I have seen it stated that the Montenegrin is a lazy man, who puts off the hard work on the women; but this is quite untrue, the fact being that any work which he considers the work of a man he is eager to do.  He is an admirable road-maker and navvy, goes far and wide to get work on public works, and at home, when peace allows it, he does the heavy work; but as, in the ordinary life of the past four centuries, he was almost constantly on the frontier to meet the Turkish invasions or the Albanian raids, the agricultural and much other work fell necessarily to the women.  When there were considerable flittings from Cettinje, and the amount of baggage to be carried down to Cattaro was large, it was always allotted to one of the most intelligent men to judge of the weight; and when it was a heavy package he said, “This is the load of a man,” or, if a light load, “This is for a woman,” many of whom were waiting, eager for the chance of gaining something by their labor.  But no compensation will induce a Montenegrin to accept a work which is considered not the work of a man.

In military courage and docility the Montenegrin probably stands at the head of European races.  He is born brave, and comes under the law of military obedience as soon as he can carry arms.  The good wish for the boy baby in his cradle is, “May you not die in your bed,” and to face death is to the boy or man the most joyous of games.  I have seen a man, in the midst of a hot interchange of rifle bullets between the Turkish trenches and our own, the trenches occupying the crests of two parallel ranges of low hills, go around outside the works and climb with the greatest deliberation up the hillside, exposed to the Turkish fire, and back over the breastwork into our trenches, all the time under a hail of rifle bullets.  During the siege operations at Niksich the Prince was obliged to issue an order of the day forbidding burial to any man killed in this ostentatious exposure to the Turkish fire, so many men having been killed while standing on the crests of the shelter trenches in pure bravado.  While lying at headquarters at Orealuk (where the Prince had a little villa), waiting the opening of the campaign of 1877, I was walking on the terrace with him one day after dinner when I noticed a boy of sixteen or eighteen standing at the end of the terrace with his cap in his hand, the usual form of asking for an audience.  “Now I’ll show you an interesting thing,” said the Prince, as he made a sign to the boy to approach.  “This boy is the last of a good family, whose father and brothers were all killed in the last battle, and I ordered him to go home and stay with his mother and sisters, that the family might not become extinct.”  As the boy drew near and stopped before us, his head down and his cap in his hands, the Prince said to him, “What do you want?” “I want to go back to my battalion,” the boy replied.  “But,” replied the Prince, “you are the last of the family, and I cannot allow a good family