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at last to our goal at the back of beyond, amid the deep and shrill-mouthed welcome of half a score of dogs. From the verandah of the long, low, white wooden dwelling, half countryhouse, half farm, one looked away over the gently descending plain to where a dark line of trees cut across the distant horizon. Not quite across, indeed, for at one side was still a suggestion of the infinite beyond, which allowed that outlet to the imagination, the absence of which makes any enclosed view, however beautiful, weigh ultimately upon the spirits. Behind, until it reached the amphitheatre of mountains, spread the toloka, a vast, gently undulating stretch of short, crisp grass, where many cows-rather small, wiry cows-were always feeding, attended by bands of bare-footed, dark-eyed boys and girls with an Arcadian habit of crowning their tawny locks with flowers. When one wanted to go anywhere to which no road directly led, one could drive straight over the toloka, up hill and down dale. It was prudent to hold on at the bumpiest bits, and the sensation was one of pleasurable excitement,-something between hunting and going to sea. Above, a great, generous sweep of sky, where the summer sunsets seemed to glow more goldenly and the thunderstorms to rush more swiftly and swarthily along, because, for miles and miles, there was nothing to interrupt the

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forest, which covered the country, far and wide. Oak and birch were the prevailing trees, but they never stood too densely to allow the ground beneath to be softly carpeted with mossy grass, and for the sunbeams to insinuate themselves between the branches. And ferns without end grew there,-the vivid oak-fern, and the royal fern, and another kind of which each leaf formed a section of a deep ring, into whose heart could look as into a cool green chalice. Lily of the valley hid under its own leaves in favoured spots, slender Solomon's seals tinkled fairy bells, wild strawberries and wood - sorrel gave one familiar greeting, while new friends introduced themselves at every footstep.

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Sometimes the

forest opened into glades: great stretches of short grass, with a group of oaks in the centre, or a lonely birch-tree shaking out its green tresses to the breeze; spots where the temptation to rest was irresistible, for surely nowhere else could the mosscushions be quite so deep, nor the scent of the birches quite so sweet. Sometimes a deer would dash across, shaking the beeorchids as he passed out of sight down an arched aisle of treesan aisle so long that either end was lost in the distance, and one only knew which was the west because the sunset gleamed and shimmered through the dancing leaves as through some precious stained-glass window of the "solemn fifteenth century." There was never a soul to meet but the woodland creatures; green and gilt lizards, with interesting, brittle tails; tiny,

bright-green frogs, like sorrel- after flower yielded with grace

leaves come alive, and hopping away from you; and sometimes a snake basking its evil but harmless length on a sandbank by the little river, which appeared and reappeared at all sorts of unexpected places, as it meandered casually through the forest. And above, among the branches, cuckoos called endlessly, and when twilight stole on us, the nightingales (who surely in their hearts must despise the cuckoo's meagre répertoire) gave concerts, where we occupied the best places all the season through. A long, grassy walk, bordered with fruit-trees, led from the house to a little rustic chapel dedicated to St Joseph, and built of rough-hewn, white birch-logs. Here the best singers of all had their nests, and made the "long evening-ends" delicious, as they answered and outvied one another in joyous rivalry.

In the small fields the maize was springing, very lush, and strong and green; potatoes too; poppies, cultivated for their seeds (used in confectionery), a little wheat and rye, and hay which seemed all wildflowers. When one thinks of the country there, it is not the crops that flash upon the inward eye, it is the wild-flowers, which inundated the fields like successive floods, sweeping everything before them. Considered from the point of view of those who looked to the land for bread, this effect had its drawbacks; but to the irresponsible passer-by it was one of pure delight. Flower after flower held the fields in thrall, flower

ful, unresentful dignity to its successor,-each an emblem of "Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu." First a small heartsease, creamy, flecked with violet, spread everywhere like foam. Next came a rosy dawn of raggedrobin; and, before that had exhausted its glories, "blue ran the flush across," and campanula - a low-growing, deep-hued sort-was born, while from out of it rose pale heads of meadow - rue dusted with ruddy tiplets, which poised and swayed on slender stalks, like some sort of huge butterfly hovering in the air. Then came the chicory, its tall stems stiffly beset with little vivid blue tassels; and after the middle of June a perfect riot of marguerites made ready in field and lane and wood and meadow to take the land by storm.

