had been established, he became deputy to the national assembly: but the active part he took in the political troubles of 1886 resulted in his banishment; and it was at Odessa, in 1889, that he completed his masterpiece, whose title, 'Pod Igoto,' is the exact equivalent for the phrase Under the Yoke.' Recalled to Sofia in the same year, he has made it his home ever since; and has poured out poems, novels, idyls, historical sketches and several dramas, one or two of which were performed with signal success. After visiting the antique monastery of the Rilo, far up in the Balkan and hemmed in by the forest, he wrote an admirable work in prose called 'The Vast Solitude of the Rilo.' The site of the monastery is significant. On the borderland between Thrace and Macedonia, and in the centre of the Balkanic peninsula, it reminds the student of Oriental affairs that at one period the province of Macedonia formed half of the realm of Bulgaria. Even now it is said that you cannot go shopping or marketing in Macedonia without a knowledge of Bulgarian. But owing to the indecision of the Powers, instead of sharing in 1878 the good fortune secured to Bulgaria by the treaty of Berlin, Macedonia remained a Turkish province; and bleeding and helpless, awaits the wave of emancipation that of late years has lifted so many classes and communities out of intolerable serfdom. Crowded with incidents, episodes, and types of humanity, the rich mosaic called 'Pod Igoto' has been pronounced by an English critic the most brilliant romance that the East of Europe has given to the Occident. The rollicking humor and home-bred sense pervading the book, and tempering not a little the barbarities that must enter into any narrative of life in a Turkish dependency; the high sense of honor shown by the hero Ognianoff; the descriptions of dainty villages, trim rose-fields, and foaming torrents; the strong love story, and the vigorous treatment of minor characters,- make a unique impression, and render the tale equally absorbing to old and young. The idiot Mouncho, in his devotion to Ognianoff, contributes some of the most telling strokes in the story; and there is other evidence that the author had read Shakespeare and Scott to some purpose. Another episode puts the insurgents vividly before the reader. Not being allowed to carry arms, and consequently pitifully lacking in ammunition, the villagers are seized with the idea of constructing cannon from the hard wood of the cherry-tree. Several of these hollow trunks that were turned so confidently against the Turks, but cracked ignominiously when the first spark was applied to them, are still to be seen in the national museum at Sofia. On the second day of October, 1895 — exactly a quarter of a century having elapsed since the boy of twenty published his poem The Pine-Tree,'. a jubilee was held at Sofia: the poet receiving in the building of the National Assembly the thanks and acclamations of his fellow-countrymen, as well as letters and greetings in verse from authors in other parts of Europe. At this writing, a portion of his latest work, 'New Ground,' has been translated into French. Lucy Catlin Bull THE PINE-TREE ALLEGORY OF THE ANCIENT KINGDOM OF BULGARIA B ELOW the great Balkan, a stone's-throw from Thrace, Where green boughs are waving, white torrents appall. With yellowing marbles, with moldering eaves, Mute rises the cloister, girt round with the hills In that hallowed inclosure, above the quaint shrine, Whose black summit is plunged in the soft summer cloud. As the wings of an eagle are opened for flight, As a cedar of Lebanon shields from the heat, Nor can any one living declare when that frame Was first lifted in air, or the root pierced the earth. That mysterious root that has long ceased to grow, Sunken deep in the soil,-who can tell where it ends? That inscrutable summit what mortal can know? Like a cloud, with the limitless azure it blends. 15270 And perchance the old landmark, by ages unbent, That once moved him to rapture or made him aghast. From the crotches and tufts of those wide-waving boughs, Last of all save the mountain, the Balkan's own son First of all he receives from the new-risen one, And salutes his dear guest with the small feathered choir. But alas! in old age, though with confident heart He yet springs toward the zenith, majestic and tall Since he too of a world full of peril is part, The same fate hath found him that overtakes all. On a sinister night came the thunder's long roll; The fields were deserted, the valleys complained; As of old, the huge tree his assailant repays With intense indignation, with thrust after thrust; As a warrior attacked without warning rebounds As he still struggles on in the enemy's grasp, With a final convulsion, a single deep gasp, That at least he survive not his fallen estate, So the pine-tree, perceiving the end of his reign, But with dignity straightway relinquished his life. He is fallen! he lies there immobile, august; Full of years, full of scars, on the greensward he lies. And behold, as a conqueror closes the fray With one mortal stroke more to his down-trodden foe, Shedding tears for the hero his hand hath brought low, Thus the whirlwind, forgetting his fury, grew dumb, Translation of Lucy C. Bull. O THE SEWING-PARTY AT ALTINOVO From Under the Yoke' GNIANOFF now turned back towards Altinovo, a village which lay in the western corner of the valley. It was a twohours' journey; but his horse was exhausted and the road was bad, so that he only just reached the village before dark, pursued right up to the outskirts by the famished howls of the wolves. He entered by the Bulgarian quarter (the village was a mixed one, containing both Turks and Bulgarians), and soon stopped before old Tsanko's door. Tsanko was a native of Klissoura, but had long ago taken up his abode in the village. He was a simple, kindly peasant, and a warm patriot. The apostles often slept at his house. He received Ognianoff with open arms. "It is a piece of luck, your coming to me. We've got a sewing-party on to-night-you can have a good look at our girls. You won't find the time heavy on your hands, I'll be bound,” said Tsanko with a smile, as he showed the way in. Ognianoff hastened to tell him that he was being pursued, and for what reason. "Yes, yes, I know all about it," said Tsanko: "you don't suppose just because our village is a bit out of the way, that we know nothing of what goes on outside?" "But shan't I be putting you out?" "Don't you mind, I tell you. You must look out among the girls to-night for one to carry the flag," laughed Tsanko; "there you can see them all from this window, like a king." Ognianoff was in a small dark closet, the window of which, covered with wooden trellis-work, looked on to the large common room: here the sewing-party was already assembling. It was a meeting of the principal girls of the village; the object being to assist in making the trousseau for Tsanko's daughter Donka. The fire burned brightly and lighted up the walls, which boasted no ornament save a print of St. Ivan of Rilo, and the bright glazed dishes on the shelves. The furniture-as in most wellto-do villagers' houses- consisted of a water-butt, a wardrobe, a shelf, and the great cupboard which contained all Tsanko's household goods. All the guests, both male and female, were seated on the floor, which was covered with skins and carpets. Besides the light of the fire there were also two petroleum lamps burning a special luxury in honor of the occasion. It was long since Ognianoff had been present at a gathering of this kind,-a curious custom sanctioned by antiquity. From his dark recess he watched with interest the simple scenes of the still primitive village life. The door opened, and Tsanko's wife came to him: she was a buxom and talkative dame, also from Klissoura. She sat down by Ognianoff's side, and began to point out to him the most remarkable girls present, with the necessary details. "Do you see that fat rosy-cheeked girl there? That's Staïka Chonina. See what a sad, sad look Ivan Kill-the-Bear gives her now and again. He barks for her like a sheep-dog when he wants to make her laugh. She's very industrious, quick-witted, and cleanly. Only she ought to marry at once, poor girl,- she's getting so fat: she'll be thinner after marriage. It's just the opposite of your town girls. The girl to the left of her is Tsvéta Prodanova: she is in love with the lad over there with his |