bring the Pole perdition
For ever and for ever!

LAMENT FOR YESSAUL PUSHKAR.

There flows a little river,
And Worskla is its name;
And of the little river
Know old and young the fame.

And on the little river,
They know good songs to sing;
And on the little river,
They like good thoughts to think.

O thoughts, ye manly thoughts,
Ye call up sorrow and woe;
O thoughts, ye manly thoughts,
From you strong deeds can grow!

Where are you, brave Kozaks?
Where are you, valiant lords?
Your bones are in the grave,
In the deep moor your swords!

Where art thou, O Pushkar?
Where art thou, valiant knight?
Ukraina weeps for thee,
And for her fate so bright.

His bones are in the grave,
Himself with God is now;
O weep, O weep, Ukraina,
An orphan left art thou.

Ukraina, thy bright fate
Destroy'd Wihowski's spell;[37]
He with the heart of stone,
And with the mind of hell!

The following melancholy song expresses the general hatred against the Pole, the oppressor, in a manner not less strong. _Haidamack_ is another name for the Ruthenian peasant under Polish dominion, and was formerly, as well as _Burlak_, also applied to the Malo-Russian Kozaks in general.

SONG OF THE HAIDAMACK.[38]

Gladly would I to the war,
To the war so full of prey,
Pleasure of the Haidamack!
But the steward bids me stay,
Lest the proud Pole's cows should stray!

Gladly to the merry dance
Would I on the gusli play,
Pleasure of the rosy maid!
But the steward bids me stay,
Lest the proud Pole's sheep should stray!

Gladly I would hunting go,
With the bobtailed dog so fleet,
Pleasure of a good brave youth!
But the steward bids me stay,
Lest the proud Pole's steeds should stray!

O farewell, thou rosy maid,
Rattle gently, rusty sabre!
Quick on horseback, Haidamack!
Stray may steeds, sheep, cows and all;
Perish may the haughty Pole!

We finish with a few Ruthenian ballads, having no political reference. The first is interesting as illustrating a peculiar popular superstition. The Leshes are a kind of Satyrs; covered like them with hair, and of a very malicious nature. They steal children and young women. Their presence has a certain benumbing influence; a person whom they visit cannot move or stir; although, in the case of our ballad, we have some suspicion that "the brandy, the wine, and the mead," had some preparatory influence.

The second exhibits the whole plaintive, yielding mood of a Russian loving maid; and may be considered as a _characteristic_ specimen.

SIR SAVA AND THE LESHES.[39]

With the Lord at Nemirov
Sir Sava dined so gladly;
Nor thought he that his life
Would end so soon and sadly.

Sir Sava he rode home
To his own court with speed;
And plenty of good oats
He bids to give his steed.

Sir Sava behind his table
To write with care begun;
His young wife she is rocking
In the cradle her infant son.

'Holla! my lad, brisk butler,
Bring now the brandy to me;
My well-beloved lady,
This glass I drink to thee.

'Holla! my lad, brisk butler,
Now bring me the clear wine;
This glass and this, I drink it
To this dear son of mine.

'Holla! my lad, brisk butler,
Now bring me the mead so fast;
My head aches sore; I fear
I've rode and drunk my last!'

Who knocks, who storms so fiercely?
Sir Sava looks up to know;
The Leshes stand before him,
And quick accost him so:

'We bow to thee, Sir Sava,
How far'st thou, tell us now!
To thy guests from the Ukraina,
What welcome biddest thou?'

'What could I bid you, brethren,
To-day in welcome's stead?
Well know I, ye are come
To take my poor sick head!'

'And tell us first, Sir Sava,
Where are thy daughters fair?'
'They are stolen by the Leshes,
And wash their linen there.'

'Now to the fight be ready!
Sir Sava meet thy lot!
Thy head is lost! one moment,
Death meets thee on the spot.'

The sabre whizzes through the air
Like wild bees in the wood,
The young wife of Sir Sava
By him a widow stood!

