Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 65, No. 400, February, 1849
We cannot wonder that the effect on their minds of these astonishing successes, should be an unbounded confidence in their superiority over the Turks. Sir Gardner Wilkinson found them impressed with the idea, that bread and arms were the only needful requisites to enable them to drive the Turks out of Albania and Herzegovina. It seems certain that, in their rencontres With these enemies, they dismiss all ordinary considerations of prudence. The spirit of their feeling with regard to the Turks is thus portrayed: —
"It is not the courage, but the cruelty of the Turks which inspires him (the Montenegrin) with hatred; and the sufferings inflicted upon his country by their inroads makes him look upon them with feelings of ferocious vengeance.
"These savage sentiments are kept alive by the barbarous custom, adopted by both parties, of cutting off the heads of the wounded and the dead; the consequences of which are destructive of all the conditions of fair warfare, and preclude the possibility of peace. The bitter remembrance of the past is constantly revived by the horrors of the present; and the love of revenge, which strongly marks the character of the Montenegrin, makes him insensible to reason or justice, and places the Turks, in his opinion, out of the pale of human beings. He dreams only of vengeance; he cares little for the means employed, and the man who should make any excuse for not persecuting those enemies of his country and his faith, would be treated with ignominy and contempt. Even the sanctity of a truce is not always sufficient to restrain him; and the hatred of the Turk is paramount to all ordinary considerations of honour or humanity."
This cutting off of heads is not peculiar to the Montenegrins. The Turks are, in this respect, just as bad, and Sir Gardner found, on the occasion of his visit to Mostar, that, in point of this barbarism, there is not a pin to choose between them. The Turks, however, exceed in cruelty. It appears, on the evidence of the letter of the Vladika, given in the second volume, that they (the Turks) impale men alive; whereas the Montenegrins are chargeable with no wanton cruelty. Indeed, they do not restrict the performance of this operation to the case of enemies; but, as an act of friendship, decapitate any comrade who may so be wounded in action as to have no other means of avoiding capture by the enemy. "You are very brave," said a well-meaning Montenegrin to a portly Russian officer, who was unable to keep up with his detachment in its retreat, – "you are very brave, and must wish that I should cut off your head: say a prayer, and make the sign of the cross."
Life, passed amidst every hardship, and threatened by constant and deadly peril, ought, we suppose, according to all rule, to be short in duration. But we find that these people are remarkable for longevity. A family is mentioned, in one of the villages, which reckoned six generations, there and then extant. The head of the family was a great-great-great-grandfather.
The Vladika received his visitor most courteously, as he always does those who have the privilege of being presented to him. He afforded to Sir Gardner every facility for seeing the country, and engaged his secretary to draw up for him a précis of Montenegrin history. We will condense some of its more important facts. The supremacy in things spiritual and temporal has not been very long vested, as it at present is, in the person of the Vladika. The two chieftain-ships were of old distinct, and the figment of a separate temporal authority was continued till comparatively lately: the year 1832 is mentioned as the epoch at which the office of civil chief was definitely suppressed. The present family (Petrovich) have possessed the dignity of the Vladikate since the close of the seventeenth century. The reigning Vladika – this man of magnificent presentment – this brave, intellectual, and athletic ruler of an indomitable race – is nephew of the late Vladika, who has been canonised, although but few years have passed since his death. The prince-bishop is not theoretically absolute in power, as the form of a republic is kept up: the general assembly has the right of deliberation, under the presidency of the Vladika. But this restriction of power is pretty nearly nominal only: we give Sir Gardner's account of the native Diet.
"In a semicircular recess, formed by the rocks on one side of the plain of Tzetinié, and about half a mile to the southward of the town, is a level piece of grass land, with a thicket of low poplar trees. Here the diet is held, from which the spot has received the name of mali sbor (the small assembly.) When any matter is to be discussed, the people meet in this their Runimede, or 'meadow of council,' and partly on the level space, partly on the rocks, receive from the Vladika notice of the question proposed. The duration of the discussion is limited to a certain time, at the expiration of which the assembly is expected to come to a decision; and when the monastery bell orders silence, notwithstanding the most animated discussion, it is instantly restored. The Metropolitan asks again what is their decision, and whether they agree to his proposal or not. The answer is always the same: 'Budi po to oyema, Vladika,' – 'Let it be as thou wishest, Vladika.'"
