MODERN BIOGRAPHY.

"A captive when he gazes on the light,A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,"

and so forth, are the only people who may venture to talk of Sir Gardner's delight at the sight of a sphinx, or a mummy. With great gusto he gives the description of the black granite sphinx, in the court of the palace, near the vestibule; and in the drawing which he has made of the same court, the sphinx is conspicuous.

From Spalato to Salona, is a distance of some three miles and a half, by a good carriage-road. This road crosses the Jader, or Il Giadro—a stream so famous for its trout, that it has been thought necessary seriously to prove that it wasnotfor the sake of these—not in order that of them he might eat hissoûlin peace and quietness—that Diocletian retired from the command of the world.

Salona is rich in antiquarian remains, though nothing is extant to redeem from improbability the testimony of Porphyrogenitus, that Salona was half the size of Constantinople. Of its origin no record exists, nor is much known of its history till the time of Julius Cæsar. Subsequently to that era it was subject to various fortunes, and bore various titles. At last, in Christian times it became a Bishop's see, and was occupied by 61 bishops in succession. Diocletian was its great embellisher and almost rebuilder. Later in the day, we find that it was from Salona that Belisarius set out in 544, when recalled to the command of the army of Justinian, and intrusted with the conduct of the war against Totila. The town remained populous and fortified, till destroyed by the Avars in 639. These ferocious barbarians having established themselves in Clissa, the terror of their propinquity scared away the Salonitans. The terrified inhabitants, after a short and ineffectual resistance, fled to the islands. The town was pillaged and burnt, and from that time Salona has been deserted and in ruins.

"With these historical facts before us, it is interesting to observe the present state of the place, which affords many illustrations of past events. The positions of its defences, repaired at various times, may be traced: an inscription lately discovered by Professor Carrara, shows that its walls and towers were repaired by Valentinian II., and Theodosius; and the ditch of Constantianus is distinctly seen on the north side. Here and there, it has been filled up with earth and cultivated; but its position cannot be mistaken, and in places its original breadth may be ascertained. A very small portion of the wall remains on the east side, and nearly all traces of it are lost towards the river: but the northern portion is well preserved, and the triangular front, or salient angle of many of its towers, may be traced."In the western part of the town are the theatre, and what is called the amphitheatre. Of the former, some portion of the proscenium remains, as well as the solid tiers of arches, built of square stone, with bevelled edges, about 6¼ feet diameter, and 10 feet apart."

"In the western part of the town are the theatre, and what is called the amphitheatre. Of the former, some portion of the proscenium remains, as well as the solid tiers of arches, built of square stone, with bevelled edges, about 6¼ feet diameter, and 10 feet apart."

We have a good description of the annual fair of Salona. The description will be suggestive of picturesquerecollections to those who have seen the open air festivities celebrated by the orthodox—i. e.by the children of the Greek Church, about Easter time. We can take it upon ourselves to recommend highly the lambs, wont to be roasted whole on these occasions. The culinary apparatus is rude—consisting merely of a few sticks for a fire, and another stick to be used as a spit—but the result of their operations is most satisfactory.

"All Spalato is of course at the fair; and the road to Salona is thronged with carriages of every description, horsemen, and pedestrians. The mixture of the men's hats, red caps, and turbans, and the bonnets and Frank dresses of the Spalatine ladies, contrasted with the costume of the country women, presents one of the most singular sights to be soon in Europe, and to a stranger the language adds in no small degree to the novelty. Some business is done as well as pleasure; and a great number of cattle, sheep, and pigs are bought and sold—as well as various stuffs, trinkets, and the usual goods exhibited at fairs. Long before mid-day, the groups of peasants have thronged the road, not to say street, of Salona; some attend the small church, picturesquely placed upon a green, surrounded by the small streams of the Giadro, and shaded with trees; while others rove about, seeking their friends, looking at, and looked at by strangers, as they pass; and all are intent on the amusements of the day, and the prospect of a feast."Eating and drinking soon begin. On all sides sheep are seen roasting whole on wooden spits, in the open air; and an entire flock is speedily converted into mutton. Small knots of hungry friends are formed in every direction: some seated on a bank beneath the trees, others in as many houses as will hold them; some on grass by the road-side, regardless of sun and dust—and a few quiet families have boats prepared for their reception."In the mean time, the hat-wearing townspeople from Spalato and other places, as they pace up and down, bowing to an occasional acquaintance, view with complacent pity the primitive recreations of the simple peasantry; and arm-in-arm, civilisation, with its propriety and affectation, is here strangely contrasted with the hearty laugh of the unrefined Morlacchi."

"Eating and drinking soon begin. On all sides sheep are seen roasting whole on wooden spits, in the open air; and an entire flock is speedily converted into mutton. Small knots of hungry friends are formed in every direction: some seated on a bank beneath the trees, others in as many houses as will hold them; some on grass by the road-side, regardless of sun and dust—and a few quiet families have boats prepared for their reception.