THE LOVE-SICK GIRL.[40]

Winds are blowing, howling,
Trees are bending low;
O my heart is aching,
Tears in streams do flow.

Years I count with sorrow,
And no end appears;
But my heart is lighten'd,
When I'm shedding tears.

Tears the heart can lighten,
Happy make it not;
E'en one blissful moment
Ne'er can be forgot.

Some there are who envy
E'en my destiny;
Say, 'O happy flow'ret
Blooming on the lea.'

On the lea so sandy,
Sunny, wanting dew!
O without my lover
Life is dark to view.

Nought can please without him,
Seems the world a jail;
Happiness exists not,
Peace of mind doth fail.

Where, dark-browed belov'd one,
Where, O may'st thou be?
Come and see, astonished,
How I weep for thee!

Whom shall I now lean on,
Whose caress receive?
Now that he who loves me
Far away doth live?

I would fly to thee, love,
But no wings have I;
Withered, parch'd, without thee,
Every hour I die.

The following little elegy, heard and written down in Galicia, we have always considered as one of the gems of poetry. It is a sigh of deep, mourning, everlasting love.

THE DEAD LOVE.

White art thou, my maiden,
Can'st not whiter be!
Warm my love is, maiden,
Cannot warmer be!

But when dead, my maiden,
White was she still more;
And, poor lad, I love her,
Warmer than before.[41]

Of still greater importance in respect to our subject are the SERVIANS. We have seen already in this work, that the inhabitants of the Turkish provinces of Servia and Bosnia, of Montenegro, of the Austrian kingdom of Slavonia, of Dalmatia and Military Croatia, speak essentially the same language; which is likewise the vernacular dialect of numerous Servian settlements in Hungary, along the south-western shore of the Danube. Of this language, which has been alternately called Illyrian, Servian, Morlachian, Bosnian, Croatian, Rascian, and perhaps by still other different appellations, it may be truly said, that it has more names than dialects; and even the few of these latter differ so slightly, that the difference would scarcely be perceived by a foreigner. It is also true, that, on account of the various systems of writing which have been adopted by the different sections of this race, the foreigner will sometimes find it more difficult to understand the language as written than as spoken.

The inexhaustible mine of Servian popular poetry belongs then to the whole nation; although, of course, neither the productiveness is every where the same, nor the power and opportunity of preservation. For its favourite home we must look to those regions where modern civilization has least penetrated; viz. to Turkish Servia, Bosnia, Montenegro. There also the vernacular language is spoken with the greatest purity.

An intelligent Italian traveller, Abbate Fortis, published about a hundred years ago an interesting description of the Morlachians, that is, the Croatian Servian inhabitants of Dalmatia, a tribe distinguished by wild passions and proud contempt of civil life; but full of poetical feeling, and much attached to old usages and the recollections of their ancestors. He printed for the first time some of their beautiful ancient ballads; but although they were much admired in the German versions which Herder and Goethe gave of them (through the French), the region of their birth remained a _terra incognita_. To a few literati only it was known, that many of these ballads, although in a spurious shape, had been collected by the Franciscan monk, Andreas Cacich Miossich; and also that a great many fragments of remarkable popular heroic songs were scattered, as illustrations, through the Croatian and Dalmatian dictionaries of Bellosztenecz, Jambressich, and Delia Bella. It was known, too, but only by a few, that even ancient Servian historians referred to similar songs.

Vuk Stephanovitch Karadshitch must therefore be called the true discoverer of this mine of beauty; and the judiciousness, patience, and conscientious honesty, with which his collection was got up, deserves the highest praise. Many of the remarkable songs first communicated to the literary public were the reminiscences of his own youth; for he was born and brought up in Turkish Servia. Many more he was only able to find after years of careful and indefatigable research. His large collection--four volumes with at least five or six hundred pieces of poetry--was formed upon the principle, that no piece should be admitted, for the genuineness of which he could not be personally responsible, by having himself heard it from one of the people. Nearly the third part of these poems consists of epic tales; some of them from five to seven hundred verses long; one, more than twelve hundred.

