Now and then we emerge on a glade of breathing bracken—from the leafy orchestra round, the myriad chirp of tree-crickets, caught up below by blue and red winged brothers, who, in their glee, half skipping and half flying, seem amphibious of earth and heaven—a ‘kingly’ minstrelsy, as beseeming the rank and beauty of the butterfly dancers. Amongst the company we noticed a purple Emperor, Dukes of Burgundy, majestic swallow-tails, a cream-spotted tiger-moth—beauties of Camberwell—not to speak of blues and lesser stars—marsh fritillaries and delicate wood-whites, hovering over damper hollows; and in one dark watery dell ‘edged with poplar pale,’ a black and mysterious butterfly, which I am content to leave within the limits of the Unknown. It is not for me to enquire into the transformation of such sooty insects—nec scire fas est!—for we are now treading enchanted ground—we are actually on the skirts of earthly fairyland. Yonder dark forest mountain, unfathomable as it seems, is called by a name which the Bosniac woodman still mentions with awe. It is nothing else than the Vila Gora—the fairy mountain. Yes! even within the limits of Europe the nymphs of the old world have something more than twilight thickets for their mourning; here at least they have still some sunny glades and laughing runnels left them for their merry-go-rounds. We are now in a land where the fairies live not only in the lays but the minds of men—and malicious sprites some of them are, sable as that mysterious fly! As the peasant gropes his way through yonder haunted pine-wood, the trees begin to drip with grisly lichen, the trunks grow scarred, and sooty with storm and lightning, and a cloudy pall obscures the sun, and a sudden gust of wind rattles the bony limbs above—and lo! across the gloomiest forest-crypt, lashing her coal-black stag with serpent scourge, shoots—the Evil Vila!
But let us be chary of such ill-omened words! and pass on rather to that flowery dell among the beech-trees where the good Vilas are dancing. In form they are as beautiful maidens with ever-loosened zones. Their eyes are blue as the heavens, and their hair, which falls even to their ankles, golden as the sunlight. Some are riding through the forest on wind-swift steeds. They are singing the fates of men; they are weaving destinies; they are watching with motherly tenderness over the slumbers of the heroes of the race, who, lapped in their bosoms, are dreaming on of better days in many a mountain cave, till the guardian nymph shall rouse each warrior from his sleep, to sunder for ever the chains of the oppressors. Methinks they are waking even now!
Once or twice our ears were saluted with strange idyllic strains, harmonising with the scenery, and we passed by swineherds recumbent beneath spreading beech-trees, and piping to their bristly charge on barbaric instruments. We chose a shady chestnut-tree by a stream, under which to cook our frugal repast (for though nature was bountiful of blackberries we could not live on them), and while so engaged a shepherd lad came up and serenaded us with Bosnian airs on his rude double pipe or Svirala.
We now followed a small tributary of the Ussora, and in its shallow bed made our first acquaintance with the mineral wealth of the country. It was a brilliant mosaic, a medley of vermeiled jasper, snow-white quartz, fragments of rich iron ore, glittering scales of mica, green serpentine; and we picked up a beautiful piece of opaline chalcedony, enwrapping a nest of little crystals in its agaty folds. The hamlet near the point where this rivulet runs into the Ussora is known as Zlatina, which means golden, and is a name commonly given throughout Bosnia to places where gold is popularly supposed to exist; but though there are many old gold mines in different parts, and gold is still washed in some of the rivers, the ignorant peasants are said to mistake sulphur for it, or perhaps more probably the interior of iron-pyrites—our ‘crow gold’—so that the name itself proves nothing.
Beyond here we forded the Ussora, and now began to fall in with long trains of Bosnian rayahs, a troop of small Bosnian horses laden with bales and human beings, all streaming in the same direction as ourselves. It was evening when we began to ascend a small wooded mountain, escorted by this motley troop; the women and children mostly on foot, the men usually on horseback, and with their bright red turbans—worn about here by even the poorest classes—forming a brilliant foreground to the surrounding foliage. We followed the current, and an hour’s winding ascent brought us to the summit of a mountain, normally lonely, and devoid of habitation, but now thronged to overflowing by a gorgeous array of peasants from the uttermost recesses of Christian Bosnia, and some even from beyond the Serbian frontier. The summit of the mountain formed a long flat neck capacious enough to accommodate many thousands, and rising to its highest point towards its north-western extremity. As each detachment of peasants arrived they tethered their horses, and made straight to the summit of the ridge, which was surmounted by a rude shrine. This was the central point of the vast assemblage, and the reason of this great Christian gathering was soon explained.
The Roman Catholic population of this part of Bosnia had assembled from their mountain strongholds far and wide to do honour to two of their saints, known in their own parlance as Svéta Góspa and Svéta Kátta—Our Lady and St. Catherine; St. Mary the patroness of the old Bosnian kingdom, and St. Catherine the favoured Virgin Martyr of Bosnian Queens. To-morrow was the feast of the Miraculous Assumption, and the pilgrims had thronged to this Christian Delphos, the sacred navel of their land, in a great crisis of their national history, if not to consult saintly oracles, at least to obtain the support of their two tutelary goddesses. Though we realised it not at the time, we were on something more than the eve of a Romish feast. On the very day of this great pilgrimage, while these thousands were praying before their mountain shrine, a revolt was beginning in Bosnia, of which we have not yet seen the end, and which, for better or worse, must change her whole future.
Pilgrims at the Shrine, near Comušina.
This is what happened at the shrine. On arriving, each peasant bowed reverently before it, and executed certain mystic passes connected with his religion. He then made his way step by step round the outside of the shrine, moving, as they say, with the sun, from left to right; and if he were particularly pious or particularly conscience-smitten, he stumped round on his knees. On the right or northern side of the shrine a priest standing within it held forth a gilt crucifix, which each passer-by kissed; and having performed the circuit of the exterior, each votary entered the shrine itself and completed his devotions before barbaric pictures of his divinities which were facing east—laying, it might be, on the altar a homely nosegay of rosemary and golden zinnias. Many devotees, after leaving the mysterious canopy, remained facing it outside, as represented in the sketch, on their knees, counting their beads or holding out their clenched fists in a peculiar attitude, intended, perhaps, to represent a cross. Some prayed very earnestly; and indeed the occasion was no ordinary one. When each had finished, he left the immediate neighbourhood of the shrine and joined the multitude below, so that the grassy slope around the building, which was a rude wooden shed, was reserved for those actually performing their devotions. This sketch was drawn on the eve of the festival, when the shrine was less crowded.