There is one point of superiority in the case of these barbarians as compared with that of the military knights. They have never been conquered, never driven from their fastnesses. The knights defended Rhodes with valour such as never has been surpassed; and to this day the recollection moves the apathetic spirit of the Turks; and the monstrous burying-grounds in the suburbs are witnesses of the slaughter of the assailants. Yet Rhodes was evacuated, and the Order obliged to seek another settlement. But the Montenegrini have never been conquered. They have withstood the whole power of the mightiest sultans, in whose territories they have been as an ever-present nest of hornets, always ready to sally forth, losing no opportunity of destruction. These Osmanlis, who so lately were the proudest of nations, have been themselves baffled and defied by a handful of Christians. Their enthusiasm, their numbers, their artillery, their commanding possession of the lake of Scutari, all have failed to bring under their power a handful of some hundred and fifty thousand men. The cross, once planted in this rugged soil, has taken effectual root, and continues still to flash confusion on the followers of Islam. It is the symbol of our faith that is carried before the mountaineers when they go forth to battle; and it still inspirits them, as it did those legions of the faithful who first learned to reverence its virtue.
We must not carry things too far. It would be absurd to claim for these people the general merit of devotion; to suppose that as a general rule they are actuated by the love of religion. Alas! they are undoubtedly very ignorant of the religion for which they fight. Yet, so far as knowledge serves them, they are religious; where error is the consequence of ignorance, we may grieve, but should be slow to condemn. Some are probably led to heroism by liberal devotion to the person of the Bishop; some because they have been nursed in the idea that Turks are their natural enemies, whom to destroy is a work of merit. But, nevertheless, they exhibit the spectacle of a people who, proceeding on a principle of religion, however that principle be obscured, have instituted, and long have maintained, a crusade against the religious fanatics who once made Europe tremble. Their spirit at least contains the commendable elements of constancy, simplicity, and heroism.
It was my fortune to pay a visit to this extraordinary people under favourable circumstances. Visits to them are very rare. Sometimes a stray soldier's yacht, from Corfu, finds its way to Cattaro; but generally only in its course up the Adriatic. These military visitants are commonly more intent on woodcocks than the picturesque, and game does not particularly enrich these regions. For very many years there has been an account of only one English visiting-party besides ourselves. We were led thither by the happy favour of circumstance. Our party was numerous, and certainly must have been the most distinguished that the Vladika has had the opportunity of entertaining. It consisted of the captain and several officers of an English man-of-war, reinforced by the accession of a couple of volunteers from the officers of the Austrian garrison of Cattaro.
We were all glad to have the opportunity of satisfying our eyes on the subject of the marvellous tales whose confused rumour had reached us. We were not young travellers, and it was not a little that would astonish us—but we felt that if the reality in this case were at all like the report, we might all afford to be astonished. It was a singular thing that so little should be known about these people almost in their neighbourhood—for Corfu is not two hundred miles distant. But perhaps the reason may be, that they are not to be seen beyond their own confined region, and are easily confounded with the irregular tribes of Albanians.
The wonders of our visit opened upon us before reaching the land of romance—a wonder of beauty in the nature of the entrance to Cattaro. The Bocca di Cattaro is of the same kind as, and not much inferior to, the Bosphorus. The man who has seen neither the one nor the other of these fairy streams must be content to rest without the idea. The nearest things to them, probably, would be found in the passages of the Eastern Archipelago. The entrance from the sea is by a narrow mouth, which seems to be nothing but a small indentation of the coast, till you are pretty well arrived at the inner extremity. You then pass into another canal, whose tortuous course shuts out the sight of the sea, and puts you in the most landlocked position in which it is possible to see a ship of war. High hills rise on either side, beautifully planted, and verdant to the waters edge. Villages are not wanting to complete the effect; and here and there single houses peep out beautiful in isolation. Another turn brings into view a point of divergence in the stream, where, on a little island, stands a simple devout-looking chapel. It looks as though intended to call forth the pious gratitude of the returning sailor, and help him to the expression of his thanks. The whole length of the channel is something more than twenty miles—and all of the same beautiful description—not seen at once, but opening gradually as the successive bends of the stream are passed. The wind failed us, and for a considerable distance we had to track ship, which we were easily able to do, as there is plenty of water close to the very edge. At the bottom of all lies Cattaro—occupying a narrow level, with the sea before, and the frowning mountains behind.