Montenegro first secured its independence about a generation or two before the time of the famous Scanderbeg, on the breaking up of the kingdom of Servia. Since that time they have constantly been subject to the inroads of the Turks, who, claiming them as tributaries, have continued to invade their country every now and then with savage cruelty. More than once they have carried fire and sword to Tzetinié, but have never been able to hold their ground. The Montenegrins sought the protection of Russia in the time of Peter the Great, and still continue to be subsidised by Russia. At the desire of Peter, they invaded the Turkish territory, and were subjected to reprisals on a grand scale. At one time 60,000 Turks, at another 120,000, broke into Montenegro. The first invasion was gloriously repulsed; but the second, combining treachery with violence, was successful. Great damage was done to the country; but the invaders were at last obliged to quit, on the breaking out of war between Turkey and Venice. The Montenegrins then returned to their desolate homes, and have since been unintermitting in their diligence to pay off old scores. They co-operated with the Austrians and Russians, when they had the opportunity of such assistance; and when they stood alone, they did so nobly and bravely. The last great expedition of the Turks was in the time of the late Vladika. The Pasha of Scutari, with an enormous force, invaded the country; and the result of the expedition was that 30,000 Turks were killed, and among them the Pasha of Albania, whose head now serves as a trophy of victory to decorate Tzetinié.
The capital of the Vladika, has been described before – for instance, in the pages of this Magazine; so, with one brief extract concerning it, we will follow Sir Gardner in his progress through the country.
"On a rock immediately above the convent is a round tower pierced with embrasures, but without cannon, on which I counted the heads of twenty Turks fixed upon stakes round the parapet – the trophies of Montenegrin victory; and below, scattered upon the rock, were the fragments of other skulls, which had fallen to pieces by time, – a strange spectacle in a Christian country, in Europe, and in the immediate vicinity of a convent and a bishop's palace!"
And, as we said before, when he got to Mostar, in Herzegovina, he found a spectacle of the same shocking kind. He did allow his horror at this sight to evaporate ineffectually; but in earnest tried to interpose his good offices to prevent a continuance of these doings. He talked to the two people mainly concerned —i. e. to the Vizir of Herzegovina, and to the Vladika. He also, at Constantinople, endeavoured to effect the making of an appeal to the highest Turkish authority. His correspondence with the Vladika on the subject is evidence of his zeal; but no positive good seems to have been the result of his intercession.
The road leading from the capital to Ostrok is described as being very bad at first, and bad beyond description as it recedes from the capital. The Vladika kindly sent with Sir Gardner one of his guards and an interpreter. The party passed by several villages, and arrived at Mishke, the principal village of the Cevo district, where they put up for the night at the house of the principal senator of the province. Here some amusement was afforded by Sir Gardner's proceeding to sketch the domestic party.
In the course of the evening a scene occurred, which sets forth their social condition as graphically as the artist's pencil has their personal appearance. A party of friends came in to have a quiet pipe, and to plan a foray over the border.
"On inquiry, I found the expedition was to take place immediately. "Is there not," I asked, "a truce at this moment between you and the Turks of Herzegovina?" They laughed, and seemed much amused at my scruples. "We don't mind that," said a stern swarthy man, taking his pipe from his mouth, and shaking his head to and fro; "they are Turks" – and all agreed that the Turks were fair game. "Besides," they said, "it is only to be a plundering excursion;" and they evidently considered that any one refusing to join in a marauding expedition into Turkey, at any time, or in an open attack during a war, would be unworthy the name of a brave man. They seemed to treat the matter like boys in "the good old times," who robbed orchards; the courage it showed being in proportion to the risk, and scruples of conscience were laughed at as a want of spirit."
In a freshly-decapitated head, affixed to a stake at Mostar, he shortly afterwards recognised the features of one of these very men.