"In the mean time, the hat-wearing townspeople from Spalato and other places, as they pace up and down, bowing to an occasional acquaintance, view with complacent pity the primitive recreations of the simple peasantry; and arm-in-arm, civilisation, with its propriety and affectation, is here strangely contrasted with the hearty laugh of the unrefined Morlacchi."

We do not know the country where men will meet together and eat without drinking also: at the al-fresco entertainments of this kind which we have seen, the kegs of wine have ever been in goodly proportion to the spitted lambs. And wherever a mob of men set to drinking together, they will most assuredly take to fighting. The rows at this fair used to be considerable; and, considering that more wine is said to be consumed here on this one day than during the whole of the rest of the year, we cannot be surprised that fights should come off worthy of Donnybrook. At present, better order is preserved than of old, because these rows have been so excessive that they have enforced the attendance of the police.

At this fair is to be seen the picturesquecollodance of the Morlacchi, of which our author affords a capital pencil-sketch, as well as the following description:—

"It sometimes begins before dinner, but is kept up with greater spirit afterwards. They call itcollo, from being, like most of their national dances, in a circle. A man generally has one partner, sometimes two, but always at his right side. In dancing, he takes her right hand with his, while she supports herself by holding his girdle with her left; and when he has two partners, the one nearest him holds in her right hand that of her companion, who, with her left, takes the right hand of the man; and each set dances forward in a line round the circle. The step is rude, as in most of the Slavonic dances, including the polka and theradovatschka; and the music, which is primitive, is confined to a three-stringed violin."

Dancing for dancing's sake, is what enters into no Englishman's category of the enjoyable, nor into many an Englishwoman's either, we should think, after the passage out of her teens; but that it is, in sober earnest, an enjoyment to many people under the sun, there is no doubt. Surely there is something wonderful in the faculty of finding pleasure in the elephantine manœuvres of theromaika, or in the still more clumsy gyrations of apalicari'sperformance. Thecollowe readily believe to be a picturesque dance: but such qualification is not the general condition on which the people of a nation accept dances as national. Most of these exhibitions in Greece and Eastern Europe must becondemned as graceless and unmeaning: as an exhibition of earnest tomfoolery, they may be accepted as wonderful; and, at all events, may safely be pronounced co-excellent with the music that inspires them.

In passing from Salona to Traü, a distance of about thirteen miles and a half to the westward, the traveller passes by several of the villages called Castelli. The name has been given them from the circumstance of their having been built near to, and under the protection of, the castles which, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, were constructed here by some of the nobles.

"The land was granted to them by the Venetians, on condition of their erecting places of refuge for the peasants during the wars with the Turks. A body of armed men lived within them, and, on the approach of danger, the flocks and herds were protected beneath the walls; and, at harvest time, the peasantry had a place of security for their crops within range of the castle guns."

The rights of lordship over the villages, which used to be exercised by the nobles in virtue of the protection afforded, have nearly all fallen into disuse. The only relic of feudalism that seems to survive is found at Castel Cambio, over which two nobles still possess certain rights. One of these was the hospitable host of Sir Gardner, and his friend Professor Carrara, on their passage to and from Traü.

A fact connected with the peculiarity of the position of this town is, we think, well worthy of notice, and deservedly recorded by our author. The town stands partly on a peninsula, and partly on the island of Bua. A fosse, cut across the narrow neck of the peninsula, has completed its isolation. This ditch has proved, on occasion, the most effectual of fortifications to the Traürines. They were, in 1241, besieged by the Tartars in pursuit of King Bela IV., who had fled hither before them. These impetuous assailants were unable to pass the ditch; and, having waited on the other side till food and forage were exhausted, they were obliged to retire. One cannot read this story without thinking of the account that Sir Francis Head gives of the La Plata Indians, whose habits of warfare are in many respects so exactly akin to those of the Tartars. These terrific horsemen would be scarcely resistible by their less robust enemies, save for their inability to cross anything in the shape of a ditch. Out of the saddle they can do nothing, and their horses will not leap; so that, if you wish to be safe from their inroads, you have but to surround your dwellings with a moderate trench. And very striking is the story that Sir Francis Head tells of the handful of men who, under such protection, held out successfully against a host of Indians. Traü, however, has been elaborately fortified in European fashion, though now the works are neglected, as being a useless precaution against dangers no longer existent. It has also a fine old cathedral, and some pictures of pretension.

