Travels in the Slavonic provinces of Turkey-in-Europe, / By Sebright, Georgina Mary Muir (Mackenzie),

CHAPTER XI.
VISIT TO THE MONASTERY OF RILO, IN AUGUST, 1862.

THE traveller on the high road between Stamboul and Belgrade journeys for many a weary day along the sultry and feverish Thracian plain, nor until he approaches the town of Philippopolis does he espy in the west the boundary of the Rhodope, on the north the distant range of the Balkan. A day later he has gained the hills and supposing him still to keep to the post-road he will cross the Balkan by its most westerly and most famous pass, the Kapu Derbend, or Gate of Trajan.

But we, though on the way to Belgrade, did not at this point keep to the straight line, for we wanted to visit an old Bulgarian monastery, said to lie in a gorge of the Rhodope, at the foot of its highest mountain, Rilo; so we struck into the hills, crossed the pass called Kis Derbend, between the Rhodope and the Balkan, made our first stage at the mineral waters of Bania, and our second at the little town of Samakoff.

The upland plain wherein Samakoff lies is crossed by the bridle roads from Bulgaria, Macedonia, Albania, and Thrace. Hence it forms a point of meeting, not, as might be expected, for commercial travellers, but for highwaymen escaping from one pashalik to another; for which purpose the Turkish authorities take care to allow an interval between each crime and the pursuit.

We came to Samakoff provided with a letter to one

of its wealthiest Christian inhabitants, who received us hospitably, and conducted us to a chamber surrounded by a broad divan. In arranging the cushions to form our beds we lighted on a pair of loaded pistols. Of course we covered them up again and said nothing, but their concealment testified to what we had been told already, i.e., that although to pacify a revolt it was nominally conceded that every Bulgarian may have the means of defending his women from Mussulman intruders, yet while Mussulmans swagger about in belts full of pistols, the Christian, if he have arms, must take care that they be not seen.

Samakoff was the first place west of Constantinople where we found Greek not even understood, but this did not constitute the people barbarians. On the contrary, they had two nice schools—one for boys, one for girls; large airy edifices, built of wood, and gaily painted, after the fashion of the country. Over the doors was an inscription to the effect that they had been erected by the elders of the community without a farthing of help from any one; the emphasis being a reflection on the late Greek bishop and existing Turkish government. We visited these schools—examined the work, the maps and the copy-books, heard the children sing hymns and read, and rewarded the best scholar in each with a copy of the Bulgarian New Testament.

Another object of interest at Samakoff is the convent of Bulgarian nuns, which we came to visit under the following auspices. We were scarcely settled in our chamber before it was entered by a sweet-looking young woman, dressed in a black mantle and a quaint coif. To our amazement she accosted us in German. She told us that she was an Austrian Slāv, and had come from Vienna with her mother, who was servant to a German physician; on her mother's death the old

doctor advised her to seek protection as a nun. She said the community at Samakoff was of the order of St. John of Rilo, and acknowledged as spiritual superior the abbot of the monastery of that name. It was formed by a number of elderly women, each of whom took a young woman to live with her, wait on her, and after death become her heir. The nuns supported themselves by their own spinning and weaving, and of their earnings have built them a church: they do not attempt outward benevolence, but on the other hand pride themselves on receiving help from none. To beg a livelihood they hold as degrading as we do ourselves. The works of merit constituting sainthood seem in their estimation to be five: diligence, obedience, abstinence from meat, wearing black garments, and making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. This journey to Jerusalem is the event of each still life, and lends it its redeeming spice of expectation, retrospect, adventure, poetry. The nuns have not their goods in common; some are comparatively rich, others poor; some are assisted by their relatives towards defraying the expense of the expedition, others have to pay all from their savings. When the money is in hand two set out, and walk till they fall-in with one of those parties of pilgrims constantly passing to Jerusalem from Bulgaria. They cross the sea to Joppa, journey thence to the Holy City, and are received into a monastery, where they may remain a whole year, to join in all the feasts and festivals. On their return home they bring away with them a holy picture, a marvellous concoction of scarlet and gold, depicting all the Holy Places, all the holy persons, and the devil, distinguished by horns and a tail—as is not unnecessary among so many grim forms.