On the next day he proceeded to Ostrok, and found occasion to admire the scenery by the way, especially the vale of Oranido, distant from Mishke about four hours. From the vale of Oranido to Ostrok is a journey of about the same time. At Ostrok he underwent a grand reception, and fully won the hearts of his new friends by proposing a ride to the Turkish frontier, and affording them by the way an exhibition of Memlook riding. On the frontier is constantly maintained a guard of Montenegrins, to give timely warning of any suspicious movement among the Turks; and so well do they execute this office that no Turk can approach the border without being shot at. Near this border it was that, some little time ago, in 1843, an affair took place which does not tell well for the Montenegrini; and which seems for the present to preclude hope of amicable arrangement with the Turks. A deputation of twenty-two Turks, returning from Ostrok, were attacked by the people, and nine of them killed. This breach of faith is, to their minds, excused by the suspicion of meditated treachery on the part of the Turks. But it is a sad affair; and the only circumstance which goes in mitigation of its guilt is, that the Vladika took precautions against its occurrence. He sent an armed guard to protect the deputation, but their defence proved insufficient.
The Archimandrite of Ostrok is the person who holds the place of second dignity in the government. He ranks next to the Vladika; and we are glad to find, by Sir Gardner's account, that he cordially co-operates with the Vladika in his plans of amelioration. Here also was met the celebrated priest and warrior, Ivan Knezovich, or Popé Yovan – a man who, in this nation of brave men, is renowned as the bravest. There are two convents at Ostrok, of which one fulfils also the function of powder magazine and store depot. Its position is very remarkable; and certainly it does bear a strong family likeness to Megaspelion. The same quality of not being within reach of any missile from above belongs to both of them, and has proved the saving of both.
The return to Tzetinié was by a different route, which took Sir Gardner within near view of the northern end of the lake of Scutari. The island of Vranina, situated at this extremity of the lake, is likely to afford the next ostensible ground for an outbreak. It belonged to Montenegro, but, a few years ago, was treacherously seized by the Albanians, who effected a surprise in time of peace. Remonstrances and hard blows have equally failed to promote a restoration, et adhuc sub judice lis est. Throughout the course of his journey, Sir Gardner experienced much and genuine kindness from the rude people of the country; they brought him presents of such things as they had to offer, and would accept no compensation. When at last he bade them farewell, and returned to the haunts of civilisation, it was evidently with kindly recollections of them, and with the best of good-will towards them. He was able to give a satisfactory account of his impressions to the Vladika, who inquired thus, – "What do you think of the people? Do they appear to you the assassins and barbarians some people pretend to consider them? I hope you found them all well-behaved and civil – they are poor, but that does not prevent their being hospitable and generous."
MODERN BIOGRAPHY
BEATTIE'S LIFE OF CAMPBELL
Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell. Edited by William Beattie, M.D., one of his Executors. 3 vols. London: Moxon, 1849.
The ancients, who lived beyond the reach of the fangs and feelers of the printing press, had, in one respect, a decided advantage over us unlucky moderns. They were not beset by the terrors of biography. No hideous suspicion that, after he was dead and gone – after the wine had been poured upon the hissing embers of the pyre, and the ashes consigned, by the hands of weeping friends, to the oblivion of the funereal urn – some industrious gossip of his acquaintance would incontinently sit down to the task of laborious compilation and collection of his literary scraps, ever crossed, like a sullen shadow, the imagination of the Greek or the Latin poet. Homer, though Arctinus was his near relative, could unbosom himself without the fear of having his frailties posthumously exposed, or his amours blazoned to the world. Lucius Varius and Plotius Tucca, the literary executors of Virgil, never dreamed of applying to Pollio for the I O Us which he doubtless held in the handwriting of the Mantuan bard, or to Horace for the confidential notes suggestive of Falernian inspiration. Socrates, indeed, has found a liberal reporter in Plato; but this is a pardonable exception. The son of Sophroniscus did not write; and therefore it was incumbent on his pupil to preserve for posterity the fragments of his oral wisdom. The ancient authors rested their reputation upon their published works alone. They knew, what we seem to forget, that the poet, apart from his genius, is but an ordinary man, and, in many cases, has received, along with that gift, a larger share of propensities and weaknesses than his fellow-mortals. Therefore it was that they insisted upon that right of domestic privacy which is common to us all. The poet, in his public capacity as an author, held himself responsible for what he wrote; but he had no idea of allowing the whole world to walk into his house, open his desk, read his love-letters, and criticise the state of his finances. Had Varius and Tucca acted on the modern system, the ghost of Virgil would have haunted them on their death-beds. Only think