After a brief notice of the islands of Brazza and Solta—a notice, however, sufficient for all useful purposes—we pass on to the picturesque neighbourhood of the falls of the Kerka. Sir Gardner speaks of the delay to which the passage by boat from Sebenico to Scardona is subject, but does not exactly complain of it. In fact, we can easily understand that, for the sake of the passenger, it is expedient that some authoritative note should be taken of his departure under charge of the particular boatmen who undertake his convoy. We never did ascend to Kerka, but from what we have seen of the class of men under whose guidance the expedition has to be performed, we are disposed to vote the caution of the police to be anything but superfluous. Every now and then one hears dreadful stories of the atrocities of boatmen in convenient parts of the Mediterranean; and there is good reason to be thankful that the Austrians think it worth while to be so careful of strangers.

The people about Sebenico, through whose lands the course of the lake leads, are spoken of as not paying much attention to agriculture or to their fisheries; but it seems that they are sedulously bent on raising grapes, and neglect no patch of ground at all likely to be available for this purpose. The lake of Scardona is considerably larger than that of Sebenico. On the shore here the Romans had a settlement,of which scarcely any remains are perceptible. They are, however, remarkable as affording a manifest proof of the rise of the level of the lake, for some of them are under water.

Scardona, we are told, does not occupy the site of the old Scardon, which was a place of considerable importance under the empire. Some have even imagined that the old city stood on the opposite bank of the river. The town at present is small, but well furnished for the convenience of strangers. It boasts an inn, at which Sir Gardner put up for one night. He then proceeded to the falls, which are distant from the inn a three-quarters-of-an-hour journey. As he intended to ascend the river above the falls, he had to send to the monks of Vissovaz to ask for a boat, and they readily complied with his request. The falls do not seem to have been full on the occasion of this visit—but, when full, the effect must be striking. They are divided into two parts, and their picturesque effect is greatly enhanced by the surrounding scenery.

At a distance of a few minutes' walk up the river, above the falls, the boat was waiting to transport Sir Gardner to the convent of Vissovaz. It is to this fraternity that we have before alluded, as being the sole mill-owners on the Kerka. Their convent must indeed be beautifully situated, and we can quite enter into the eulogium bestowed on it. The fathers are of the Franciscan order. The name of Vissovaz is of curious allusion; and as probably few of our courteous readers will be the worse for a little help in the matter of Slavonian etymology, we may as well tell them that its import is "the place of hanging." Not a very complimentary or well-omened name, certainly, we would think at first sight; but we see that it is so when we learn that the allusion is to the martyrdom of two priests, who were hanged here by the Turkish governor of Scardona. By the record left of the event, we cannot see that the death of these unfortunate victims was in any sense martyrdom: they were cruelly and unjustly put to death, but for a cause entirely worldly. However, they were Christians, and their murderers were Turks; and this has been enough to constitute a claim to canonisation in more places than at Vissovaz.

Sir Gardner arrived at the picturesque, red-tiled convent in time for dinner; but as the day happened to be a fast, the fare provided was not sufficiently tempting to induce a wish to stay. He therefore was preparing, with many thanks, to take his leave of the good fathers, and proceed on his journey, when he found himself brought up by an unexpected difficulty. He was informed that he could not proceed except by favour of the monks of the Greek convent of St Archangelo, another religious house still farther up the stream. His hospitable entertainers readily volunteered to send in quest of the requisite assistance. These are the conditions of travelling, because there are no carriages for hire hereaway, nor any boats to let. The Franciscans had volunteered to do what, when it came to the point, was found to be rather an awkward thing. No great cordiality subsists generally between the Latins and the orthodox. Each charges the other with destructive heresy; and doubtless both of these great branches of the church esteem a Protestant safe, by comparison with the arch-heretics that they each see the other to be. Thus, though dwelling on the confines of Christendom, and in a solitude that might have rendered them neighbourly, we find that very little intercourse takes place between the two religious establishments. Accordingly, the writing of the letter was found to be no easy affair; and their guest saw them lay their heads together in consultation, after a fashion that boded ill for the prospects of his journey. They confessed themselves to be in a fix; and were afraid of exposing themselves to some affront if, contrary to their wont, they should open a communication with the Greeks, asking of them a favour.

"'Did you ever go as far as the convent?' said an old father to a more restless and locomotive Franciscan, and a negative answer seemed to put an end to the incipient letter; when one of the party suggested that those Greeks had shown themselves very civil on some occasion, and the writer of the epistle oncemore resumed his spectacles and his pen. 'They are,' he observed, 'after all, like ourselves, and must be glad to see a stranger who comes from afar; and besides, our letter may have the effect of commencing a friendly intercourse with them, which we may have no reason to regret.'"

This very sensible hint of the Franciscan philosopher was happily acted out. The letter was sent, and in due course of time—i. e.in time for a start next morning—an answer arrived from the Archimandrite. It was to welcome the stranger to their hospitality, and to inform him that a boat awaited him at the falls. As the issue on the first intention was so favourable, let us hope that the other good results anticipated from the sending of the letter will have been by this time realised. At all events, Sir Gardner may congratulate himself on having afforded occasion for the opening of personal as well as epistolary communication between the convents, as one of the Franciscans accompanied him in the expedition to St Archangelo.