The poetry of the Servians is most intimately interwoven with their daily life. It is the picture of their thoughts, feelings, actions, and sufferings; it is the mental reproduction of the respective conditions of the mass of individuals, who compose the nation. The hall where the women sit spinning around the fireside; the mountains on which the boys pasture their flocks; the square where the village youth assemble to dance the _kolo_,[42] the plains where the harvest is reaped; the forests through which the lonely traveller journeys,--all resound with song. Song accompanies all kinds of business, and frequently relates to it. The Servian _lives_ his poetry.

The Servians are accustomed to divide their songs into two great portions. Short compositions in various measures, either lyric or epic, and sung without instrumental accompaniment, they call _shenske pjesme_, or _female songs_, because they are mostly made by females. The other portion, consisting of long epic tales in verses of five regular trochaic feet, and chanted to the _Guslé_, a kind of simple violin with one chord, they called _Yunatchke pjesme,_ that is, _heroic_ or _young men's songs_; for it is an interesting fact, that the ideas of a _young man_ and of a _hero_, are expressed in Servian by one and the same word, _Yunak_. The first are, in a very high degree, of a domestic character. They accompany us through all the different relations of domestic life; as well through its daily occupations, as through the holidays and festivals which interrupt its ordinary course. Much has been said, and more could be said, in praise of these harmonious effusions of a tender, fresh, and unsophisticated feeling; but, as we have already dwelt at large upon their general character, we must be satisfied here with adding only that which distinguishes Servian lays from other Slavic songs.

And this distinction we find principally in the _cheerfulness_, which is the fundamental element of Servian poetry,--a serenity clear and transparent like the bright blue of a southern sky. The allusions to the misfortunes of married life alone, gather sometimes in heavy clouds on this beautiful sky. The fear of being chained to an _old_ man, or of a grim mother-in-law, or the quarrelling of the sisters-in-law, or the increasing cares of the household,--for, in the true patriarchal style, married sons remain in the house of the parents, and all make together only one family,--all these circumstances disturb sometimes the inexhaustible serenity of the Servian women, and call forth gentle lamentations, or perhaps still oftener horrible imprecations, from their humble breasts. Indeed the songs not made for particular occasions also bear strongly and distinctly the stamp of domestic life, and are fall of allusions to family relations.

A spirit of graceful roguery is very prevalent among Servian girls. Their social spinning meetings are especially productive of little witty ballads, in which men and women are represented as disputing, and the former, of course, are always outwitted; just as is the case in numerous English and German popular ballads. But love is also among them the grand and prevailing theme. To judge from these songs, Servian girls and youths keep up a frequent and tender intercourse with each other. The youth bears carefully in memory the hour when the girls go to fetch water; and the frequent festivities, where the dance is not permitted to fail, give the best opportunity for mutual intercourse. Further to the south, and between the mountains, the customs are more strict, and love-songs are less frequent.

Among the ancient songs, recited on certain stated occasions, the wedding songs, adapted to all the various ceremonies of Slavic marriage, are the most remarkable. And here we meet again with one of those various contradictions of the mental world, which puzzle philosophy. While all the symbolic ceremonies are strongly indicative of the shameful state of servitude and humiliation, to which the institution of marriage subjects the Slavic woman[43] (for Slavic _maidens_ are in a certain measure free and happy, and, if beautiful and industrious, even honoured and sought after;) the _songs_, the mental reproductions of these coarse, rough, humiliating _acts_, are delicate, sprightly, and almost gallant. There are various indications, that, like the Russian songs of this description, which they strongly resemble, they are derived from a very early period. Like them they have no allusion to church ceremonies.[44]

The feeling expressed in their love-songs is in general gentle and often playful, indicating more of tenderness than of passion. If, however, they are excited to anger, their hatred becomes rage; and is poured forth in imprecations, of which no other language has a like multitude. But these imprecations are not stereotype, as is the case with most other nations. They are composed often, with astonishing ingenuity, by the offended persons themselves. Sometimes we see curses invoked upon the satisfying of the common wants of life. Thus when the lad curses his faithless love: "As much bread as she eats, so much pain may she suffer! as much water as she drinks, so many tears may she shed!"