Primed with this information, we set out to visit the nunnery, and having hopped from one to another of the

big stones which act as bridges to the muddy riverstreet, we entered a gate and found ourselves in a clean and dry inclosure in front of a neat little church. Behind it lay the gardens of the nuns with their little dwellings, containing two rooms—a tiny kitchen and divan-encircled parlour. Here we paid a succession of visits, first to the principal mother of the community, then to a very old and saintly mother possessed of a famous picture of Jerusalem, and beloved among the younger nuns for her endless stories of adventures by the way; finally, to the special mother of our guide, who caused her dear child to show us various little treasures and to bring out her best Sunday mantle. Then came evening service, which we attended, and in the dusk of the church the young nun whispered to us with sparkling eyes how the sisters prayed for the success of the brave Montenegrīnes, and that God would give all Christians a good courage and a united heart. "The great Christian Powers," said she "is it true that they are leaving that little band to fight alone? Of the people here I say nothing, they deserve what they suffer,'for they have not the hearts of men. But the Montenegrīnes are the soldiers of the Cross. No nation in all Christendom has battled with the Infidels as they."

We wished to have taken the nun with us next day to the monastery as an interpreter, but it was thought more discreet for her to stay at home, so we gave her at parting a Bulgarian Testament and she gave us each a rosary of plaited silk, marked here and there with large mother-of-pearl beads—a gift involving the sacrifice of some thirty piastres from the fund she was storing for her journey to the Holy Grave.

This day there had been rain, so the glorious sun of the morrow rose on an earth refreshed and green; men and horses had enjoyed a rest, and now set forth with

glad spirits and bounding tread. Our shining-armed cavalcade was clattering and gay: eight well-mounted Mahommedan zaptiés—two of whom were cavasses of the pasha of Philippopolis—our dragoman, and an Ionian, deputed by the British consul to give us the benefit of one Christian sword in case we should be attacked in the mountains by the first cousins of our Mussulman guards. The Bulgarian driver of the waggon wherein we had come over the hot plain could not leave his horses even for a pilgrimage, but the boy was allowed to go, and on his nimble feet soon had the advantage of us all.

But all our enjoyment would have been marred had we ourselves been left to ride the sorry steeds furnished us by the mudir at Samakoff. Luckily a bakshish induced our guards to change with us, and we could not but laugh at the superstition current respecting horses "accustomed to carry a lady" when we felt these highmettled animals treading proudly and gently under the unwonted side-saddle, the flowing skirt, and fluttering veil. A well-trained Turkish horse is delightful for a journey, being used to walk both for travel and parade. Hour after hour he bears you evenly, lightly, over the rough track, and when you enter the town he rears his head and marches with a procession step, representative of your dignity and his own.

But something more than fine walking became necessary when we left the plain for the pathless glen, and began to dispute with the torrents their rocky passage down the mountain side. When at length we reached the head of the pass we came to a bit of rough highland, where a halt was called, and the guard showed us the graves of a party of robbers here run to earth and killed. "Until quite lately," said he, "this was the worst glen in all the hills, but the new pasha of Sophia has lately

put some robbers to death and caused their heads to be stuck on poles: that will stop it for this summer." Soon after they called our attention to the hollow sound of the earth beneath the horses' feet, and explained that it was caused "by prodigious wild boars, which lived underground and undermined all that part of the hill."

And now came a descent almost impracticable for horses, and yet so cutting to the human foot that we remained mounted far longer than was safe. The stiff stair led down to a basin, receptacle of waters from all the neighbouring mountain streams. One of the zaptiés pointed out to us a clear pebbly spot where the water escaped by an underground passage. This little tarn of the Balkan,The Turkish name Balkan, though usually limited to the northern chain, or Hæmus, is in this part of Turkey given to all mountain ranges. with its grey stones and solemn fir-trees, is one of those scenes which would repay an artist for the journey from England, only to carry it home in his portfolio. We sat down on its beach, and could have sat there till now, but the sun was sinking, and the road, ostensibly six hours, was very certain to take ten. The first sight on remounting was a view over beech forests opening on a grassy vale, at the extremity of which rose an outline of grey walls. "Here," quoth the guards, "is the boundary of the domain conceded by old sultans to the great monastery of Rilo." Scarcely had we crossed the frontier when we were met by the convent guard, dressed in white linen tunics and scarlet girdles, and commanded by a man in the garb of an Albanian, who, however, styled himself a Serb, meaning, doubtless, that he belonged to the Serbian creed. The array of armed men on horse and foot lent sound and colour to the long dark wood that followed, and once below, the passage through the narrow valley became every moment more beautiful. Exceptionally beautiful

[figure]

BULGARIAN MONASTERY OF RILO.