Sometimes it was difficult not to let oneself believe that the peasants themselves, who delved and weeded those flowery fields, were not also some kind of gigantic blossom of the soil. Many of them, especially the men and boys, were strikingly handsome, with straight features, dark eyes, and hair cut across the forehead and falling on the neck behind, like a Velasquez portrait. The garments they wore, too, were not only comfortable and sanitary, but amazingly satisfying to the eye.

The groundwork, so to speak, for both men and women, was rough, home - spun linen, which lay bleaching in narrow lengths beside the river. The

men's trousers were

stuffed in general, it is possible he also might choose to call his article "the most miserable peasantry in Europe.' Perhaps opinions differ as to what constitutes misery. It is true these Galician peasants have not many kreutzers to jingle in their red leather purses ornamented with tassels and little brass thimbles, but do they require many? They have their homesteads nestling among pear-trees and birches, washed a dainty cream or pink or yellow, and with a steep roof elaborately thatched in ribs, like corduroy, or jutting out at the corners, layer beyond-layer, like a succession of frills. They spin their own linen, prepare their sheepskins, have a right to pasture their cow or cows on the toloka, and live chiefly on the maize which they grow in their fields, made into porridge -kolesha-and eaten with milk. It is true they are not highly educated, as the board school understands

into high black or yellow boots, and their shirts were embroidered on the sleeves in blue and red or black, and confined at the waist by broad leathern girdles, much ornamented with brass. The women wore long garments, like the men's shirts, coming down to their ankles, and covered, behind and before, by a pair of voluminous aprons, made of a ruddy, striped woollen stuff, more or less brilliant in hue. Both sexes and all ages, down even to babies in arms, have short, sleeveless, sheepskin coats, usually open in front. The skin side is embroidered in varying designs, more or less elaborate, carried out chiefly in red wool and green and red leather. When it is fine the embroidered side is exposed; when it is wet the woolly one appears. These kiptars are very light, very warm, and yet, being sleeveless, they are never stuffy. It is amazing how persistently they are worn, and it is only in the hottest weather that the peasants strip them off when working in the fields and pile them in a little tawny heap, beside their water-bottles and bundles of maize bread.

The mind of the traveller in Galicia is probably prepared by various magazine articles to find there “the most miserable peasantry in Europe." It is always unsafe to generalise, and if a Pole on his travels were to find himself in some corners of Ireland or of the Scottish Highlands, and, from what he saw there, were to describe the condition of the British peasantry

education, and their opinion on the quantification of the predicate would not be worth having; but their hearts are full of that other lore which nature teaches in the fields and woods, and which descends like dew from the mountains and from the stars. Certainly they do not work very hard; but if they are contented with what they have, why should they? Four men will go out in the morning to plough a field, taking with them a pair of oxen, or of the little horses of the country. A fifth accompanies them to discourse music on a rustic pipe which Pan himself probably taught his ancestors to make

and play, in case they should weary as the hours go on. In the evening they return to their kolesha; the field has been has been ploughed, and they have spent a happy day. Is not this enough?

Life is brightened and diversified by frequent feast-days. The peasantry almost all belong to the Reformed Greek Church, which is united with the Catholic. It observes the same feastdays, with the addition of a great many local ones of its own, and observes them so handsomely that the greater feasts extend over at least three days. It seems always to be somebody's feast-day, for the Catholic ones come first, followed (old style) at varying periods of a week to a fortnight by those of the Greek Church; while the Jews dislocate commerce at frequent intervals, as well as on every Saturday, by shutting the little booths where they sell everything that can be bought in East Galicia, and devoting themselves strenuously to their prayers. The doctrine of the Reformed Greek is the same as that of the Catholic Church, but there are some essential differences in its practice. Mass is said in the vernacular, and the priests not only may but must marry once, but not again as a step to ordination. There are Catholic Churches in all the larger places, but the feeling between the two is cordial, and the priests freely "exchange pulpits," as they say at home.