Our arrival set the little place quite in a commotion. Indeed, this was but the second time that a ship of war had carried our flag up these waters—the other visitant was, I believe, from the squadron of Sir W. Hoste. The whole place turned out to see us, and the harbour was covered with boat-loads of the nobility and gentry. They were like all Austrians that I have met, exceedingly kind, and well-disposed to the English name. We soon made acquaintances, and exchanged invitations. Their musical souls were charmed with the performances of our really fine band, and we were equally charmed with their pleasing hospitality. The couple of days occupied in the interchange of agreeable civilities were useful in the promotion of our scheme. From our friends we learned the prescriptions of Montenegrino etiquette. An unannounced visit, in general cases, is by them regarded as neither friendly nor courteous: an evidence of habitual caution that we should expect among a people against whom open violence is ineffectual, and only treachery dangerous. Our friends provided a messenger, and we awaited his return amidst the amenities of Cattaro. These combined so much good taste with good will, that it was difficult to credit the stories of barbarism subsisting within a short day's journey: stories that here, in the immediate neighbourhood of the scene of action, became more vivid in character.
The appearance of the country was in keeping with tales of romance. Almost immediately behind the town rises the mountain district, very abruptly, and affording at first view an appearance of inaccessibility. It is not till the eye has become somewhat habituated to the search that one perceives a means of ascent. A narrow road of marvellous construction has been cut up the almost perpendicular mountain. But the word road would give a wrong idea of its nature. It is rather a giant staircase, and like a staircase it appears from the anchorage. The lines are so many, and contain such small angles, that when considered with the height of the work, they may aptly be compared to the steps of a ladder. It is of recent construction, and how the people used to manage before this means of communication existed, it is difficult to say. Probably this difficulty of intercourse has mainly tended to the preservation of barbarism. Now, the route is open to horses, sure-footed and carefully ridden. The highlanders occasionally resort to the town for traffic in the coarse commodities of their manufacture. On these occasions they have to leave their arms in a guard-house without the gates, as indeed have all people entering the town; and a pretty collection is to be seen in these depots, of the murderous long guns of which the Albanians make such good use.
It was on the evening of the second day that we first saw an accredited representative of the tribe. A party of us had strolled out towards the foot of the mountain, and in the repose of its shadows were speculating on the probable adventures of the morrow. A convenient bridge over a mountain stream afforded a seat, whence we looked wistfully up to the heights. The contrast between the neatness of the suburb, the hum of the town, the noisy activity of the peasantry, and the black desolation of the mountain, engaged our admiration. This desolation was presently relieved by the emerging into view of a descending group. One figure was on horseback, with several footmen attending his steps. The dress of the cavalier would have served to distinguish him as of consequence, without the distinction of position. His dress affected a style of barbaric magnificence that disdained the notion of regularity. The original idea perhaps was Hungarian, to which was added, according to the fancy of the wearer, whatever went to make up the magnificent. His appearance was very much, but not exactly, that of a Turk—not the modernised Turk in frock-coat and trousers, but him of the old school, who despises, or only partially adopts, sumptuary reform. This splendid individual was attended by several "gillies," who were genuine specimens of the tribe. They are almost, without exception, (an observation of after experience,) of enormous stature, swarthy, and thin. Their dark locks give an air of wildness to their face. Their long limbs afford token of the personal activity induced and rendered necessary by the circumstances of their life. Their garments are scanty, and such as very slightly impede motion. The whole party were abundantly armed, and a brave man might confess them to be formidable. We naturally stared at these gentry, who, at length on level ground, approached rapidly. It is not every thing uncommon that deserves a stare, and we were accustomed to strangeness. But we had not met any thing so striking as the wild figures of these barbarians, thrown into relief by the appropriate background of the mountain. The horseman reciprocated our stare, as was fit, on the unusual meeting with the British uniform. Presently he pulled up his