indeed, for the mountain scenery between the north of Albania and the Danube is usually rather wild than picturesque. Amphitheatres of hills, covered with wood, to which the blending of beech and oak with fir gives in the distance a bluish green; few sudden elevations, few rocky precipices—such is its character, answering exactly to its Slavonic name, "Plánina," that is to say, "forest mountain." Doubtless single scenes show extraordinary loveliness, and the gorge of Rilo is of this number. The hills terminate in horned crags of the most picturesque abruptness, of the most fantastic form. From these the wood sweeps down in masses, which break into groups and tufts on the park-like meadows which fringe the valley stream. On one side a large building lies to the right, which we took for the monastery, but which proved to be a house set apart for pilgrims, who crowd hither on certain days. To arrive at the convent itself the whole length of the valley must be traversed. The mountains draw nearer and nearer—they seem once more about to close—when, serried in their angle, rise the rugged towers and swelling domes. Outside the gate, in stately row, stand long-gowned, long-veiled, long-bearded caloyers, who gravely salute and sign to us to enter. As we pass through the portal out ring the bells—Christian bells. Who knows what it is to hear their voices in a Mussulman land? not in the city, nor in the villages of the plain, where they are forbidden, and where at any rate they would jar with a thousand conflicting sounds, but in the wild hiding of the Balkan, breaking on the stillness of convent air.

We were so thoroughly tired out by our long day's scramble, that we scarcely received more than a general sense of peace and beauty as we passed through the court and into the galleries of the monastery. They led us to a chamber painted in bright colours, and furnished with

low well-carpeted divans. Here we remained, and had our supper served—as much chicken, fruit, and sweetmeat as the hungriest could wish, besides rice and clotted cream and a huge glass jar of excellent wine. We found also a little cupboard in the wall wherein a bottle of wine and sweetmeats were placed in store for private refection. But that night we wanted nothing but sleep.

Next morning we were invited to an interview with the abbot in his chamber of audience, and found him with two or three venerable monks, one of whom, with a long white beard, we had the night before mistaken for the superior. The real superior is not more than middleaged, small and spare, with a refined intellectual countenance unusual among Bulgarians, who are generally large and ponderous men, with a wise expression rather than a clever one. But John Neophytos is no common person. His name stands on the title-page of the modern Bulgarian New Testament, and his knowledge of his own language, both ancient and modern, together with his zeal to educate and benefit his people, caused him to accept the offer of a Protestant society to undertake the translation. He has a store of the sacred books in his convent, and finding we had several with us he exhorted us to turn our journey to account by dispersing them abroad among the people. He told us that the American missionaries in Constantinople, who are translating the Scriptures, keep up a correspondence with him, and that two of them had that year been to visit him. Then were shown us the curious old documents which mark the early history of the convent. An inscription on the tower in the court states it to have existed under the mighty Czar Stephan Dūshan, who united Serbia and Bulgaria in his realm. But the earliest chrysobul is of the end of the fourteenth century, and from a personage who styles himself John Shishman, Faithful Czar and

Autocrat of all the Bulgarians and Greeks, i.e., of the Greeks in Bulgaria.

The next documents are Turkish firmans, such as many of the richer monasteries were able to buy from the first Sultans. The monastery of Rilo, in virtue of its privileges, stands (like our Abbey of Westminster) under no bishop, and hence has been able to maintain its exclusively Bulgarian character. It consists of 150 monks, each of whom has a pupil, who becomes his heir. In all, the personnel of the convent amounts to 400 souls. Women are excluded, and it is even said that no one of them may dwell on convent land. This does not, however, extend to visitors, nor to the female relatives of pilgrims. The revenues of the convent depend partly on its mountain pasturage, partly on the gifts of pilgrims. Within the last century it has been benefited by the liberality of its northern co-religionists, and the monks have been allowed to gather funds for their new church by begging journeys through Russia, Serbia, Austria, &c.

The acquaintance which the superior showed with the history of his country and with the present needs of his countrymen, his services in the matter of the translation,—all struck us as strangely contradictory of a report we had heard at Constantinople, that the Greek Patriarch did not appoint native bishops to Bulgarian eparchies because there were no natives sufficiently educated. We afterwards heard that John Neophytos had been pointed out and demanded as bishop by his countrymen, but that the only effect of thus recognising his talents was for the jealous Phanariotes to banish him to this secluded abbey of the Balkan. As it is, he has a lithographic apparatus in the convent, and spoke of setting up a printing-press. Though, under the eye of jealous prelates, the light must be carefully hid under a bushel, there can be little doubt that the influence of such an abbot on the young

students in the monastery of Rilo, will send them forth on their begging journeys able to sow as well as glean.

One remark of the abbot's struck us especially. We told him that the first Slavonic monastery we had ever seen was that of Cetigne in Montenegro. His brow grew dark, and after a moment's hesitation he said, "It is reported that that monastery is now given up to the Mussulmans and burnt." We asked him where he had read it? "In a transcript from the Journal de Constantinople." "Is that all?" cried we. "Then do not distress yourself; that journal has burnt Cetigne and killed the whole population of Montenegro already two or three times over."