We subjoin a few of these Servian ballads as specimens, just as they happen to come to hand.

PARTING LOVERS.

To white Buda, to white castled Buda
Clings the vine-tree, cling the vine-tree branches;
Not the vine-tree is it with its branches,
No, it is a pair of faithful lovers.
From their early youth they were betrothed,
Now they are compelled to part untimely;
One addressed the other at their parting:
"Go, my dearest soul, and go straight forward,
Thou wilt find a hedge-surrounded garden,
Thou wilt find a rose-bush in the garden,
Pluck a little branch off from the rose-bush,
Place it on thy heart, within thy bosom;
Even as that red rose will be fading,
Even so, love, will my heart be fading."
And the other love this answer gave then;
"Thou, dear soul, go back a few short paces,
Thou wilt find, my love, a verdant forest,
In the forest stands a cooling fountain,
In the fountain lies a block of marble;
On the marble stands a golden goblet,
In the goblet thou wilt find a snowball.
Dearest, take that snowball from the goblet,
Lay it on thy heart within thy bosom;
Even as the snowball will be melting,
Even so, love, will my heart be melting."

RENDEZVOUS.

Sweetheart, come, and let us kiss each other!
But, O tell me, where shall be our meeting?
In thy garden, love, or in my garden?
Under thine or under mine own rose-trees?
Thou, sweet soul, become thyself a rose-bud;
I then to a butterfly will change me;
Fluttering I will drop upon the rose-bud;
Folks will think I'm hanging on a flower,
While a lovely maiden I am kissing!

ST. GEORGE'S DAY.

To St. George's day the maiden prayed;
"Com'st thou again, O dear St. George's day!
Find me not here, by my mother dear,
Or be it wed, or be it dead!--
But rather than dead, I would be wed!" [45]

UNITED IN DEATH.

Two young lovers loved each other fondly,
And they washed them at the self-same water,
And they dried them with the self-same napkin.
One year passed, their love was known by no one;
Two years passed, and all the world did know it,
And the father heard it and the mother;
And their love the mother would not suffer,
But she parted the two tender lovers.

Through a star the youth sent to the maiden:
"Die, O love, on Saturday at evening,
I, thy youth, will die on Sunday morning."
And they did as they had told each other;
Died the maiden Saturday at evening.
Died the youth on Sunday morning early;
Close together were the two then buried;
Through the earth their hands were clasped together;
In their hands were placed two young green apples.

Little time had passed since they were buried;
O'er the youth sprang up a verdant pine-tree,
O'er the maid a bush with sweet red roses;
Round the pine-tree winds itself the rose-bush,
As the silk around a bunch of flowers.

But not all the female Servian songs exhibit so much tenderness. That their usual gentleness and humility does not always prevent these poor oppressed beings from sometimes taking the lead in domestic affairs, one would be apt to conclude from the following ballad:

HOUSEHOLD MATTERS.

Come, companion, let us hurry
That we may be early home,
For my mother-in-law is cross,
Only yestreen she accused me,
Said that I had beat my husband;
When, poor soul, I had not touched him.
Only bid him wash the dishes,
And he would not wash the dishes;
Threw then at his head the pitcher,
Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;
For the head I do not care much;
But I care much for the pitcher,
As I paid for it right dearly;
Paid for it with one wild apple,
Yes, and half a one besides.[46]

Objects of still higher admiration the Servians afford us in their _heroic_ poems. Indeed, what epic popular poetry is, how it is produced and propagated, what powers of invention it naturally exhibits,--powers which no art can command,--we may learn from this multitude of simple legends and complicated fables. The Servians stand in this respect quite isolated; there is no modern nation, that can be compared to them in epic productiveness; and a new light seems to be thrown over the grand compositions of the ancients. Thus, without presumption, we may pronounce the publication of these poems one of the most remarkable literary events of modern times.