what a legacy might have been ours if these respectable gentlemen had written to Cremona for anecdotes of the poet while at school! No doubt, in some private nook of the old farm-house at Andes, there were treasured up, through the infinite love of the mother, tablets scratched over with verses, composed by young Master Maro at the precocious age of ten. We may, to a certainty, calculate – for maternal fondness always has been the same, and Virgil was an only child – that, in that emporium, themes upon such topics as "Virtus est sola nobilitas" were religiously treasured, along with other memorials of the dear, dear boy who had gone to college at Naples. Modern Varius would remorselessly have printed these: ancient Tucca was more discreet. Then what say you to the college career? Would it not be a nice thing to have all the squibs and feuds, the rows and rackettings of the jovial student preserved to us precisely as they were penned, projected, and perpetrated? Have we not lost a great deal in being defrauded of an account of the manner in which he singed the wig of his drunken old tutor, Parthenius Nicenus, or the scandalously late hours which he kept in company with his especial chums? Then comes the period, darkly hinted at by Donatus, during which he was, somehow or other, connected with the imperial stable; that is, we presume, upon the turf. What would we not give for a sight of Virgil's betting-book! Did he back the field, or did he take the odds on the Emperor's bay mare, Alma Venus Genetrix? How stood he with the legs? What sort of reputation did he maintain in the ring of the Roman Tattersall? Was he ever posted as a defaulter? Tucca! you should have told us this. Then, when sobered down, and in high favour with the court, where is the private correspondence between him and Mæcenas, the President of the Roman Agricultural Society, touching the compilation of the Georgics? The excellent Equestrian, we know, wanted Virgil to construct a poem, such as Thomas Tusser afterwards wrote, under the title of a "Hondreth Good Points of Husbandrie," and, doubtless, waxed warm in his letters about draining, manure, and mangel-wurzel. What sacrifice would we not make to place that correspondence in the hands of Henry Stephens! How the author of the Book of the Farm would revel in his exposure of the crude theories of the Minister of the Interior! What a formidable phalanx of facts would he oppose to Mæcenas' misconceptions of guano! Through the sensitive delicacy of his executors, we have lost the record of Virgil's repeated larks with Horace: the pleasant little supper-parties celebrated at the villa of that dissipated rogue Tibullus, have passed from the memory of mankind. We know nothing of the state of his finances, for they have not thought fit to publish his banking-account with the firm of Lollius, Spuræna, and Company. Their duty, as they fondly believed, was fulfilled, when they gave to the world the glorious but unfinished Æneid.
Under the modern system, we constantly ask ourselves whether it is wise to wish for greatness, and whether total oblivion is not preferable to fame, with the penalty of exposure annexed. We shudder at the thoughts of putting out a book, not from fear of anything that the critics can do, but lest it should take with the public, and expose us to the danger of a posthumous biography. Were we to awake some fine morning, and find ourselves famous, our peace of mind would be gone for ever. Mercy on us! what a quantity of foolish letters have we not written during the days of our youth, under the confident impression that, when read, they would be immediately committed to the flames. Madrigals innumerable recur to our memory; and, if these were published, there would be no rest for us in the grave! If any misguided critic should say of us, "The works of this author are destined to descend to posterity," our response would be a hollow groan. If convinced that our biography would be attempted, from that hour the friend of our bosom would appear in the light of a base and ignominious spy. How durst we ever unbosom ourselves to him, when, for aught we know, the wretch may be treasuring up our casual remarks over the fifth tumbler, for immediate registration at home? Constitutionally we are not hard-hearted; but, were we so situated, we own that the intimation of the decease of each early acquaintance would be rather a relief than otherwise. Tom, our intimate fellow-student at college, dies. We may be sorry for the family of Thomas, but we soon wipe away the natural drops, discovering that there is balm in Gilead. We used to write him letters, detailing minutely our inward emotions at the time we were distractedly in love with Jemima Higginbotham; and Tom, who was always a methodical dog, has no doubt docqueted them as received. Tom's heirs will doubtless be too keen upon the scent of valuables, to care one farthing for rhapsodising: therefore, unless they are sent to the snuff-merchant, or disseminated as autographs, our epistles run a fair chance of perishing by the flames, and one evidence of our weakness is removed. A member of the club meets us in George Street, and, with a rueful longitude of countenance, asks us if we have heard of the death of poor Harry? To the eternal disgrace of human nature, be it recorded, that our heart leaps up within us like a foot-ball, as we hypocritically have recourse to our cambric. Harry knew a great deal too much about our private history just before we joined the Yeomanry, and could have told some stories, little flattering to our posthumous renown.