Much praise is bestowed on the beauty of the Kerka, and the view of the Falls of Roncislap is especially distinguished. Sir Gardner praises it in artistic language; and we may be allowed to regret that he has not added a sketch of this scene to the views with which his book is embellished. The waters of the Kerka possess a petrifying quality that is common in Dalmatia. Much of the rock has been formed under the water, and must present a singular appearance.

Near the Falls of Roncislap a depôt for coal has been established, that, by all accounts, would seem to be anything but a good speculation. We mention it merely for the sake of a good story that hangs by it. It seems that the Austrian Lloyds' Company patronise this coal because it is cheap. It is one reason, certainly, for buying it; but, as the coal will not burn, we may doubt their wisdom. We do not wish to spoil the market of the Company of Dernis, but we agree with Sir Gardner, that there are reasonable objections to the using of food for the furnaces that will get up no steam, and must be taken on board in such quantities, as to lumber up the decks. Besides this, hear how it goes on when it does burn:—

"It has also the effect of causing much smoke, and the large flakes of soot that fall from the chimney upon the awning actually burn holes in it, till it looks like a sail riddled with grape-shot; and I remember one day seeing the awning on fire from one of these showers of soot; when the captain calmly ordered it to be put out, as if it had been a common occurrence."

"A Russian consul,"—this is the story:—

"A Russian consul, who happened to be on board, and who was not much accustomed to the smoky doings of steamers, seemed to be deeply impressed with the inconvenience of the falling flakes of soot. His voice had rarely been heard during the voyage, and he appeared to shun communication with his fellow-passengers; when one afternoon, the awning not being up, he burst forth with these startling remarks, uttered with a broad Slavonian accent,—'Que ces baateaux à vapeur sont sales! Par suite de maaladie, il y a dix ans que je ne me zuis paas lavré, mais maintenant j'ai zenti le bezoin de me lavver, et je me zuis lavvé!!'"

This must have been a Russian of the old school.

Arrived at the convent of St Archangelo, they had every reason to be content with their hospitable reception. The Archimandrite is praised as being gentlemanlike, and of mien as though educated in a European capital. This is a very unusual characteristic of any Greek ecclesiastic, and what we could predicate of but one or two out of the numbers that we have seen. Greek priests of any kind are bad enough, but those living in convents seem generally to go on the principle of the Russian consul just mentioned, and might fitly be invited to associate with him. All honour, then, to Stefano Knezovich, and may his example be abundantly followed among his brethren!

There was not much in the Greek convent to induce a long visit; so the next morning Sir Gardner pushed on to Kistagne, in his progress through the country. Here he was again the victim of letter-writing, but in a different way. The sirdar of Kistagne took offence at the tone of the letter sent to him by the Archimandrite, ordering horses for the next morning; and the luckless traveller was consequently left in the lurch. However,the monk did his best to make up for the deficiency. He lent him his own horse, and had his baggage conveyed by some peasants—an excellent arrangement, saving that the porters werefemalepeasants. This is a sort of thing that sadly shocks our sense of decorum, but which many folks besides the Dalmatians take as a matter of course. Sir Gardner says that the custom of assigning the heavy burden to the women is prevalent among the Montenegrini; it is so also among the Albanians; and to a most atrocious extent in the Peloponnesus. In this particular case, they were well off to get the job; it was to exchange their task of carrying heavy loads of water up the hill for that of shouldering his lightimpedimenta.

Arrived at Kistagne, he found the sirdar, who had been so disobliging at a distance, much improved on acquaintance, and from him he received all requisite assistance for the prosecution of his journey to Knin; and by him was guided in his visit to the Roman arches, which point out the site of the ancient city of Burnum.

Knin is still a place of considerable strength, and has been once upon a time still stronger. It is identified with the ancient Arduba. The marshy character of the ground in its immediate neighbourhood renders it an unhealthy place of abode; but this evil is easily removable by a moderate attention to drainage. Not very far from Knin, but over the Turkish border, on the other side of Mount Gniath, is supposed to be situated the gold mine that of old conferred on Dalmatia the title of auriferous. The mine is said to exist here; but so much mystery is observed on its subject by the Turks that nothing certain can be affirmed of it. From Verlicca, to Sign we pass as quickly as may be, merely noticing that there is another convent to be visiteden route, and that we have the opportunity of putting up at the Han, as Sir Gardner did. These people certainly have admitted a great many Turkish words into their vocabulary: we haveSirdar, andHan, andArambasha—to say nothing of others. At last we come toSign; and, touching this place, we must give an extract from the book. An annual tilting festival has been established here, in commemoration of the brave defence maintained in 1715, against the Pasha of Bosnia with forty thousand men.