The general character of the Servian tales is the _objective_ and the _plastic_. The poet, in most cases, is in a remarkable degree _above_ his subject. He paints his pictures not in glowing colours, but in distinct, prominent features; no explanation is necessary to interpret what the reader thinks he sees with his own eyes. If we compare the Servian epics with those, which other Slavic nations formerly possessed, we find them greatly superior. In the Russian _Igor_, the whole narrative is exceedingly indistinct; you may read the whole of it five times, without being able clearly to follow out the composition. Not a single character stands out in relief. The mode of representation has more of the lyric than of the epic. The ancient Bohemian poems have more distinctness and freshness. No obscurity disturbs us. But the passions of the poet break forth so often, as to give the whole narration something of the subjective character; while the Servian, even when representing his countrymen in combat with their mortal enemies and oppressors, displays about the same partiality for the former, as Homer for his Greeks.

The introductions, not only to the tales themselves, but even to new situations, are frequently allegorical. A distinct image is placed before the eyes at once. A tale, describing a famous sanguinary deed of revenge, commences thus:

What's that cry of anguish from Banyani?[47]
Is 't the Vila? is 't the hateful serpent?
Were 't the Vila, she were on the summit;
Were 't the serpent, it were 'neath the mountain;
Not the Vila is it, nor a serpent;

Shrieked in anguish thus Perovitch Balritch
In the hands of Osman, son of Tchorov. [45]

Ravens are the messengers of unhappy news. The battle of Mishar begins with the following verses:

Flying came a pair of coal-black ravens
Far away from the broad field of Mishar,
Far from Shabatz, from the high white fortress;
Bloody were their beaks unto the eyelids,
Bloody were their talons to the ankles;
And they flew along the fertile Matshva,
Waded quickly through the billowy Drina,
Journey'd onward through the honoured Bosnia,
Lighting down upon the hateful border,
'Midst within the accursed town of Vakup,
On the dwelling of the captain Kulin;
Lighting down and croaking as they lighted.

Three or four poems, of which courtships or weddings are the subjects, begin with a description of the beauty of the girl. Especially rich and complete is the following:

Never since the world had its beginning,
Never did a lovelier flow'ret blossom,
Than the flow'ret in our own days blooming;
Haikuna, the lovely maiden flower.

She was lovely, nothing e'er was lovelier!
She was tall and slender as the pine-tree;
White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes,
As if morning's beam had shone upon them,
Till that beam had reached its high meridian.
And her eyes, they were two precious jewels,

And her eyebrows, leeches from the ocean,
And her eyelids they were wings of swallows;
And her flaxen braids were silken tassels;
And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket,
And her teeth were pearls arrayed in order;
White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets,
And her voice was like the dovelet's cooing;
And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine;
And her fame, the story of her beauty,
Spread through Bosnia and through Herz'govina.

We should never end, if we continued thus to extract all the beautiful and striking passages from the Servian popular lyrics; although their chief merit by no means consists in beautiful passages, but, in most cases, in the composition of the whole, and in the distinct, graphic, and plastic mode of representation. In respect to their style, we add only a single remark. Slavic popular poetry in general has none of the vulgarisms, which, in many cases, deface the popular ballads of the Teutonic nations. Yet _dignity_ of style cannot be expected in any popular production. Those whose feelings, from want of acquaintance with the poetry of nature, are apt to be hurt by certain undignified expressions interspersed unconsciously sometimes in the most beautiful descriptions, will not escape unpleasant impressions in reading the Servian songs. The pictures are always fresh, tangible, and striking; but, although not seldom the effects of the sublime, and of the deepest tragic pathos, are obtained by a perfect simplicity, nothing could be more foreign to them than the dignified stateliness and scrupulous refinement of the French stage.