Here and there, all over the country, rising towards heaven with a joyful gleam, are the

copper-tipped minarets, three, five, or even seven in number, of the little churches where the peasants pray. peasants pray. Often there is no road, even no regular path, to them, and the stranger who has caught a glimpse of the church from afar may lose himself many times in fields and winding ways before he reaches the threshold. But familiar tracks lead from thatched huts through maize patches and over basket palings, and on Sundays and feast-days the grassy, treeshaded God's acre is filled with a (literally) brilliant congregation. The church is set on the grass as on a soft, green carpet; no formal path leads even to the principal door. All built of old, old wood, the weather has nursed it to a soft bronze, polished it with many touches, and dusted it with lichens. The roof juts out, and, beneath it, rustic seats run right round the outside walls, and by the door and hung on the walls without are rough but often tender and expressive carvings and pictures, of which the colour is always beautiful. Inside there are seats only for a privileged few within the altarscreen. The people stand, except when a wave of prayer sweeps from the altar, bowing them to their knees, as the wind bows the corn.

The altar-screen is painted in gorgeous hues, green and red and gold; but here again age mellows everything—age and the smoke of many great brown candles, rolled, as if by the hand, from lumps of solid beeswax. The screens are carved all over with saints extending

hands of blessing, angels blow- individual but beautiful in ing trumpets with joyful zeal, mass, and very impressive. and "cherubims of glory shad- Two or three women, with owing the mercy - seat.' All heads bound in this way, round the church itself are bright aprons, strings of coral crucifixes, pictures, banners, and of beads and medals round and though here and there a their necks, and white emcrude and mechanical note broidered chemisettes under (modern, alas! for the most their sheepskins, collect the part) has crept in, it is lost kreutzers of the congregation. again immediately. The anat- They come round at intervals, omy and the drawing are often in pairs, one woman bearing not of a sort to which critia lighted candle, the other a cism can for one moment be ap- curious, small, cross-barred, plied, but the colouring, the exwooden crucifix, carved in very pression, the devotional feel- flat relief, and a little wooden ing, carry one straight upwards. bowl. Each one collected from No one seems to know who did kisses the crucifix before casting them; their creators are of his mite into the bowl, and if those who "do their deed and the bearer thinks the donation scorn to blot it with a name," worthy, the crucifix, as a signal who "follow the gleam" in honour, is again offered to his pure simplicity of heart. Great lips. candlesticks of greenish pottery stand on the altar, and on feastdays many of the congregation carry lighted candles. It is a privilege indeed to be given one to hold at the four principal points of the Mass-the Gospel, the Offertory, the Elevation, and the Communion. Gazing into the church from behind the altar-screen, it looks like one sea of kneeling figures, green branches, starry lights. Often there is a row of little children right up to the altarsteps, with coloured handkerchiefs covering their heads, with plump hands full of flowers horse-chestnut blossoms, it may be, or sprays of hawthorn.

In some places the women go to church on feast - days with their heads bound up in white cloths, as we bind the head of a corpse. It has a strange effect, not becoming to the

The only blemish on these Greek churches, SO full of interest and beauty for those whose eyes and hearts are open to such things, is that their doors do not always stand open; one cannot wander in at will. But it is never difficult to find the "old brother" who has charge of the key. If it be a Sunday after Mass is over, he is probably to be found sitting under the apple-trees, at the foot of the tall crucifix, with most of the other male inhabitants of the village. They are all proud of the church, which is indeed the centre of their common life, and they rise and stream into it after you, to see what effect it may produce on the strange pani. They kneel and remain kneeling, praying more or less audibly, during the visit, but they are not too absorbed

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