"The privilege of tilting is confined to natives of Sign, and its territory. Every one is required to appear dressed in the ancient costume, with the Tartar cap, called kalpak, surmounted by a white heron's plume, or with flowers interlaced in it. He is to wear a sword, to carry a lance, and to be mounted on a good horse richly caparisoned.""The opening of thegiostrais in this manner: Thefootmen, richly dressed and armed, advance two by two before the cavaliers. In the usual annual exhibitions each cavalier has onefootman; and on extraordinary occasions, besides the footman, he has apadrinowell mounted and equipped. After thefootmencome three persons in line—one carrying a shield, and the other two by his side bearing a sort of ancient club; then a fairmanègehorse, led by the hand, with large housings and complete trappings, richly ornamented, followed by two cavaliers—one the adjutant, the other the ensign-bearer. Next comes theMaestro-di-Campo, accompanied by the twojousters, and followed by all the others, marching two and two. The rear of the procession is brought up by theChiauss, who rides alone, and whose duty it is to maintain order during the ceremony."

"The opening of thegiostrais in this manner: Thefootmen, richly dressed and armed, advance two by two before the cavaliers. In the usual annual exhibitions each cavalier has onefootman; and on extraordinary occasions, besides the footman, he has apadrinowell mounted and equipped. After thefootmencome three persons in line—one carrying a shield, and the other two by his side bearing a sort of ancient club; then a fairmanègehorse, led by the hand, with large housings and complete trappings, richly ornamented, followed by two cavaliers—one the adjutant, the other the ensign-bearer. Next comes theMaestro-di-Campo, accompanied by the twojousters, and followed by all the others, marching two and two. The rear of the procession is brought up by theChiauss, who rides alone, and whose duty it is to maintain order during the ceremony."

We have a description of a fair at Sign that is almost as suggestive of the picturesque as was the account of similar doings at Salona. Sir Gardner shall give his own account of his departure from the town.

"In the midst of the bustle and business going on at Sign, I found some difficulty in getting horses to take me on to Spalato; but a letter to the Sirdar removed every impediment, and, after a few hours' delay, the animals being brought out, I prepared to start from the not very splendid inn.' 'Can you ride in that?' asked the ostler, pointing to a huge Turkish saddle that nearly concealed the whole animal, with stirrups that might pass for a pair of coal scuttles; and finding that I was accustomed to the use as well as sight of that un-European horse-furniture, he seemed well satisfied—observing, at the same time, that it was fortunate, as there was no other to be had.... I was glad to take what I could get, and my only question in return was, whether the horse could trot; which being settled, I posted off, leaving my guide and baggage to come after me—for, thanks to the Austrian police, there is no fear of robbers appropriating aportmanteau in Dalmatia: the interesting days of adventure and the Haiduk banditti have passed, and the Morlacchi have ceased to covet, or at least to take other men's goods."

And now we make a resolute halt, and determine to passsub silentioall that intervenes between this part of the book and the coming into the country of the Montenegrini. Unless we act thus discreetly, we shall never contrive to compress all we have to say into due limits; and even now we hardly know how this desirable result is to be effected. What we thus leave as fallow-ground for the reader will yield to his research a history of the coast and islands between Spalato and Cattaro. The notice of Ragusa is especially and deservedly full, and presents an admirable condensation of Ragusan history.

But it is high time for us to get amongst the children of the Black Mountain. Among things excellent it is permitted to institute comparison without disparagement to any of them: and, in virtue of this license, we are free to say that this part of Sir Gardner's book shines forth asinter minora sidera. The subject itself is of deep intrinsic interest; and he has treated it as we well knew that he would. A picture is given of the actual condition of a scion of the Christian stock that must astonish those who, by this book, first learn to think of the Montenegrini; and must delight those who, having heard somewhat of them, or haply even paid them a flying visit, have looked in vain for some accurate statement of detail to help out their personal observations.

The Montenegrini are descended from the old Servian stock, and still look to modern Servia with affection, as to their mother country. Thither also we find them, by Sir Gardner's account, retiring, when forced by poverty to emigrate from their own territory. Among them the Slavonian language is preserved in unusual purity. The present population is about 100,000; and the number of fighting men amounts to 20,000—a number which, on occasion of need, would be greatly augmented by the calling out of the veterans. In fact every individual man of the nation, whose arm has power to wield a weapon, is a warrior; and the very women are ready to assist in defence. On the Turkish border, as is well known, a constant system of bloody reprisals is going on; and the endeavours of the Vladika to reduce their hostilities to civilised fashion have hitherto failed of success. They are sustained at the highest pitch of confident daring by the successful war which they have so long been able to carry on against their powerful neighbours. One is glad of the opportunity of giving, on the authority of Sir Gardner, some of the stories of their prowess; for to retail, without the authority of some suchpadrino, the tales current in Cattaro, would be to win the reputation of talking like Mendez Pinto.