animal, and, dismounting, invited our approach. The recognition was soon complete. He introduced himself as the aide-de-camp of his highness the Vladika of the Montenegrini, who received with pleasure our communication, and invited our visit. The party had been sent down as guides and honourable escort into his territory; and a led horse that they brought for the special convenience of the captain, completed the assurance of the gracious hospitality of the prince. Now this was a very propitious beginning of the enterprise. We had hit upon a time when a short truce allowed him to do the honours of his establishment. One might go, perhaps, fifty times that way without a similar advantage. You would hear, probably, that he was out fighting on one of the frontiers, or laying an ambuscade, or perhaps that he had been shot the day before. The least likely thing of all for you to hear would be, as we did, that he was at home, would be happy to see you, and begged the pleasure of your company to dinner. We became at once great friends with our new acquaintance, and carried him off to dine on board. He proved not to be one of the indigenous, a fact we might have inferred from his comparatively diminutive stature and fair complexion. He was a Hungarian who had taken service under the Vladika. As it is not probable that this paper will ever find its way into those remote fastnesses, it may be permitted to say, that he exhibited in his person one of the evils inseparable from the independent sovereign existence of uncivilised borderers on civilisation. In such a position they afford an ever-present refuge to civilised malefactors. Any person of Cattaro who offends against the laws of Austria, has before him a secure refuge, if he can manage to obtain half-an-hour's start of the police. The pes claudus of human retribution must halt at the foot of the mountain, whence the fugitive may insult justice.
Of this evil we saw further instances besides that presented in the person of our visitor. By his own account, he was a sort of Captain Dalgetty, who had seen service as a mercenary under many masters, and had finally come to dedicate his sword to the interests of the Vladika. The account of some of the Austrian officers deprived him of even the little respectability attached to such a character as this. The gallantry of martial excellence was in him tarnished by the imputation of tampering with the military chest; so that it was either indignant virtue, (for which they did not give him credit,) or conscious guilt, that had driven him to devote his laurels to the cause of an obscure tribe. Such moral blemishes are not likely to cloud the reception of a fugitive to this court: first, because rumour would hardly travel so far; and next, because the arts of civilisation, and especially military excellence, are such valuable accessions to the weal of Montenegro, that their presence almost precludes the consideration of qualifying defects. Our Hungarian acquaintance was, however, notwithstanding his supposed delinquencies, and barbarous residence, a polite and courteous person. We learned from him much concerning the people we were about to visit. It was a sad picture of violence that he drew. Blood and rapine were the prominent features. War was not an accidental evil—a sharp remedy for violent disorder—but a habitual state. The end and object of their institutions was the destruction of the Turks; scarcely coloured in his narrative with the palliation of religious zeal. Indeed, it required every allowance for circumstances to avoid the idea of downright brigandage. But great, certainly, are the allowances to be made. We must consider the many years during which the little band has been exposed to the wrath of the Turks, when that wrath was more efficient than it is at present. Their present bitterness of feeling must be ascribed to long years of struggle, to many seasons of cruelty, and to the constant stream of desperate enthusiasm. Their war has become necessarily one of extinction; and probably there are few or none of the people to whom a slaughtered father or brother has not bequeathed a debt of revenge. These personal feelings are aggravated by the sense that they exist in the midst of a people who want but the opportunity to extinguish their name and their religion; and this feeling is maintained by bloody feats on every available occasion.
The conversation of our informant was all in illustration of this state of things. Such a horse he rode when going to battle—such a sabre he wore, and such pistols. The Vladika took such a post, and executed such or such manœuvres. At last we ventured to enquire—"But is this sort of thing always going on? have you never peace by any accident?" "Oh yes!" replied he, "we have peace sometimes—for two or three days." He varied his narrative with occasional accounts of service he had seen in Spain; showing us that he, at any rate, was not scrupulous in what cause he shed blood, provided it was for a "consideration."