"But," asked the abbot, "do you believe the great powers of Europe will sit still and allow that monastery to be burnt?" "We trust and believe not. France will do her best to save it." "France," said he, "perhaps; but England!" Feeling heartily ashamed of ourselves, we answered that the want of interest displayed by England in the Slavonic Christians arose in great part from her ignorance respecting them—that one really never heard their name.

"I have understood so," he replied, "The Americans have told me as much. It is, however, a pity that so great a country, whose children are free to travel where they please, and publish what they please, should remain in such profound ignorance of the Christiansin a country where she is on such intimate terms with the Turks. For the rest," he added, changing his tone, "what have I to do with these matters? I live here as a mouse in a hole, and our Bulgarian people are quiet, Do you please to go over the monastery?"

The monastery is well worth going over, but first let us pause in its open gallery, and feast our eyes on the

rich mass of wood that rises precipitately behind the towers in the court. The hill serves the convent at once for wall and screen.

The church standing in the court is new, the former one having been burnt to its foundations. The restoration took place in 1839, with money in great part gathered from alms. The building is in the form of a Greek cross, with domes, and has cloisters painted both within and without. The interior is supported on columns, and has a beautiful iconastasis of gilded wood, achieved by the Tzintzar carvers who do all that sort of work in Turkey. A Christ's head was pointed out to us as painted by a native of Samakoff who had studied at Moscow. It showed the softened Byzantine type of the modern Russian school.

Strange worshippers were in the temple—shepherds from the Balkan, talking a barbarous dialect of Latin and calling themselves "Romans," while they live as savages. These people herd flocks, and when the men are absent the women defend the huts, and like the female Albanians, are noted for their accurate shooting. Their wild mode of life was illustrated by their remarks on ourselves; for, seeing that we were foreigners and accompanied by a Turkish guard, they took it for granted that we had not come hither of our own free will, and pointing at us asked, "From what country have they been robbed?"

But for such monasteries as that of Rilo these shepherds would be shut out from any form of worship, but here they assemble at certain times to confess and take the sacrament. How far these people are edified by services in a language which they understand not is perhaps an open question, but we were witnesses of the instruction which in such instances may be conveyed by sacred pictures. A fresco of the birth of Christ is

painted on the wall of the church. The older of such frescoes are grisly icons, respecting which it may at least be said that those who bow down to them are not worshipping "the likeness of anything in heaven or earth;" but the modern pictures are more life-like, and this one was a genuine Oriental scene. One of the shepherd-pilgrims caught sight of it, and shouted out in rapture, "See, there is the birth of the Christ." The women crowded round him, and he pointed out to them the Babe, the mother, the star, the shepherds, the ox, the ass—explaining as he went on.

We afterwards attended evening service, at one part of which the monks took of their caps, and remained for some time bare-headed, their long locks flowing down their backs. The singing was good as to voices, but monotonous and nasal-intoned. It seemed to us to differ somewhat from what we had heard in Greek churches; but not to have improved as far as the Serbian psalmody, in which Western influence has counteracted the idea, apparently prevalent in the East as in Scotland, that there is something saintly in music through the nose.

The most interesting part of the Rilo monastery is the old tower containing the original church. The times wherein the latter was built reveal themselves by its position high up in the wall, which has no window or lower opening, except one overhanging the doorway through which to pour stones or boiling oil on the assailants of the gate. This is not the chapel of St. John of Rilo, who lived and died a hermit, worshipping in caves and hollow trees; it is not even the place of his interment, which lies at some distance on the hill. It is said to have been built at a very early date to defend the monastery from robbers, and was doubtless afterwards useful during the worst days of Mussulman

fanaticism, when the life of a monk must have demanded a brave man. At the foot of the tower is a cell, wherein insane persons are confined, and whence they are brought into the church during service by way of being exorcised. The monk asked us if such persons were found in our country. We answered "Yes; but instead of cells we lodge them in large and airy dwellings, and instead of the priest they are brought to the doctor." "And do they recover?" "They do sometimes, but alas! not always." "Strange!" cried he; "that is just the way with ours."

The last place to be visited is the mortuary chapel, wherein we perceived numerous skulls on the altar. We were told that to have a skull placed there is a compliment to the departed, for which the relatives are willing to pay. Also that here, as in the Greek parts of Turkey, the dead are disinterred in order to judge by the state of their bodies whether their souls are in heaven or hell.

In recompense for our liberal entertainment at the convent we could get permission to leave nothing next morning save a donation, ostensibly for the church. On the other hand, we carried away some curiously carved wooden spoons, the portrait of old King Shishman, taken from a contemporary document, and a brand new history of St. John of Rilo, depicting his eccentricities, miracles, and burial.