In judging the Montenegrini, we should give charitable consideration to their circumstances. War is a system of violence; and with them, unhappily, war is a permanent condition of existence. The treachery and cruelty of the Turks—are these such recent developments that we need make any doubt of them?—have worked out cruel consequences in the character of the Montenegrini. They believe a Turk to be utterly without honesty and good faith—one with whom it is impossible to hold terms—and such, probably, is about the right estimate of some of their Turkish neighbours. Who, for instance, that knows anything about them, has any other opinion of the Albanians? Are Kaffirs much more hopeless subjects? The Montenegrini are far from the commission of the horrid cruelties that are of everyday occurrence among the Albanians. Their imperfect appreciation of Christianity allows them to behold in revenge a virtue; and hence the acts of violence which are quoted to their dispraise. Their marauding expeditions are but according to the usages of war; and if they sometimes break through the restrictions of a truce, it would seem to be because they really do not understand what a truce is. We think that a very apt apology for the Montenegrini is found in the speech of a German traveller quoted by Sir Gardner. He had been mentioning several occurrences of English and Scotch history, and spoke in allusion to them.

"'What think you,' he observed, 'of the state of society in those times? Were the border forays of the English and Scotch more excusable than those of the Montenegrins? And how much more natural is the unforgiving hatred of the Montenegrins against the Turks, the enemies of their country, and their faith, than the relentless strife of Highland clans, with those of their own race and religion! Has not many an old castle in other parts of Europe, witnessed scenes as bad as any enacted by this people? I do not wish to exculpate the Montenegrins; but theirs is still a dark age, and some allowance must be made for their uncivilised condition.'"

The character of the present Vladika affords good hope that an improvement will take place among the people; for he evidently has devoted all his energies to their amelioration. Sir Gardner entered their territory, by what we believe to be the only route—that is to say from Cattaro—whence he took letters of introduction from the Austrian governor to the Vladika.

We shall best illustrate the condition of the Montenegrini by quoting some of Sir Gardner's accounts.

"Four Montenegrins, and their sister, aged twenty-one, going on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Basilio, were waylaid by seven Turks, in a rocky defile, so narrow that they could only thread it one by one; and hardly had they entered between the precipices that bordered it on either side, when an unexpected discharge of fire-arms killed one brother, and desperately wounded another. To retrace their steps was impossible without meeting certain and shameful death, since to turn their backs would give their enemy the opportunity of destroying them at pleasure."The two who were unhurt, therefore, advanced and returned the fire, killing two Turks—while the wounded one, supporting himself against a rock, fired also, and mortally injured two others, but was killed himself in the act. His sister, taking his gun, loaded and fired simultaneously with her two brothers, but, at the same instant, one of them dropped down dead. The two surviving Turks then rushed furiously at the only remaining Montenegrin—who, however, laid open the skull of one of them with his yatagan, before receiving his own death-blow. The hapless sister, who had all this time kept up a constant fire, stood for an instant irresolute; when suddenly assuming an air of terror and supplication, she entreated for mercy; but the Turk, enraged at the death of his companions, was brutal enough to take advantage of the unhappy girl's agony, and only promised her life at the price of her honour. Hesitating at first, she pretended to listen to the villain's proposal; but no sooner did she see him thrown off his guard, than she buried in his body the knife she carried at her girdle. Although mortally wounded, the Turk endeavoured to make the most of his failing strength, and plucking the dagger from his side, staggered towards the courageous girl,—who, driven to despair, threw herself on the relentless foe, and with superhuman energy hurled him down the neighbouring precipice, at the very moment when some shepherds, attracted by the continued firing, arrived just too late for the rescue."

"The two who were unhurt, therefore, advanced and returned the fire, killing two Turks—while the wounded one, supporting himself against a rock, fired also, and mortally injured two others, but was killed himself in the act. His sister, taking his gun, loaded and fired simultaneously with her two brothers, but, at the same instant, one of them dropped down dead. The two surviving Turks then rushed furiously at the only remaining Montenegrin—who, however, laid open the skull of one of them with his yatagan, before receiving his own death-blow. The hapless sister, who had all this time kept up a constant fire, stood for an instant irresolute; when suddenly assuming an air of terror and supplication, she entreated for mercy; but the Turk, enraged at the death of his companions, was brutal enough to take advantage of the unhappy girl's agony, and only promised her life at the price of her honour. Hesitating at first, she pretended to listen to the villain's proposal; but no sooner did she see him thrown off his guard, than she buried in his body the knife she carried at her girdle. Although mortally wounded, the Turk endeavoured to make the most of his failing strength, and plucking the dagger from his side, staggered towards the courageous girl,—who, driven to despair, threw herself on the relentless foe, and with superhuman energy hurled him down the neighbouring precipice, at the very moment when some shepherds, attracted by the continued firing, arrived just too late for the rescue."

Fancy the tone that must be given to their lives by the constant necessity of being ready for encounters such as this. They never lay aside their arms; but in the field, or by the wayside, are armed and alert. One hand may be allowed to the implement of tillage, but the other must be reserved for the weapon of defence.