Are we not right, then, in holding that, under the present system, celebrity is a thing to be eschewed? Why is it that we are so chary of receiving certain Down-Easters, so different from the real American gentlemen whom it is our good fortune to know? Simply because Silas Fixings will take down your whole conversation in black and white, deliberately alter it to suit his private purposes, and Transatlantically retail it as a specimen of your life and opinions. And is it not a still more horrible idea that a Silas may be perpetually watching you in the shape of a pretended friend? If the man would at once declare his intention, you might be comparatively at ease. Even in that case you never could love him more, for the confession implies a disgusting determination of outliving you, or rather a hint that your health is not remarkably robust, which would irritate the meekest of mankind. But you might be enabled, through a strong effort, to repress the outward exhibition of your wrath; and, if high religious principle should deter you from mixing strychnia or prussic acid with the wine of your volunteering executor, you may at least contrive to blind him by cautiously maintaining your guard. Were we placed in such a trying position, we should utter, before our intending Boswell, nothing save sentiments which might have flowed from the lips of the Venerable Bede. What letters, full of morality and high feeling, would we not indite! Not an invitation to dinner – not an acceptance of a tea and turn-out, but should be flavoured with some wholesome apothegm. Thus we should strive, through our later correspondence, to efface the memory of the earlier, which it is impossible to recall, – not without a hope that we might throw upon it, if posthumously produced, a tolerable imputation of forgery.
In these times, we repeat, no man of the least mark or likelihood is safe. The waiter with the bandy-legs, who hands round the negus-tray at a blue-stocking coterie, is in all probability a leading contributor to a fifth-rate periodical; and, in a few days after you have been rash enough to accept the insidious beverage, M'Tavish will be correcting the proof of an article in which your appearance and conversation are described. Distrust the gentleman in the plush terminations; he, too, is a penny-a-liner, and keeps a commonplace-book in the pantry. Better give up writing at once than live in such a perpetual state of bondage. What amount of present fame can recompense you for being shown up as a noodle, or worse, to your children's children? Nay, recollect this, that you are implicating your personal, and, perhaps, most innocent friends. Bob accompanies you home from an insurance society dinner, where the champagne has been rather superabundant, and, next morning, you, as a bit of fun, write to the President that the watchman had picked up Bob in a state of helpless inebriety from the kennel. The President, after the manner of the Fogies, duly docquets your note with name and date, and puts it up with a parcel of others, secured by red tape. You die. Your literary executor writes to the President, stating his biographical intentions, and requesting all documents that may tend to throw light upon your personal history. Preses, in deep ecstasy at the idea of seeing his name in print as the recipient of your epistolary favours, immediately transmits the packet; and the consequence is, that Robert is most unjustly handed down to posterity in the character of a habitual drunkard, although it is a fact that a more abstinent creature never went home to his wife at ten. If you are an author, and your spouse is ailing, don't give the details to your intimate friend, if you would not wish to publish them to the world. Drop all correspondence, if you are wise, and have any ambition to stand well in the eyes of the coming generation. Let your conversation be as curt as a Quaker's, and select no one for a friend, unless you have the meanest possible opinion of his capacity. Even in that case you are hardly secure. Perhaps the best mode of combining philanthropy, society, and safety, is to have nobody in the house, save an old woman who is so utterly deaf that you must order your dinner by pantomime.
