It gives one a strange idea of what treasures of primitive poetry and music may yet be found among the peasantry of Europe, when a volume like this—The Bard of the Dimbovitza, Roumanian Folk-Songs. Collected from the Peasants by Helene Yacaresco. Translated by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettell—has been brought to light from the single district of Roumania. The preface by Carmen Sylva (the Queen of Roumania), herself an accomplished literary artist, says that these songs were collected from the lips of peasant girls, the lute players, the reapers, and the gypsies, by the young poetess Helene Yacaresco, in the district of Roumania, in which her father's domain is situated. She spent four years in collecting them, and even although her family has been known and honored for centuries by the people, she encountered many difficulties in endeavoring to induce the peasants to repeat their songs to her. "She was forced to affect a desire to learn spinning that she might join the girls at their spinning parties, and so overhear their songs more easily; she hid in the tall maize to hear the reapers crooning; she caught them from the lips of peasant women, of lute players Cobzars,' so called from the name of their instrument, the cobza, or lute, of gypsies, of fortune tellers; she listened for them by death-beds, by cradles, at the dance, and in the tavern with inexhaustible patience." The result is a volume which is not only equal in quality to that of the finest folk-song and poetry which any European nation possesses, and with a peculiar and original flavor of its own, revealing strong and original national characteristics, but, one is tempted to say, with more of the sublimated and naked essence of poetry than can be found in any work of modern civilized poets. There are times when the vivid strength of simple passions, expressed with the force of naked directness without any weakening refinement of language, the feelings of a people to whom love is a genuine and undisguised passion, in whom hatred burns the blood and finds relief in the shot or the stab, to whom death is an object of vital horror as the end of life and happiness, and to whom religion is an embodiment of direct supernatural power, produce a poetry, which reaches a force of expression and touches the heart with a power to which all modern refinements of thought and language are unable to attain. It is, in comparison, as if a cloud of unreality, the emanations of artificial thoughts and sentiments, or the dust, as it were, of ages, had fallen upon the native freshness of feeling and language, and that civilized men were no longer able to feel so deeply or to speak so clearly as those who had never been burdened with knowledge, or the strength of whose emotions had not been diluted by the restraints and refinements of civilization, transcendental religion, or artificial society. There is, of course, a power and subtlety of thought in minds which have inherited the world's wisdom and knowledge, and their thoughts have a scope and extent to which those of unlettered peasants are strangers, and their views of the problems of life and humanity are as those of a man to a child; but the strength of their feeling in simple passion is much diluted and their powers of expression are correspondingly less, so far as vividness and simplicity are concerned. As an illustration of the weakness of purely artistic literature, whatever its beauty and skill, to touch the depths of feeling like the purely unsophisticated language of the natural poets, who simply endeavored to express their emotions without thought of form or artistic melody, may be compared the closing aspiration of the famous and beautiful serenade in Maud,—

She is coining, my own, my sweet;

Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red,—

with the simple utterance of the Javanese lover in one of the natural flowers of folk-song,—

I do not know when I shall die,

I have seen at Badoer many that were dead,

They were dressed in white shrouds, and

Were buried in the earth;

If I die at Badoer and am buried beyond the

Village eastward against the hill,

Where the grass is high,

Then will Adinda pass by there, and the border

Of her sarong will sweep softly along the grass,—

I shall hear it.

There are times when the vitality of poetry seems to be lost as one feels the simple and direct power of some of these ancient songs which spring from the heart and not from the head, and all modern verse seems like the pale and artificial product of intellectuality, weakened feeling, and language refined until it has lost its strength, and one is almost tempted to believe that civilization is as fatal to poetry as it is to religious enthusiasm. Of course this is not the case. The human heart has not lost its strength of feeling nor its power of expression, and modern poetry is greater in its power and wider in its scope than folk-song. But it has lost some of the peculiar strength which comes from simplicity of feeling and overmastering power of passion; and its language, if it has many delicate shades of meaning, which that of a primitive people has not, has lost the clearness and vividness of expression of those whose words are few, but which are the creation of their hearts and not of their intellects.

These folk-songs of Roumania are full of the pathos and strength of simple passions, and they show a native poetical spirit and power of the imagination which is rare in any nation. Doubtless many of them are old, the inheritance of long tradition and familiar forms of expression, but it is indicated that many of them are new, and that the stock is being constantly added to by the force of a poetic inspiration, which is still in full life and flower. We are told that many of the spinning songs are improvisations, the girls all standing in a circle, the best spinner or singer in the centre, and that she begins to improvise a song, which is passed on for continuance with the distaff to any one whom she may select. Doubtless these are on familiar themes and with familiar forms of expression, like all folk-songs, but they show the vital spirit of poetry still existing, and the bulk of more elaborate compositions is probably still being added to. This fact confirms the belief, which intelligent observers have noted, that the Roumanians and the kindred peoples of this race have an intellectual power which is of an undecayed and still progressive people, very different from the effete Ottomans by whom they were so long oppressed, and that, if the future promised an opportunity for original development, instead of absorption into the Muscovite empire, they might produce a homogeneous and progressive nation with original features and an independent contribution to civilization. At any rate the volume gives evidence of remarkable intellectual power among the Roumanian peasantry, and it may be hoped that this treasure-trove will stimulate other researches, and the discovery of a larger bulk of native poetry, if none of finer value. Whether any touch of sentiment has been added in the translations with the higher poetic form in some instances cannot, of course, be apparent, but the internal evidence would indicate that essential faithfulness has been preserved and that the substance is as genuine as the poetry is original and powerful.

Some of the most striking songs in the collection are those of the gypsies, which have a wild and fiery tone like the gypsy music which has stirred the blood of refined civilization, as it has been performed by orchestras with all the effect of modern instrumentation, in a way that the most skillful composers have failed to do, and shows the element of poetry and passion in that strange and exotic race. What stronger beauty of expression or grace of feeling can be found than this?—

There where the path to the plain goes by,

Where deep in the thicket my hut doth lie,

Where corn stands green in the garden plot—

The brook ripples by so clearly there,

The way is so open, so white, and fair—

My heart's best beloved, he takes it not.

There where I sit by my door and spin,

While morning winds that blow out and in

With scent of roses enfold the spot,

When at evening I softly sing my lay,

That the wand'rer hears, as he goes his way—

My heart's best beloved, he hears it not.

There, where on Sunday I go alone

To the old, old well with the milk-white stone,

Where by the fence, in a nook forgot,

Rises a spring in the daisied grass,

That makes whoso drink of it love—alas!

My heart's best beloved, he drinks it not.

There, by my window, where day by day,

When the sunbeams first brighten the morning gray,

I lean and dream of my weary lot,

And wait his coming, and softly cry

Because of love's longing that makes one die—

My heart's best beloved, he dieth not.

A peculiar character in the Roumanian songs is that of the Heiduck, a sort of combination, it would seem, of the knight-errant and the brigand, with all the legendary attributes of beauty, strength, courage, and generosity of the half-fabulous popular heroes of all nations. The Song of the Heiduck has all the buoyant spirit and gayety appropriate to such a figure, but is overshadowed also by a sort of elfin sadness and the doom of a supernatural fate, which is chiefly to be found in those nations which have a tinge of oriental mysticism, and is a marked feature of the Roumanian folk-songs. The Celtic mysticism, where it exists, is more strictly religious.