On many occasions, Montenegrin courage has prevailed against odds far greater than in the above case—indeed such odds as, but for authentication of facts, would be incredible. In the year 1840, "seventy Montenegrins, in the open field, withstood the attack of several thousand Turks; and having made breastworks with the bodies of their fallen foes, maintained the unequal conflict till night; when forty who survived forced their way through the hostile army, and escaped with their lives." Another astonishing achievement was the successful defence of a house held by seven-and-twenty Montenegrins, against a body of about six thousand Albanians. Of this last action, trophies are preserved by the Vladika in his palace at Tzetinié, and there Sir Gardner saw them.

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 andHerzegovina. 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."

"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 aprécisof 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 ofmali 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 momentbetween 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."

Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell.Edited byWilliam 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 theBook of the Farmwould 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 SilasFixings 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 thepeine 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 weallow 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. Andwhyis 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—becausethey 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 theaccouchementof his wife.

What title has any of us, in the abstract, to write the private history of his next-door neighbour? Be he poet, lawyer, physician, or divine, his private sayings and doings are his property, not that of a gaping and curious public. No man dares to say to another, "Come, my good fellow! it is full time that the world should know a little about your domestic concerns. I have been keeping a sort of note-book of your proceedings ever since we were at school together, and I intend to make a few pounds by exhibiting you in your true colours. You recollect when you were in love with old Tomnoddy's daughter? I have written a capital account of your interview with her that fine forenoon in the Botanical Gardens! True, she jilted you, and went off with young Heavystern of the Dragoons, but the public won't relish the scene a bit the less on that account. Then I have got some letters of yours from our mutual friend Fitzjaw. How very hard-up you must have been at the time when you supplicated him for twenty pounds to keep you out of jail! You were rather severe, the other day when I met you at dinner, upon your professional brother Jenkinson; but I daresay that what you said was all very true, so I shall publish that likewise. By the way—how is your wife? She had a lot of money, had she not? At all events people say so, and it is shrewdly surmised that you did not marry her for her beauty. I don't mean to say thatIthink so, but such is theon dit, and I have set it down accordingly in my journal. Do, pray, tell me about that quarrel between you and your mother-in-law! Is it true that she threw a joint-stool at your head? How our friends will roar when they see the details in print!" Is the case less flagrant if the manuscript is not sent to press, until our neighbour is deposited in his coffin? We cannot perceive the difference. If the feelings of living people are to be taken as the criterion, only one of the domestic actors is removed from the stage of existence. Old Tomnoddy still lives, and may not be abundantly gratified at the fact of his daughter's infidelity and elopement being proclaimed. The intimation of the garden scene, hitherto unknown to Heavystern, may fill his warlike bosom with jealousy, and ultimately occasion a separation. Fitzjaw can hardly complain, but he will be very furious at finding his refusal to accommodate a friend appended to the supplicating letter. Jenkinson is only sorry that the libeller is dead, otherwise he would have treated him to an action in the Jury Court. The widow believes that she was made a bride solely for the sake of her Californian attractions, and reviles the memory of her spouse. As for the mother-in-law, now gradually dwindling into dotage, her feelings are perhaps of no great consequence to any human being. Nevertheless, when the obnoxious paragraph in the Memoirs is read to her by a shrill female companion, nature makes a temporary rally, her withered frame shakes with agitation, and she finally falls backward in a fit of hopeless paralysis.

Such is a feeble picture of the results that might ensue from private biography, were we all permitted, without reservation, to parade the lives and domestic circumstances of our neighbours to a greedy and gloating world. Not but that, if our neighbour has been a man of sufficient distinction to deserve commemoration, we may gracefully and skilfully narrate all of him that is worth the knowing. We may point to his public actions, expatiate on his achievements, and recount the manner in which he gained his intellectual renown; but further we ought not to go. The confidences of the dead should be as sacred as those of the living. And here we may observe, that there are other parties quite as much to blame as the biographers in question. We allude to the friends of the deceased, who have unscrupulously furnished them with materials. Is it not the fact that in very many cases they have divulged letters which, during the writer's lifetime, they would have withheld from the nearest and dearest of their kindred? In many such letters there occur observations and reflections upon living characters, not written in malice, but still such as were never intended to meet the eyes of the parties criticised; and these are forthwith published, as racy passages, likely to gratify the appetite of a coarse, vulgar, and inordinate curiosity. Even this is not the worst. Survivors may grieve to learn that the friend whom they loved was capable of ridiculing or misrepresenting them in secret, and his memory may suffer in their estimation; but, put the case of detailed private conversations, which are constantly foisted into modern biographies, and we shall immediately discover that the inevitable tendency is to engender dislikes among living parties. Let us suppose that three men, all of them professional authors, meet at a dinner party. The conversation is very lively, takes a literary turn, and the three gentlemen, with that sportive freedom which is very common in a society where no treachery is apprehended, pass some rather poignant strictures upon the writings or habits of their contemporaries. One of them either keeps a journal, or is in the habit of writing, for the amusement of a confidential friend at a distance, any literary gossip which may be current, and he commits to paper the heads of the recent dialogue. He dies, and his literary executor immediately pounces upon the document, and, to the confusion of the two living critics, prints it. Every literary brother whom they have noticed is of course their enemy for life.