The number and variety of the Servian heroic poems is immense. The oldest legendary cycle is formed by their great Tzar Dushan Nemanyitch and his heroes; by the pious prince Lazar, their last independent chief, who was executed by the Turks after having been made prisoner in battle; and by the death of his faithful knights on the field of Kossovo. The two battles fought here, in 1389 and 1447, put an end to the existence of the Servian empire. In immediate connection with these epic songs are those of which Marko Kralyewitch, i.e. Marko the king's son, the Servian Hercules, is the hero; at least thirty or forty in number. The pictures, which these ballads exhibit, are extremely wild and bold; and are often drawn on a mythological ground. Indeed both the epic and the lyric poetry of the Servians are interwoven with a traditional belief in certain fanciful creatures of Pagan superstition, which exercise a constant influence on human affairs. Witches (_Vjashtitzi_), veiled women who go from house to house, carrying with them destruction; the plague, personified as an old horrible looking female; and also the saints, and among them the _thunderer_ Elias and the _fiery_ Mary who sends lightning; these all appear occasionally. But the principal figure is the Vila, a mountain fairy, having nearly the same character as the northern elementary spirits; though the malicious qualities predominate, and her intermeddling is in most cases fatal.

There are various features which serve to allay the extreme wildness and rudeness of the oldest Servian poems. As one of the principal of these we consider the solemn institution of a contract of brotherhood or fraternal friendship, which the Servians seem to have inherited from the Scythians.[49] Two men or two women promise each other before the altar, and under solemn ceremonies, in the name of God and St. John, eternal friendship. They bind themselves by this act to all the mutual duties of brothers and sisters. Similar relations exist also between the two sexes, when a maid solemnly calls an old man her "father in God," or a young one her "brother in God;" or when a man calls a woman his "mother or sister in God." This is mostly done in cases of distress. When a person, thus appealed to, accepts the appellation, they are in duty bound to protect and to take care of the unfortunate, who thus give themselves into their hands; according to the prevailing notion, a breach of this contract is severely punished by Heaven. Marko Kralyevitch was united in such an alliance with the Vila; in modern times we find it sometimes between Turks and Servians in the midst of their most bitter feuds.

The traditional ballads of the Servians, referring to the heroes of their golden time, are undoubtedly in their groundwork of great antiquity; but as until recently they have been preserved only by tradition, it cannot be supposed, that they have come down in their present form from the original time of their composition; which was perhaps nearly cotemporary to the events they celebrate. In most of them frequent Turcisms show, that the singer is familiar with the conquerors and their language. According to Vuk, very few are in their present form older than the fifteenth century.

The more modern heroic ballads--for the productiveness of this remarkable people is still alive--are essentially of the same character. They may be divided into two parts. One division, probably composed during the last two centuries and down even to the present time, is devoted to a variety of subjects, public and private. Duels, love stories, satisfaction of blood-revenge, domestic quarrels and reconciliation, are alternately related. The variety of invention in these tales is astonishing; the skill of the combinations and the final development surpasses all that hitherto has been known of popular poetry. One of the most remarkable of them is a narrative of 1227 lines; which relates to the marriage of a young man, Maxim Tzernovitch, son of Ivan Tzernovitch, a wealthy and powerful Servian. The father goes to Venice to ask in marriage for his son the daughter of the Doge. He describes him as the handsomest of young men; but, when he comes home, he finds him metamorphosed by the smallpox into the ugliest. By the advice of his wife, he substitutes another handsome young man to fetch home the bride with the procession of bridal guests; promising him the principal share in the bridal gifts; for he commits the fraud less from covetous views than from pride, being afraid of being put to shame as unable to keep his word before the haughty Venetians. They succeed in bringing away the bride; but the cheat is discovered on the road; a contest arises, and the whole affair ends in a horrible slaughter.