One mode of escape suggests itself, and we do not hesitate to recommend it. Let every man who underlies the terror of the peine forte et dure, compile his own autobiography at the ripe age of forty-five. Few people, in this country, begin to establish a permanent reputation before thirty; and we allow them fifteen years to complete it. Now, supposing your existence should be protracted to seventy, here are clear five-and-twenty years remaining, which may be profitably employed in autobiography, by which means you secure three vast advantages. In the first place, you can deal with your own earlier history as you please, and provide against the subsequent production of inconvenient documents. In the second place, you defeat the intentions of your excellent friend and gossip, who will hardly venture to start his volumes in competition with your own. In the third place, you leave an additional copyright as a legacy to your children, and are not haunted in your last moments by the agonising thought that a stranger in name and blood is preparing to make money by your decease. It is, of course, unnecessary to say one word regarding the general tone of your memoirs. If you cannot contrive to block out such a fancy portrait of your intellectual self as shall throw all others into the shade, you may walk on fearlessly through life, for your biography never will be attempted. Goethe, the most accomplished literary fox of our age, perfectly understood the value of these maxims, and forestalled his friends, by telling his own story in time. The consequence is, that his memory has escaped unharmed. Little Eckermann, his amanuensis in extreme old age, did indeed contrive to deliver himself of a small Boswellian volume; but this publication, bearing reference merely to the dicta of Goethe at a safe period of life, could not injure the departed poet. The repetition of the early history, and the publication of the early documents, are the points to be especially guarded.
We beg that these remarks may be considered, not as strictures upon any individual example, but as bearing upon the general style of modern biography. This is a gossiping world, in which great men are the exceptions; and when one of these ceases to exist, the public becomes clamorous to learn the whole minutiæ of his private life. That is a depraved taste, and one which ought not to be gratified. The author is to be judged by the works which he voluntarily surrenders to the public, not by the tenor of his private history, which ought not to be irreverently exposed. Thus, in compiling the life of a poet, we maintain that a literary executor has purely a literary function to perform. Out of the mass of materials which he may fortuitously collect, his duty is to select such portions as may illustrate the public doings of the man: he may, without transgressing the boundaries of propriety, inform us of the circumstances which suggested the idea of any particular work, the difficulties which were overcome by the author in the course of its composition, and even exhibit the correspondence relative thereto. These are matters of literary history which we may ask for, and obtain, without any breach of the conventional rules of society. Whatever refers to public life is public, and may be printed: whatever refers solely to domestic existence is private, and ought to be held sacred. A very little reflection, we think, will demonstrate the propriety of this distinction. If we have a dear and valued friend, to whom, in the hours of adversity or of joy, we are wont to communicate the thoughts which lie at the bottom of our soul, we write to him in the full conviction that he will regard these letters as addressed to himself alone. We do not insult him, nor wrong the holy attributes of friendship so much, as to warn him against communicating our thoughts to any one else in the world. We never dream that he will do so, else assuredly those letters never would have been written. If we were to discover that we had so grievously erred as to repose confidence in a person who, the moment he received a letter penned in a paroxysm of emotion and revealing a secret of our existence, was capable of exhibiting it to the circle of his acquaintance, of a surety he should never more be troubled with any of our correspondence. Would any man dare to print such documents during the life of the writer? We need not pause for a reply: there can be but one. And why is this? Because these communications bear on their face the stamp of the strictest privacy – because they were addressed to, and meant for the eye of but one human being in the universe – because they betray the emotions of a soul which asks sympathy from a friend, with only less reverence than it implores comfort from its God! Does death, then, free the friend and the confidant from all restraint? If the knowledge that his secret had been divulged, his agonies exposed, his weaknesses surrendered to the vulgar gaze, could have pained the living man – is nothing due to his memory, now that he is laid beneath the turf, now that his voice can never more be raised to upbraid a violated confidence? Many modern biographers, we regret to say, do not appear to be influenced by any such consideration. They never seem to have asked themselves the question – Would my friend, if he had been compiling his own memoirs, have inserted such a letter for publication – does it not refer to a matter eminently private and personal, and never to be communicated to the world? Instead of applying this test, they print everything, and rather plume themselves on their impartiality in suppressing nothing. They thus exhibit the life not only of the author but of the man. Literary and personal history are blended together. The senator is not only exhibited in the House of Commons, but we are courteously invited to attend at the accouchement of his wife.