If, in private society, a snob is discovered retailing conversations, he is forthwith cut without compunction. He reads his detection in the calm, cold scorn of your eye; and, referring to the mirror of his own dim and dirty conscience, beholds the reflection of a hound. The biographer seems to consider himself exempt from such social secresy. He shelters himself under the plea that the public are so deeply interested, that they must not be deprived of any memorandum, anecdote, or jotting, told, written, or detailed by the gifted subject of their memoirs. Therefore it is not a prudent thing to be familiar with a man of genius. He may not betray your confidence, but you can hardly trust to the tender mercies of his chronicler.

Such are our deliberate views upon the subject of biography, and we state them altogether independent of the three bulky volumes which are now lying before us for review.

We cordially admit that it was right and proper that a life of Campbell should be written. Although he did not occupy the same commanding position as others of his renowned contemporaries—although his writings have not, like those of Scott, Byron, and Southey, contributed powerfully to give a tone and idiosyncrasy to the general literature of the age—Campbell was nevertheless a man of rich genius, and a poet of remarkable accomplishment. It would not be easy to select, from the works of any other writer of our time, so many brilliant and polished gems, without flaw or imperfection, as are to be found amongst his minor poems. Criticism, in dealing with these exquisite lyrics, is at fault. If sometimes the suspicion of a certain effeminacy haunts us, we have but to turn the page, and we arrive at some magnificent, bold, and trumpet-toned ditty,appealing directly from the heart of the poet to the imagination of his audience, and proving, beyond all contest, that power was his glorious attribute. True, he was unequal; and towards the latter part of his career, exhibited a marked failing in the qualities which originally secured his renown. It is almost impossible to believe that thePilgrim of Glencoe, or evenTheodric, was composed by the author of thePleasures of HopeorGertrude; and if you place theRitter BannbesideHohenlindenor theBattle of the Baltic, you cannot fail to be struck with the singular diminution of power. Campbell started from a high point—walked for some time along level or undulating ground—and then began rapidly to descend. This is not, as some idle critics have maintained, the common course of genius. Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Scott, Byron, and Wordsworth, are remarkable instances to the contrary. Whatever may have been the promise of their youth, their matured performances, eclipsing their earlier efforts, show us that genius is capable of almost boundless cultivation, and that the fire of the poet does not cease to burn less brightly within him, because the sable of his hair is streaked with gray, or the furrows deepening on his brow. Sir Walter Scott was upwards of thirty before he began to compose in earnest: after thirty, Campbell wrote scarcely anything which has added permanently to his reputation. Extreme sensitiveness, an over-strained and fastidious desire of polishing, and sometimes the pressure of outward circumstances, may have combined to damp his early ardour. He evidently was deficient in that resolute pertinacity of labour, through which alone great results can be achieved. He allowed the best years of his life to be frittered away, in pursuits which could not secure to him either additional fame, or the more substantial rewards of fortune: and, though far from being actually idle, he was only indolently active. Campbell wanted an object in life. Thus, though gifted with powers which, directed towards one point, were capable of the highest concentration, we find him scattering these in the most desultory and careless manner; and surrendering scheme after scheme, without making the vigorous effort which was necessary to secure their completion. This is a fault by no means uncommon in literature, but one which is highly dangerous. No work requiring great mental exertion should be undertaken rashly, for the enthusiasm which has prompted it rapidly subsides, the labour becomes distasteful to the writer, and unless he can bend himself to his task with the most dogged perseverance, and a determination to vanquish all obstacles, the result will be a fragment or a failure. Of this we find two notable instances recorded in the book before us. Twice in his life had Campbell meditated the construction of a great poem, and twice did he relinquish the task. Of theQueen of the Northbut a few lines remain: of his favourite projected epic on the subject of Wallace, nothing. Elegant trifles, sportive verses, and playful epigrams were, for many years, the last fruits of that genius which had dictated thePleasures of Hope, and rejoiced the mariners of England with a ballad worthy of the theme. And yet, so powerful is early association—so universal was the recognition of the transcendant genius of the boy, that when Campbell sank into the grave, there was lamentation as though a great poet had been stricken down in his prime, and all men felt that a brilliant light had gone out among the luminaries of the age. Therefore it was seemly that his memory should receive that homage which has been rendered to others less deserving of it, and that his public career, at least, should be traced and given to the world.

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