Vuk Stephanovitch has heard this tale repeatedly, and with several variations; but the principal features, for instance a rich and elaborate description of the bridal gifts, were always recited exactly in the same words. It was chanted in the most perfect manner by an old singer, named Milya, whom prince Milosh often had to sing it before him; and from whose lips Vuk at last took it down.

Another section of more modern ballads narrates events from the latest war between the Servians and Turks, between 1801 and 1815. Who of our readers has not heard of Kara George? His companions, Yanko Katitch, Stoyan Tchupitch, Milosh of Potzerye, are in Servia as well known and admired as Kara George himself. They and their comrades are the heroes of these ballads. The gallant Tchupitch rewarded the blind poet Philip, who chanted to him a long and beautiful poem of his own composition, with a white horse. The subject of his narrative was the battle of Salash; where Tchupitch himself had been the Servian commander.[59]

The same ballad singer Philip is the author of most of the modern heroic poems. Of others the authors are not known. Little stress is laid on the art of poetry; exercised with such extraordinary power. These productions of our day are by no means inferior to the ancient. There is indeed no essential difference, either in their diction or in their conception; and it is easy to be perceived, that old and young have been nursed from their infancy on tales of "the days of yore." Some passages of Philip's ballads are really Homeric.[51] Fortunately, the period is past when our admiration for hyperborean poetry needed to be justified by its similarity with the classics. We have learned that real poetry is not spell-bound to names, nor to any nation or age; and the _beautiful_ has obtained in our time an independent existence, no longer subject to certain forms and conditions, but resting on itself and its divine gifts.

The difficulties Vuk Stephanovitch met with in collecting these wonderful ballads, were not small. He was often hardly able to prevail on the young men and girls to recite, still less to sing them before him; partly from a natural shyness to exhibit themselves before a stranger; partly because his search after effusions which had so little value in their eyes, and his attempt to fix them by writing, seemed to them an idle and useless occupation. The only reason which they could conceive for it was, that the learned idler meant to ridicule them; and his request was frequently answered by the words: "We are no blind men to sing or recite songs to you."

Of the heroic poems, he tells us, that they are not only chanted, but often recited, as _we_ are accustomed to _read_; and that in this latter way, old people teach them by preference to the children. His own father, grandfather, and uncle, were wont to recite and to sing them; and the two latter even composed not a few. Among those from whose lips he took down the present collection, were lads, peasants, merchants, as also hayduks, i.e. highwaymen, in Servia a mode of life less disreputable than with us, and somewhat approaching to heroism. Further, at least seven or eight were blind men; all of them professional bards, and almost the only persons willing to satisfy him. The _shenske pjesme_, or female poems, he had to catch by chance; and short as they are, it was easy to keep them in memory after having heard them once or twice.

While these latter poems are mostly sung without any instrumental accompaniment in the spinning-rooms, in the pastures, or at the village dances; on the other hand the tavern, the public squares, the festive halls of the chiefs, are the places where the Guslè is heard which accompanies the heroic ballads. The bard chants two lines; then he pauses and gives a few plaintive strokes on his primitive instrument; then he chants again, and so on. He needs these short pauses for recollection, as well as for invention. Although these ballads are chiefly sung by blind men, yet no hero thinks it beneath him to chant them to the Guslè. Pirch, a Prussian officer, who travelled in Servia some twenty years ago, tells us, that the Knjas, his host, took the instrument from the hands of the lad, for whom he had sent to sing before his guest, because he did not satisfy him, and played and chanted himself with a superior skill. Clergymen themselves are not ashamed to do it. Nay, even Muhammedan-Bosnians, more Turks than Servians, have preserved this partiality for their national heroics. The great among them would not, indeed, themselves sing them; but they cause them to be chanted before them; and it happened, that a Christian prisoner in Semendria obtained his liberty by their intercession with the Kadi, which he owed merely to their fondness for his ballads. A considerable number of fine songs are marked in Vuk's collection as having been first heard from Muhammedan singers.